Five

Here are five items I expect to see in tomorrow’s papers.  One of them may be true.

A Twitter feed suggests that the entire priesthood of the Roman Catholic church is considering resigning, “just to be on the safe side.”

Tesco announces 2,000 job losses and 2,000 new jobs.

The Ministry of Justice is to set up a Royal Commission to investigate the abolition of trial by jury.  “They’re all thick, and they ask stupid questions, and they don’t always get it right,” said a senior judge.

Daniel Day Lewis is to be knighted in the Birthday Honours.  “I’m relaxed about being called Sir Dan,” he said, slipping into character for his next role in a biopic of Alan Sugar.

Standard & Poors and Fitch plan to upgrade the U.K. to a new credit rating, AAA+++.  “Them Moodys always gets it wrong, innit?” said a spokescomputer.

Quo Vadis, Latin?

Pope Benedict chose to announce his resignation in Latin.  I can’t imagine that this was dictated by precedent, nor that it was his own mischievous choice (though he does seem to have a twinkle in his eye occasionally), nor even that he was instructed to do so by God, because by permitting him to resign God has effectively informed him that He no longer has confidence in his (Benedict’s) ability to be His (God’s) representative on Earth …  It does tell you a lot of what you need to know about the RC Church, though.

[Sorry, this is partly prompted by my starting a long overdue reread of Joseph Heller’s ‘God Knows’, the first person story of the Biblical King David, a guaranteed laugh a page.  Sample quote: “Abraham dumbfounds me still for having performed with apparent ease a feat of incredible difficulty.  He circumcised himself.  Now this is not an easy thing to do – try it sometime and see.”]

Sorry again, I digress.  I was reminded about Latin this morning when I found myself saying ‘tabula rasa’, without thinking.  It was in connection with the opportunities presented by an uncultivated garden, and was met with an appropriately blank stare.  I thought about it and realised that I often say “de facto”, or even “ipso facto” in conversation, again without wondering for one moment whether my collocutor knows what I mean.  And we all use more daily Latin than we imagine – think QED, RIP.

I have little Latin, because of how I was taught at school.  It was a subject at Southbourne Prep School, before I was eleven, and I loved it.  It was like a kind of mathematics – pure logically constructed formulae without the noise of meaning.  (It took me decades to understand that I could have been a mathematician.)  But when I went on to the grammar school, that enthusiasm was methodically destroyed.  It became about memorisation rather than comprehension, vocabulary rather than structure.  I was accused, by an idiotic teacher (Mr Green, I think he was) of being little better than an idiot because I’d failed to hand in a translation of some banal, irrelevant  passage from the Gallic Wars or somewhere.  I was expected to get O level, because I was expected to become a lawyer (for which it was then a prerequisite, or ‘sine qua non’).  I failed the exam, twice, the second time deliberately.  Oh well, another career path closed off.  Factum est.

Just to come back to my first paragraph, a couple of tags gleaned from a quick trawl through pages 1801-1806 of my Chambers Dictionary: “crambe repetita”, and “cucullis non facit monachum”.  Interpretations available on request, subject to admission of surrender.

Tense?

I’d thought for some time about a post which would illustrate the glories of the English verb, and my friend Rog, in a tweet which indicates that he’s been thinking along similar lines, prompted me to have a go.  Of course, I may be completely misconstruing Rog’s motives here, in which case I shall offer him my sincere apologies.

Verbs are, and have been since the time of Chaucer, the bedrock of the language.  I’ve thought about that assertion since I wrote it (back in the mists of time before I’d had my first G&T), and I will be defending it against all rival contenders ( nouns, adverbs, pernicious adjectives).  It would be cowardly of me to do otherwise.

You will have noticed that I am going to run out of ideas very soon, in fact will have done so by the time I pour my next glass of Shiraz.  I was hoping to make this post more interesting than I have – I’ll try harder next time (I envisage a future in which I would be exploring the mysteries of mood, voice and person, and would have deciphered them all). 

There’s one missing.  If you’d read to the end of this, you’d have been able to work out which one.

Where next for technology?

The Observer is always a useful source for amusing trivialities.  So it is that today, on page 32, I learn that scientists are making valuable discoveries about long term climate trends by analysing the urine deposits of a wee beastie called the rock hydrax.  This creature apparently pees in the exact same spot in its rock dwelling place every day, and has done so for countless generations, thus providing dietary data going back as much as 55,000 years.

My initial thought was that I knew it’d been a mistake to clean the undershoot zone in front of my downstairs loo so often.  But then I turned a couple of pages and came upon a feature about Apple’s much-trailed iWatch, and how it would have to offer uses over and above those already provided by a Phone or a Pad; and I think I have a contender, albeit one which is marketable primarily to men (although many women might latch onto it as a winning Valentine’s present next year).

This is based on the observation that a watch, properly worn on the wrist, will be pointing in pretty much the right direction.  May I introduce, free of charge, the AAA app, standing (pun intended) for the Accurate Aim Assist.

Depressingly, I fully expect to be told, within hours of this post, that it’s already been done.  (The app, I mean.)  And yes, I do know about the fly painted on the urinal wall.

Random Recipe Generator

When I became single again, five-plus years ago, I quickly worked out that one of the problems was going to be feeding myself.  I’d always enjoyed cooking, but I also have a lazy streak, so the temptation towards ready meals had to be recognised and countered.  I have a reliable repertoire of about eight proper dishes, which I’m happy to prepare when I feel like it; and sometimes I like just making something up.  I also recognised that quick and easy options, and even readies on occasion, would have their place, I wasn’t fiky about it, but I didn’t want to drift away from proper cooking.  So I invented this.

 

The idea was that I’d pick a main ingredient and then, by some procedure which never quite got developed, decide how and in what cuisine I was going to cook it.  For example, lamb shanks braised a l’italienne (except that that happens to be one of my standbys, but you get the idea.)

Of course, it never happened, and I’ve ended up with the eight, plus a smattering of easies and sluts.  But now that I find myself tip-toeing towards being slightly less single, I sometimes feel the need to create something that will amaze someone.  What I need is an app which will do what I never managed, at the click of an icon.  Spanish salmon risotto, anyone?  Or stir-fried middle eastern pork chops?  (Erm, maybe not…)

It needs a bit of work, I know. 

Frazzled? Moi?

There are, or soon will be, more internet-enabled mobile devices on the planet than people.  About seven billion (whatever that means – numbers bigger than a thousand or so tend to lose much meaning to me).

Leaving aside the obvious question, ‘why?’, you have to wonder what the long- or even short-term effects might be.  A couple of decades ago, there was a big scare about how leaks from  microwave ovens were frying our brains.   Scientists assured us that you’d have to actually put your head inside the microwave and switch it on before any harm resulted; and some clever satirist pointed out that you’d have to cut it off first, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to close the door … and that one went away.

The radiation in an oven is obviously a lot more powerful than that from a phone, and is thoroughly screened.  Whereas that from a phone is tiny, but is the opposite of screened – it has to get out there, as strongly as possible, that’s the whole point.  But, though each device’s contribution may be miniscule, multiply by seven billion and …

But what concerns me most is this.  If all this radiation is indeed cumulatively rotting everyone’s brain, how will we know?  There are already worrying signs (the Bank of England’s quarterly economic forecasts, horseburgers, Adele) that humanity’s critical and analytical faculties are on the wane.  Degraded brains can’t resolve their own degradation.

I’m not worried about it, though.  My brain’s still fine.  And I only own one mobile phone (which often doesn’t work.)  And I counted up to nineteen just now, when I’ll be a hundred.  Nurse, I need a top-up.  Oh, sorry, nurse is out for her psychotherapy.

Adult Gaming Centre

Anybody know what one of these is?  (And what other sorts of gaming centre are there?  Teenage?  Pre-school?)  Not having a gambling gene in my body (all right, I have bought the occasional lottery ticket, and actually won ten quid once; and I drew Kauto Star three years running, from 2008, in the Boxing Day family sweepstake on the King George VI Chase, but that doesn’t really count), I’d imagined it would be some kind of amusement arcade, with fruit machines and pinball tables and suchlike.  Turns out there’s been progress since those days.  Things called Fixed Odds Betting Terminals (FOBTs) allow you to stake up to £100 a go on a sort of electronic poker game, which lasts about twenty seconds, usually helps itself to your C, and invites you to have another try.  Nice way to while away an evening, and your benefit cheque.  

Anyway, it seems we are to get one, just up the Oxford Road.  The site is a few doors from a charity drop-in centre catering for vulnerable people, which was obviously a plus factor in the developers’ choice of location.  (That it’s also almost opposite the police community office may have escaped their notice, but that doesn’t really matter, it’s hardly ever open.) 

Alan, whose role in life is to monitor planning applications and drum up opposition to them, informed us of this at our Neighbourhood Watch meeting the other evening.  The original application had been unanimously thrown out on referral to the planning committee, but the developers of course appealed, and an anonymous Inspector in Bristol, who’d never been to the area let alone talked to the residents, rubber-stamped it.  Our only recourse now would be to take it to the High Court, which I don’t think we could afford at about £12,000. 

 

The brilliant police representatives at the meeting told us that, regretfully, they were not allowed to add their voice to the chorus of objections, as the premises had no previous record of association with anti-social behaviour.  Well, it was a fitness centre until recently, and before that a haberdashery.

Keeping tags on them

The Government proposes to make electronic tagging of all dogs compulsory.  Fair do's, the Representation Of The Species Act hasn't yet been passed, so we can do what we like to the poor beasts, short of cruelty.  But I'd like to propose compulsory tagging of politicians.

This will tell you all you need to know about stray MPs.

The Spirit of Free Enterprise

We are constantly battered from all directions with the instruction that our current economic woes will be overcome by an unleashing of the latent, suppressed spirit of entrepreneurship. 

A couple of true stories.*

Rob works in recruitment, or did.  He was made redundant last year, and spent months firing off CVs and travelling all over the country for interviews, until at last he was offered a three month probationary post, covering a field some way distant from his expertise and experience.  He took the job, but soon discovered that employers in this field just weren’t recruiting, anywhere, anyone.  So he thought, off his own bat, ‘well, I’ll look around a bit at my own area’, and managed to achieve quite a few placements.

Last week, his probation expired, and he was informed that his position would not be confirmed.  It was recognised that he had delivered some results, it was explained to him, but they weren’t within his agreed key result area, so didn’t count.  The CVs are out again.

 

Christine had been working for her company for fifteen years.  One day, she came up with a clever idea to reorganise her department in order to increase throughput and save costs.  She took this to her bosses, who were enthusiastic and charged her with working the idea up into a detailed proposal, which she did, over a two month period.  She presented her plan, which was accepted wholesale.

A few days later, she was called in.  The savings she had identified would indeed be realised.  One of these was to eliminate a layer of management, and Christine’s job had been selected for this purpose.  She wasn’t sacked, she was offered a sideways move into another department, which of course she accepted. 

*I’ve changed the names and blurred the details, obviously.

Influential Albums #1

A few days ago, Martin issued the challenge, and I always accept challenges.  Applying a few criteria – I have to own them, they have to have influenced music in general, and they have to have influenced me – here’s the first.  (Probably the first of two.)

Vanilla Fudge: Vanilla Fudge (Atco 7567-90390-2)  1967

The Fudge were later, in my view wrongly, branded as the fathers of heavy metal.  Although some of their later efforts could justify this categorisation, this first album certainly doesn’t.  If it can be classified at all, it would be as the bridge between psychedelia and prog rock.  Except that it’s a covers album.  Although plagiarism was rife, neither of those genres was noted for consciously choosing other people’s material over their own – egomania was a driving force behind most late sixties music, but Vanilla Fudge weren’t interested in that.  They were interested in drama and emotion.

The track list starts with ‘Ticket to Ride’ and ends with ‘Eleanor Rigby’ (with a sneaky little cross-reference right at the end), but touches a good few non-Beatles bases in between.  Curtis Mayfield, the Zombies, Motown …  These basic pop songs are extended (some might say bloated, but I disagree) into eight minute Wagnerian epics, slowed right down and embellished with classical quotes, melodic squibs, and tantalising links between songs, of which there are just seven.  (Consider that earlier that year, ‘Pepper’ had been regarded as revolutionary in containing only eleven as against the industry-standard twelve.)

The album was produced by Shadow Morton, who’d previously given us the Shangri-Las’ musical  novellas (‘Leader of the Pack’, ‘Remember (Walking in the Sand)’).  As far as I can tell, it was recorded live, that is with no instrumental overdubs (though some of the vocals probably were added later), on four-track.  Shadow rightly judged that studio trickery wasn’t necessary or appropriate, because he was working with consummate musicianship.  

Just listen, if you can (it’s on Spotify).  You will hear the best bubbling, gurgling Hammond organ sweeps and swishes ever; high tuneful virtuoso bass lines to make a Macca swoon; vibrato-laden angelic four part harmonies; some genuinely moving moments as well as some still challenging noise … and above all, sheer smile-triggering entertainment!  Play it LOUD!

History? Ancient, innit.

“So, how are you getting on with ‘Wolf Hall’?” I asked someone who’d just come back from a fortnight in Mauritius.  She twisted her mouth.

“It’s quite hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said.  “It takes a while to suss out that when she says ‘he’, usually it means ‘Thomas Cromwell’, whom she’s cast as a first person narrator speaking in the third person, and doing so in the historic present tense …  But once you get past that – ”

“Oh no, that wasn’t a problem.  That’s not what I meant,” she said.  “It’s just that I don’t know anything about ancient history.”

“But, you do know about Henry the Eighth, and his wives and the Pope and stuff.”

“Not really,” she replied.  “I kind of ducked all that.”

You probably think I’m conversing with a teenager.  Not at all: this is a highly intelligent, educated and mostly well-informed person eight years younger than me.   I was intrigued by this gap, and would have pursued it further, but dinner was on the table and I had to gulp down the rest of my gin.  We never got back to the subject.

But when I got home I started to think about it.  My first thought was “does it matter?”, and my immediate answer was “yes!”  Unless you have at least some understanding of what was going on in and after the Reformation, you won’t understand a lot of what’s going on today.  Because today’s norms are born of yesterday’s controversies, and to hold a view about, for example, whether it matters who is our next-but-one monarch (if that bothers you) or whether prisoners should be allowed to vote, you need to know how we got to where we are.

On the other hand, I then reflected, I got through more than half my life without any iota of such understanding.  Although I scraped a History O level, that was really no more than a demonstration of my powers of memory.  Thus although I knew (roughly) the names of Henry VIII’s wives, in order, I had no idea why he had to have six, and certainly not how this eventually led to the Civil War, or for that matter the First World War.  History, when I was taught it in the fifties, was almost entirely about the ‘who’, ‘what’ and ‘when’ of the past; hardly if at all about the ‘why’ and ‘how’. 

As it happens, the path of my life meandered to a point, maybe twenty years ago, where I was suddenly prompted to take an interest.  Needing something to read (in the loo, since you ask), I came across a series of Pelican histories of England, and grabbed one at random.   I remember very clearly the key thought: “Ah, so that’s why William the Conqueror needed to invade us!”  I’ve never looked back.  (Don’t set me any exam papers though.)

So I don’t in any way blame my friend for not knowing what Henry VIII was about.  She received the same rubbish education I did, but never got steered into that particular later-life diversion.  I think (although I don’t know for sure) that today’s teaching of History might be a little bit more educative (in the sense of thought-provoking); but ask me again in five years’ time, when it’s been dragged back to the fifties.

Back-translation

As I may have said, I’m reading Umberto Eco’s ‘The Prague Cemetery’, which I think I’m enjoying.  I think.  He must be a genius, because who else could grip you for 420 pages (and counting) with the  diary of a bigoted anti-semite, misogynistic, xenophobic fraudster who played both ends against the middle during the Unification of Italy and then went on to construct the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and so help to provoke a century of world wars?  Eh?

Anyway, that’s not what I meant to say.  On page 432, Eco puts into the mouth of a Russian secret serviceman the expression “how do you say?”  (And on the next page the same character says “I don’t know…” – imagine a shrug with spread hands here.)  And I remember that this is, of course, a translation, from the original Italian.  Eco would have written “come si dice?”  and “non so…”

The Russian certainly isn’t speaking Italian.  From the context, it’s probably French.  Eco doesn’t specify.  So, what we are looking at here is an author writing in his native Italian, imagining the thoughts of a native Russian speaker who is expressing himself in a foreign language (French) and converting the result into his written Italian – and the outcome then being translated (by the admirable Richard Dixon) into the English I read. 

 

как говорят →  comment on dit? → come si dice? →  how do you say?

 

Anyway, that’s not what I meant to say either.  The thing is, having a smidgeon (albeit rustily diminishing) of proficiency in the language, I now find myself trying to translate the English text back into the Italian Umberto might have originally written.  It doesn’t make for a speed-read, I can tell you.

I have no idea what the point of this post might be.  Nurse says it’s time for my lie-down.

Blog-blocked

Some of my favourite bloggers, including scribedoll and Z, have declared that they are temporarily retiring from the blogosphere.  I may be joining them.

I sometimes muse (though not much, and not for long) about what causes us to do this in the first place, usually concluding that it’s what I might term a kind of healthy narcissism mixed up with a genuine outreach towards people you can’t realistically class as close friends.  It’s great, but we shouldn’t feel lack, or loss, or slight, or indeed anything, when it gets withdrawn.  Quite apart from anything else, this stuff is far too new to accumulate its own attrition of emotions.

In my case, I either will or won’t be blogging over the next couple of weeks.  Apart from shifts in my real world (details not available!), I face a gridlock of subjects I’d like to write about:

·         Prejudice

·         Mottos

·         Influential albums

·         Pernicious percentages

·         Multiple translation

·         Snowmen in the floods

·         Blue drinks

·         Red kites

to mention just a few.  I can’t start any of them (and new ones keep piling in).  I’m blog-blocked.  Feel free to kick-start me.

Looks good to me

Email received this morning:

Hi,

I am emailing from a leading advertising agency based in London.

I am getting in touch with you as I am looking for quality websites such as your timbobig.blogspot.com, to place some adverts on your website and would like to know if this is something which would be of interest to you?

The placement of our adverts are contextually matched to the content on the page, therefore relevant.

Do let me know if you are interested to discuss any partnerships with us as we feel the positioning of your website will have strong benefits for both parties.

Please email me back with your thoughts or questions.

Kind regards,
Damien Cvetanovski

Reply:

Hi Damien,

I’m very excited by your invitation, and if you can answer a few questions I’m sure we can do business.

As an enthusiastic reader of my blog, you’ll certainly have noticed that I am quite conservative as regards content and presentation.  I wouldn’t want any adverts to be particularly visible to my readers.  Is that okay?

Concerning the products being advertised, I take an ethical approach, so wouldn’t expect them to be in any way multinational.  Localism is fine, so neighbourhood soft drug dealers, independent pizza takeaways and the mobile numbers of those girls down the Oxford road would be acceptable – but nothing outside the postcode please!

We haven’t discussed fees yet, but I’m sure we can talk.  Given the faith you clearly have in my outreach, I would have thought £1,000 per appearance would be a kick-in marker, but am more than happy to work upwards from there.  What do you say?

I’ve noticed that you’ve issued the same proposition to other bloggers, via their comment boxes – I must say I find that a bit unprofessional, as I had the impression we were in a confidential dialogue – but no probs.  If we’re negotiating in public, I’ll just stick this on my blog rather than replying directly.

Subject to the above, I will let you have an accommodation address for delivery of the first brown envelope.

 

Yours,

Muggins

 

Nipper Barks Again?

Not on today’s form he doesn’t.

I’ve blogged or commented or something before on the pleasure of physical browsing, where you can go into a shop and find the right rack and just, well, browse, until something catches your eye, you realise it was exactly what you didn’t know you were looking for, do a bit more of same and chug up to the till.  I’m told by ladies that this works with clothes.  And it used to with music.

So I went into town this morning, primarily to buy a new belt (the end broke off the old one, don’t ask), but also to browse HMV and buy as many CDs as I could carry, before this pleasure disappeared forever.  I had one specific target – Benjamin Britten – but was looking forward to having a gentle leisurely, well, browse.

Um, no.  Their rescue strategy seems to be to ram as much unsaleable crap as possible into as little space as possible, plastering it with as many irrelevant stickers as possible, ensuring that, often, you can’t actually identify the CD.   And make sure they’re so tightly packed into the racks that it’s impossible to flip through them and you have to pull them up, one at a time, to make sure it’s another one you don’t want to buy.  (Because you can’t be sure that the one at the front of the file represents all the other ones behind it.  Oh no.)

Oh yes, and even though you haven’t sacked them yet, make sure that you’ve demoralised the staff sufficiently to render them invisible, or if they can’t manage that, evasive, or if they can’t manage that, surly.  And then set up your system to reject an entirely valid credit card, three times, so that its PIN gets blocked and it can’t be used anywhere.  And then ask you if you want a bag.  For your four CDs.

They were, for the record: a Best of Britten compo; The Best of Neil Diamond (which I’m listening to as I type, just got to ‘Cracklin Rosie’, pure magic); James Taylor’s first Apple album; and something called ‘Brothers’ by The Black Keys, which I chose purely for its wonderful cover, and know precisely nothing else about, yet.

I know that my expectations are clouded by memories of flipping through the LP racks at Bourne Radio, in 1959, and stumbling across a gem of a Chuck Berry import; but I fear I’m going to have to try browsing up the amazon.  Except that they’ve just tried to sell me another five diaries, on the basis that I bought one two months ago; and that Jerry Lee Lewis compilation, again.

 

Are you sitting comfortably?

Those cast iron garden chairs can be a bit hard on the posterior, so I like to provide my guests with some nice comfy cushions.

 

 

Cool Chick

I posted this a few years ago, but couldn't resist a replay -

 

 

And while we're on the subject, I hear, as usual, that main roads have been gritted and are clear, but side roads haven't/aren't.  So lorries can get to the supermarkets with deliveries so that people can go and shop there, except they can't get out of - oh, fergeddit! 

Where or When? Who knows?

If you’ve read this blog before, you’ll know that I can become a bit obsessive from time to time.  It’s one of life’s pleasures for me, and if it carries the stigma of being labelled intermittently autistic (notice the carefully chosen word order there), then I say “Bring it on!”  (Or whatever the cliché du jour is.)

So, a little song quest story.

A few evenings ago I fancied listening to some piano jazz, and was led (in my meticulously ordered visible CD rack, which contains maybe 100, randomly selected, of my collection of about 1,786) to Errol Garner’s ‘Concert By The Sea’ live album from 1955 .  That’ll do, I thought.   Garner was assuredly the greatest jazz pianist never to have read a note of written music, and is still and forever a joy to the ear and the soul.

The penultimate piece is Rodgers’ and (more importantly) Hart’s ‘Where or When’.  This is the greatest popular song ever written, but Errol slaughters it.  (I’m not blaming him; he wasn’t the first and won’t be the last, and a song like this can survive almost anything.)  Also, of course, the words weren’t there.

So off I went.  I know a few recordings, Dion and the Belmonts being the most prominent (I still thrill to his gauche teenage mis-singing of the middle bit – ‘Some things that happened for the first time, seems to be happening again…’), but what I was really after was the intro, or what used to be called the ‘verse’.  I think I’m allowed to quote the lyrics – hell, I’m going to anyway:

‘When you're awake, the things you think Come from the dream you dream.  Thought has wings, and lots of things Are seldom what they seem.  Sometimes you think you’ve lived before All that you live today; Things you do come back to you As though they knew the way.  Oh the tricks your mind can play …’

Well, after a few hours of YoTubery, I was forced to concede that no obvious recording exists of this masterpiece of distilled emotional philosophy.  Not Sinatra.  Not Ella.  Not Peggy Lee.  Not even Harry Connick Jnr.

Then came exactly one of those moments.

I’m in Leeds, circa 1961.  We have the soundtrack LP of the Rodgers and Hart biopic ‘Words and Music’, and Lena Horne is singing ‘Where or When’.  All the way through.  That’s it!

I tracked down a DVD, and last night I watched it.  Two thirds of the way through, Mickey Rooney whispers “here’s Lena Horne,” and on she comes.  She starts to sing: “It seems we stood and talked like this before …”  I sink.  The intro must have been on the LP, but not in the film.

 

So if anyone knows of a recording of the whole of ‘Where or When’ by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, do please drop me a line, and I’ll retire happy to my desert island in a blue room in a small hotel in Manhattan.  Thank you.

The film was crap, by the way.

Systems ≈ Random?

I don’t quite believe that yet, but I’m getting closer.

Blogger has a ‘known problem’ at the moment which makes it difficult to insert a picture in your post.  I won’t go into details, because they’re boring and nerdy (and they’ve identified a way round it,  which seems to work, whilst they fix it) – the thing is that it only happens if you use a particular browser.   That’s like saying that an identical can of beans will have different contents depending on how you carry it home from the supermarket.

The point that worried me was the one jokily expressed in this post’s title: that the behaviour of some computer systems increasingly seems to approximate to randomness.  Like I said, I still just about refuse to believe this, even though Blogger regularly shakes my faith.

Anyway, in support of my probably misplaced optimism, I offer you the following true story.

Not that many decades ago, I was involved in developing and testing a new computer application, which duly went live.  It worked fine for weeks, until suddenly a particular transaction caused it to crash catastrophically, dragging several other things down in its wake. 

We pored over the content of the guilty item and could see absolutely nothing unusual about it, and so handed it over to the lead programmer, Anjam.  Two hours later, he came back with the answer.

“This only happens,” he explained, “when the length in bytes of the resulting record is an exact multiple of 256, plus one.”

Over his shoulder, as he walked away, he grinned.  “Sloppy testing.”

In other news …

A scattergun post today, in line with my currently scattered brain, from the world of media fringes.

1. Where did Emsley get his inspiration from?

 

Find your nearest Katie Kambridge, compare and contrast.   

2.      The S-word doesn’t appear until page 13 of today’s Observer, and then only in passing.  Even more encouraging, no pictures at all of the slug-faced junk-garnished slob-draped swamp cockroach.  Other ‘news’ purveyors take note.

3.      Bowie’s new single is brilliant.  But is this the greatest marketing campaign EVER?

4.      For crossword aficionados mainly, but all fans of the human spirit may join in:  Araucaria, the greatest compiler ever, who is a retired clergyman aged 91, announced on Friday that he has terminal cancer, and provided details - by means of the solutions in a characteristically devious crossword.  “It seemed the natural thing to do,” he said.

 

And finally: Blogger has bloggered up yet again by apparently withdrawing the 'browse' option from the 'insert image' function, which used to allow me to select a picture from my own hard disk. I now have to upload it to Picasa Web Albums and select it from there.
Tell me I'm wrong, please, someone.  I'm going to be investigating Wordpress ...