Last Thursday, as you probably know, was not a good day.
I woke up quite late, and was banking on the bus and the tube getting me to work, which was probably going to be a bit late, as I left home just before 9. My bus took its usual route along past Highgate Woods, to Highgate Tube (which is where I now catch my transport, since moving to Muswell Hill). Normally, as you reach Highgate Tube, most people get off the bus, but a message was passed, chinese-whispers-style, up the stairs, saying that there was no Underground service. Everybody assumed this meant that there was a problem with the northern line, so we returned to our seats, slightly disgruntled at the prospect of trying to get into central London whilst facing road traffic. The man sitting next to me, with his strange combination of greasy black hair in a ponytail and cricket jumper, seemed particularly pissed-off. At that stage I called work to tell them I'd be late.
Slowly making our way down towards Archway, the windows steamed up, and then we reached Holloway Road. I had the bright idea of trying to use the tube from Holloway Road station, near where my friends Richard and Philippa live, so hopped off the bus. I nipped into a little Greek cafe and grabbed myself a bacon roll and a cappucino, and then crossed the road to the Holloway Road station entrance. There were staff at the gates, telling people there'd been a security alert, so the Underground had completely shut down. Thinking only of the inconvenience of this, I crossed back and tried to board another bus. No joy - there were too many people waiting for the buses, and most of them were packed full of people who'd normally be using the tube. In fact, a lot were driving straight past the stops, with the drivers unwilling to take more people on board. Eventually, a bus stopped and as I was about to board it, Dominic called me. I asked if I could call him back once I'd boarded the bus, and ended the call. I called him back, from the crammed-full bottom deck of the bus and he told me there'd been explosions at Edgware Road and Aldgate. People on the bus were discussing what might have happened, and I told them what my brother had just told me. I wasn't sure at this stage if this was all some sort of exaggeration on either Dominic's part, or that perhaps the news reporters had their facts wrong.
The bus took everyone as far as Highbury Corner, where we were all ordered off, without an explanation. The driver kept tapping the top of his microphone instead of offering the reasons for the sudden stopping of service. A florist's stand at Highbury Corner seemed to have become a point of focus for people's attention, and I wondered over to see what all the fuss was about. The florist had a small CD radio hanging off a hook, and it was tuned to a London radio station. About twenty or thirty of us stood listening to the news as it was breaking. At that stage the press were being told that 'power surges' had caused the underground to be closed, but the reporter said that they'd been told by a senior member of London Underground staff that there may be a terrorist element to the events.
Realising that there were now few buses and no tubes, I called work and told them I wouldn't be able to get there, so I'd work from home instead. It did seem as though things were going a bit crazy, so I started my long walk home. About half way up Holloway Road I went into a big Cash Converters-style pawn shop to watch their TVs, and quite a few other people had had the same idea. It was there that the full horror of the terrorist bombings unfolded, and news was just breaking that a bomb had gone off on a bus. It was a numbing thing to watch. There was a feeling of being part of something completely unstable, while the physics were ever-shifting.
I stayed at the pawn shop for about 10 minutes, then started moving again, walking home a couple of miles further, up through unfamiliar suburban avenues. All of this time, I kept wondering if things were going to escalate. Maybe the tube attacks were the vanguard of a September 11th-style 'plane attack? Whichever the case, I didn't want to be in central-ish London for a second longer than necessary.
I'd already texted Naomi to let her know I was okay, and kept trying to call my Dad so that he could tell the rest of the family I was okay, but the Vodaphone service was working only very intermittently (it later transpired that they'd blocked it for the sake of emergency services, and probably to prevent telephone bomb detonation as well). Eventually I got through to one of my Grandmas, who thankfully hadn't had the TV on before I called, so didn't know about everything before we spoke. Various other friends and relatives kindly called or texted me to ask if everything was okay, including a text that pleasingly read "are you still alive?" from one of my bandmates! Oz even rang me from Germany, which was kind of him.
When I finally reached Muswell Hill (where I now live - I realise I haven't mentioned this in the blog before!), I queued up at Woolworths to buy myself a landline phone, seeing as the mobile was pretty unreliable, and I knew I might need to call people. When I arrived home, David was there, and his dog, Campbell, came bounding up to the door (David practises keyboard instruments at the house where I now live, during office hours). We sat at the table in the kitchen, grimly listening to Radio 4 as the death toll continued to rise during the day.
An awful lot has probably been written about the 7th July in blogs. A lot of people will be thinking that they easily could have been victims of this unspeakably cowardly act that now, it seems, was perpetrated by men as young as 18. For me, the most apparent feeling of the day was probably not how easily I could have been a victim (I don't think you can really transplant your feelings to that unless you are the victim), but how the bonds that tie society together are actually quite weak. Rather than the resilient strength that newscasters have expounded, it actually seemed to me like everything was falling apart remarkably easily. If there is to be a 'next time' for militant Islamo-fascists attacking Londoners, we may not be able to return to our lives with quite the same ease. If there is something more positive to be said, it's that London shouldn't be attacked again for a while, if we can go on the experience of Madrid and New York.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The lure of the dark
Okay, so in this blog post I'm not going to go into how I was fascinated with the gothic Batman universe for a good portion of my teens, but I imagine that it's the same part of my mind that finds subterranean tunnels and catacombs interesting.
Last week, I had the opportunity to go down into the Paris catacombs during some free time whilst on a work trip. By the Paris catacombs, I mean the graveyard part of the Gallic subterranean, not the 'hidden' part where all sorts of cultists meet, as the Grauniad reported last year (though going there really would be amazing). The ossiary in the catacombs literally has walls made of bones, and it was a pretty remarkable thing to see the skeletal remains of six million people. The skull in my image actually bears my initials, which was an added bonus (no pun intended).
I'm also fascinated by the disused Underground stations in London. Apparently trains still go through quite a few of these, without stopping. While it's geeky, I have to say that I think this is a really cool and interesting site.
Last week, I had the opportunity to go down into the Paris catacombs during some free time whilst on a work trip. By the Paris catacombs, I mean the graveyard part of the Gallic subterranean, not the 'hidden' part where all sorts of cultists meet, as the Grauniad reported last year (though going there really would be amazing). The ossiary in the catacombs literally has walls made of bones, and it was a pretty remarkable thing to see the skeletal remains of six million people. The skull in my image actually bears my initials, which was an added bonus (no pun intended).
I'm also fascinated by the disused Underground stations in London. Apparently trains still go through quite a few of these, without stopping. While it's geeky, I have to say that I think this is a really cool and interesting site.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Ring ring, ring ring
At some point in modern times, the volume of mobile phones being purchased meant that the manufacturers had to start providing a way of differentiating one phone from the next, so that people wouldn't get confused as to which phone nearby was actually ringing. This led to the development of ever more intricate ringtones, then ringtone composers on some phones (that fad seems to have faded), then this led eventually polyphonic ringtones and 'real sound' ringtones.
That development led to two things, in my experience.
Firstly, non-musicians have started using the word 'polyphonic', having little idea as to its meaning, other than that it vaguely sounds 'better'.
Secondly, every time a certain someone in my office receives a phonecall, you hear a bizarre Caribbean swingbeat version of Bach's 'Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring'.
As Jeff Goldblum's put it in his most badly-delivered line: “your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, that they never stopped to think whether they should”.
That development led to two things, in my experience.
Firstly, non-musicians have started using the word 'polyphonic', having little idea as to its meaning, other than that it vaguely sounds 'better'.
Secondly, every time a certain someone in my office receives a phonecall, you hear a bizarre Caribbean swingbeat version of Bach's 'Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring'.
As Jeff Goldblum's put it in his most badly-delivered line: “your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, that they never stopped to think whether they should”.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Doss Jobs (part 2)
I nearly fell out of my chair when I saw that they're offering £24 - £27,000 of Heritage Lottery funds to pay for an audience development officer for the Bat Conservation Trust. Among other things, this person will be "developing and piloting new survey schemes targeted at volunteers from underrepresented groups". I'm reading this to mean that people from minority ethnic backgrounds aren't getting as much bat volunteering action as the rest of us.
If you need an excuse to stop wasting your money on lottery tickets and scratchcards, this is surely it.
If you need an excuse to stop wasting your money on lottery tickets and scratchcards, this is surely it.
Friday, June 10, 2005
And in the future, we'll get the internet
When dial-up internet access became popular, back in the late 90s (you know, when it was all about whether you could make any service other than Compuserve or AOL actually work), I used to hear people saying "yeah, I've got the internet at home".
Being a literal object, I would imagine their houses as these huge server facilities full of massive hard disks so that they could contain all of the internet.
Being a literal object, I would imagine their houses as these huge server facilities full of massive hard disks so that they could contain all of the internet.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Wash your veg
I was just discussing with a workmate, as we ate unwashed tomatoes, that washing vegetables is pretty important, and removes a surprising amount of pesticides.
Washing also helps to avoid illnesses. See this interesting site
Washing also helps to avoid illnesses. See this interesting site
Laugh or cry. I don't know which
There's a strange feeling that you have when you listen to the radio in the morning, as you wake up. You're overhearing information that enters into your consciousness by the back door, and then when you hear the item of news again later, you feel a sense of deja vu. I experience this pretty much daily, since I use my radio alarm clock to wake me up. It's tuned to XFM, so a fair amount of their morning content is quite strange, veering between items for pure humour value (and I do find Christian O'Connell very funny, even if other people don't) and real news.
There are those occasions where there's a news item that's so absurd that you think it could only be an April fool, or that maybe in your half-sleep you completely misunderstood the idea being reported.
Today has yielded just such a gem, with the news that car drivers in the UK will be expected to pay-per-mile that they travel, tracked by satellite. It's as if I went to sleep in a less-than-pleasant modern society last night, then woke up today in some kind of socialist enviro-nightmare. Don't get me wrong, I would say that certain parts of my psyche lean in a socialist direction (the super-rich should be taxed a lot harder than they are to relieve the burden on everyone else - I'm thinking footballers especially). And I also have sympathy with environmental causes, because we all know that something has to be done about global warming, the depletion of the ozone layer, etc.
But pay-per-mile is insanely obtrusive. Can you imagine not only the level of individual liberty that would have to be sacrificed with the implementation of this technology, but also the cost of implementing it?
It's like the story about Prince Charles becoming Countryside Tsar from the front page of the Guardian on April 1st this year. At the time, I read that article and, being in a bout of 'flu, assumed that I was hallucinating. As I continued reading, it became clear that it was a joke.
I've now read the story about pay-per-mile several times, and the hallucinations aren't wearing off.
There are those occasions where there's a news item that's so absurd that you think it could only be an April fool, or that maybe in your half-sleep you completely misunderstood the idea being reported.
Today has yielded just such a gem, with the news that car drivers in the UK will be expected to pay-per-mile that they travel, tracked by satellite. It's as if I went to sleep in a less-than-pleasant modern society last night, then woke up today in some kind of socialist enviro-nightmare. Don't get me wrong, I would say that certain parts of my psyche lean in a socialist direction (the super-rich should be taxed a lot harder than they are to relieve the burden on everyone else - I'm thinking footballers especially). And I also have sympathy with environmental causes, because we all know that something has to be done about global warming, the depletion of the ozone layer, etc.
But pay-per-mile is insanely obtrusive. Can you imagine not only the level of individual liberty that would have to be sacrificed with the implementation of this technology, but also the cost of implementing it?
It's like the story about Prince Charles becoming Countryside Tsar from the front page of the Guardian on April 1st this year. At the time, I read that article and, being in a bout of 'flu, assumed that I was hallucinating. As I continued reading, it became clear that it was a joke.
I've now read the story about pay-per-mile several times, and the hallucinations aren't wearing off.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Doss jobs
I was talking to a workmate yesterday about the really bizarre careers that some people make for themselves. Specifically, those women who model for the covers of crossword and puzzle books that they sell in newsagents. Imagine growing old and telling your Grandchildren that when you were a pretty young thing, you used to be a model, a crossword model.
It makes me think of the Queen's Of The Stone Age song called 'I was a teenage hand model', surely one of the greatest song titles. Now there is a great job. If I stop biting my nails, maybe one day I could make it as a hand model! But alas, all of this is a pipedream.
It makes me think of the Queen's Of The Stone Age song called 'I was a teenage hand model', surely one of the greatest song titles. Now there is a great job. If I stop biting my nails, maybe one day I could make it as a hand model! But alas, all of this is a pipedream.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Beauty
I think that the song 'Your hand in mine' by explosions in the sky is one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard, and I don't even know why it took me so long to get into this band.
Look them up, and if you use the iTunes Music Store, you can hear excerpts or buy their first album there.
Look them up, and if you use the iTunes Music Store, you can hear excerpts or buy their first album there.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The people who send you spam
I thought I ought to post this up on my blog at some point. It's the response that an 'Anonymous Coward' posted on Slashdot in relation to a story about a millionaire spammer. I've chuckled at this little bit of writing several times over the past couple of years, and wish I could credit the Anonymous Coward properly.
We know where this one lives. Let's go kill him.
Of course, this is a joke. Surely there isn't a single person who reads Slashdot who has been so annoyed by spam that they would go so far as to kill him and burn down his house. Nope. Nobody like that. Even if that person would almost certainly be able to escape punishment if even a tiny amount of forethought were used in the attempt. After all, Virginia police couldn't even catch a homeless muslim sniper after multiple shootings; what are the odds they'll catch some geek who is actually paying attention to not leave any evidence behind?
Of course, this really is a joke. And everyone reading it should take it as a joke. Except for that one very special person. Yes, you my friend. You know what you must do...
We know where this one lives. Let's go kill him.
Of course, this is a joke. Surely there isn't a single person who reads Slashdot who has been so annoyed by spam that they would go so far as to kill him and burn down his house. Nope. Nobody like that. Even if that person would almost certainly be able to escape punishment if even a tiny amount of forethought were used in the attempt. After all, Virginia police couldn't even catch a homeless muslim sniper after multiple shootings; what are the odds they'll catch some geek who is actually paying attention to not leave any evidence behind?
Of course, this really is a joke. And everyone reading it should take it as a joke. Except for that one very special person. Yes, you my friend. You know what you must do...
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Overused words of the English language
urban: this means 'of the city'. It does not mean hip-hop and it is not a by-word for cool.
eclectic: this essentially means 'of varied sources'. It does not mean outlandish or unusual, and it is not a by-word for cool.
contemporary: this means 'current'. It does not mean futuristic, and it is not a by-word for cool kitchens.
eclectic: this essentially means 'of varied sources'. It does not mean outlandish or unusual, and it is not a by-word for cool.
contemporary: this means 'current'. It does not mean futuristic, and it is not a by-word for cool kitchens.
The Holy iPod
I think catholic insider has to be one of the most unusual websites I've ever seen, so I decided to flag it up here. Seriously, it's unintentionally funny and earnest in equal measure. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it before.
It's actually pretty cool for there to be a young cleric who actually understands technology doing something like this.
It's actually pretty cool for there to be a young cleric who actually understands technology doing something like this.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Rogue Squadron III: Rebel Strike
It's been a strange weekend. In between lengthy recording sessions with the Holst Singers, I've spent the past weekend being stuck on a particularly difficult level of Rebel Strike on my Gamecube, but I'm determined to beat it.
Oh yeah, to any Gamecube owners out there, I would recommend the Logic3 Gamecube controller which Blockbuster video is selling for £4.99 at the moment. Beats paying £25 for the official one.
Oh yeah, to any Gamecube owners out there, I would recommend the Logic3 Gamecube controller which Blockbuster video is selling for £4.99 at the moment. Beats paying £25 for the official one.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Has it come to this?
Earlier today went over the Delicatessen Piacenza across the road from where I work, and picked up a fresh lasagne which I heated up for lunch. It was pretty damn excellent.
As we crossed the road, I saw a van driving towards us with 'CrackOUT' emblazoned on its side. The subheading said that it was a service to remove sex or drug related rubbish with a telephone number to call.
I've been asking myself what level of decline our society has reached where there's the need for a special separate organisation just to deal with the scale of this problem.
As we crossed the road, I saw a van driving towards us with 'CrackOUT' emblazoned on its side. The subheading said that it was a service to remove sex or drug related rubbish with a telephone number to call.
I've been asking myself what level of decline our society has reached where there's the need for a special separate organisation just to deal with the scale of this problem.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
The General Election: The Burning Issue (final)
New Labour will be voted in for a third term later today.
I saw an interesting programme on Channel 4 the other day that included excerpts from some sort of youth parliament. The one issue that brought together all of those present from all points on the political spectrum was the problem our generation faces attempting to get on the property ladder. I, for one, do not want to be stuck making the rentier class forever richer whilst treading water myself. By the time I'm a pensioner, I'll need a house to sell pay for my retirement anyway, and believe me I'm anxious enough about this already.
Yet MPs aren't really interested in debating this problem. The C4 programme contended that, since voter turnout among the young isn't high, or reliable in terms of party allegiance, it's not a sufficiently hot issue to occupy centre stage. A reduction of stamp duty to a level well below the average house doesn't wash either, and we all know it.
Right now, the only way I can see that I might ever be able to afford a house would be to win a gameshow or the lottery, or something. We all know that pinning your hopes on those odds is futile. But people with nice houses in nice areas hold something worth half a million or more thanks to the enormous inflation that's occurred in property.
When you think about it, the gap between the WWTBA Millionaire winner and the owner of a home has never been closer.
I saw an interesting programme on Channel 4 the other day that included excerpts from some sort of youth parliament. The one issue that brought together all of those present from all points on the political spectrum was the problem our generation faces attempting to get on the property ladder. I, for one, do not want to be stuck making the rentier class forever richer whilst treading water myself. By the time I'm a pensioner, I'll need a house to sell pay for my retirement anyway, and believe me I'm anxious enough about this already.
Yet MPs aren't really interested in debating this problem. The C4 programme contended that, since voter turnout among the young isn't high, or reliable in terms of party allegiance, it's not a sufficiently hot issue to occupy centre stage. A reduction of stamp duty to a level well below the average house doesn't wash either, and we all know it.
Right now, the only way I can see that I might ever be able to afford a house would be to win a gameshow or the lottery, or something. We all know that pinning your hopes on those odds is futile. But people with nice houses in nice areas hold something worth half a million or more thanks to the enormous inflation that's occurred in property.
When you think about it, the gap between the WWTBA Millionaire winner and the owner of a home has never been closer.
Deliberating in the pub (part 2)
The other thing that happened in the pub yesterday was that I went into the gents' and a man standing at a urinal announced in a strong Welsh accent: "I love a good piss, I do".
Out of friendliness, and to gloss over the fact that I hadn't had enough to drink to be discussing urine with a stranger, I asked him where abouts in Wales he was from. He replied that he was from Swansea. Tentatively I said, "Oh I'm from Cardiff".
He spat at the floor.
"You Jack bastard" I called after him, descending to his level. I remember from my days at PC World that this is the best insult for Swansea people.
This little exchange was relatively good-natured but underlines a sad truth.
A while ago I wrote about my belief that nationalism within the British Isles is a nonsense, and I still find it detestable, be it Scots, English or Welsh nationalism. But it's easy to forget that people seem to hate those closest to them geographically, and it makes little sense. It's a classic form of definition in antagonism to 'otherness' so loved by cultural anthropologists. I guess people must construct some kind of ranking system in their heads along the lines of:
Being from Swansea > Being from Cardiff > Being from Scotland > Being from England.
Dumb, isn't it.
Out of friendliness, and to gloss over the fact that I hadn't had enough to drink to be discussing urine with a stranger, I asked him where abouts in Wales he was from. He replied that he was from Swansea. Tentatively I said, "Oh I'm from Cardiff".
He spat at the floor.
"You Jack bastard" I called after him, descending to his level. I remember from my days at PC World that this is the best insult for Swansea people.
This little exchange was relatively good-natured but underlines a sad truth.
A while ago I wrote about my belief that nationalism within the British Isles is a nonsense, and I still find it detestable, be it Scots, English or Welsh nationalism. But it's easy to forget that people seem to hate those closest to them geographically, and it makes little sense. It's a classic form of definition in antagonism to 'otherness' so loved by cultural anthropologists. I guess people must construct some kind of ranking system in their heads along the lines of:
Being from Swansea > Being from Cardiff > Being from Scotland > Being from England.
Dumb, isn't it.
Deliberating in the pub (part 1)
I went for a quick drink before choir rehearsal yesterday with one of my workmates. I'd bought the first drinks, but when he went up to the bar to get the next ones, he insisted on getting clean glasses. I don't understand this at all, and I've seen a lot of people do it. If you're drinking the same drink several times, why on earth would you want to have a new glass?
1) You're increasing the chances that you get a glass with germs in it that might make you ill (the obsessive/compulsive argument).
2) You're causing more glasses to be washed, therefore adding to the amount of water wasted (the environmental argument)
3) You're causing more glasses to be washed, therefore tying up staff time and electricity in the process (the economic efficiency argument).
This is why the pitcher system in America makes sense. You don't find them asking for a new glass each time they have a drink.
I think this is simple choice actually exemplifies the doublethink that goes on among young people in the UK, including my peers. The very same people who talk about ending world poverty, increasing social justice etc. are so often the same people who see no wrong in being wasteful (and this is a major sin of our generation - the 'new glass syndrome' is this in microcosm) or spending vast amounts of money on hedonistic entertainment. It's deeply hypocritical to wear some dumb plastic wristband while you consume with the best of 'em.
1) You're increasing the chances that you get a glass with germs in it that might make you ill (the obsessive/compulsive argument).
2) You're causing more glasses to be washed, therefore adding to the amount of water wasted (the environmental argument)
3) You're causing more glasses to be washed, therefore tying up staff time and electricity in the process (the economic efficiency argument).
This is why the pitcher system in America makes sense. You don't find them asking for a new glass each time they have a drink.
I think this is simple choice actually exemplifies the doublethink that goes on among young people in the UK, including my peers. The very same people who talk about ending world poverty, increasing social justice etc. are so often the same people who see no wrong in being wasteful (and this is a major sin of our generation - the 'new glass syndrome' is this in microcosm) or spending vast amounts of money on hedonistic entertainment. It's deeply hypocritical to wear some dumb plastic wristband while you consume with the best of 'em.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Language, Timothy
Having just popped over to the shop across the road from where I work (known as the Crap Shop™, the official name, in use to this day, credited to the esteemed Giles Witcomb), I heard some people standing round, speaking about McDonalds. On the one hand, I can't imagine talking about McDonalds for as long as they seemed to be. Maybe they'd watched Supersize Me which was on TV recently. On the other, I noticed that a flame-haired woman kept saying Mackdonalds really loudly, with the stress on the Mack. And then I realised that I'm a snob.
Mayday
This weekend I'm going to Oxford (my favourite place in Britain) for the May Day celebrations, to catch up with both of my younger brothers, and to attend Naomi's concert at the Sheldonian Theatre. I'll hopefully be catching some bands tonight, as well.
I can't wait to get to Oxford. Without wishing to be nostalgic, I really love the city and all of the good friends of mine who are still there, and a big part of me misses the place. I think it's where I'd like to end up, eventually, and would be a good place to bring up children.
I can't wait to get to Oxford. Without wishing to be nostalgic, I really love the city and all of the good friends of mine who are still there, and a big part of me misses the place. I think it's where I'd like to end up, eventually, and would be a good place to bring up children.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Lightning
BAM! Some crazy-ass lightning just went off with a huge thunderclap. All of my workmates jumped. I ran over to unplug my iBook from the mains, to be on the safeside. Don't want this little feller getting fried.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Product Placement 2: Sennheiser PX100 Headphones
One thing that's been giving me enjoyment over the last few days are my new headphones.
Hands up. I have a headphone problem. They tend to last me no longer than 3 months of daily usage (that's around 3 hours per day minimum), and usually end up wearing out at the jack, or exhibit stress on the wires which ends up with only one side of the stereo working.
Well, apart from sounding damn good - and I'm talking a world away from the free iPod earbuds that Apple gives you or the several other pairs I've had from Sony, Philips and so on - they also carry a 2 year guarantee. At current rate of headphone exhaustion I could potentially get through 8 of these babies without having to pay out any more money.
They're £30 at Richer Sounds (but shop around, you might be able to get them for less on Ebay), and they also fold up. The sound is very 'hi-fi' sounding, which makes me realise that the poor sound I've been living with isn't so much due to mp3/AAC compression, but the cheap headphones.
If you see me, have a listen to something through these phones, and you'll see what I mean - they are very good.
Hands up. I have a headphone problem. They tend to last me no longer than 3 months of daily usage (that's around 3 hours per day minimum), and usually end up wearing out at the jack, or exhibit stress on the wires which ends up with only one side of the stereo working.
Well, apart from sounding damn good - and I'm talking a world away from the free iPod earbuds that Apple gives you or the several other pairs I've had from Sony, Philips and so on - they also carry a 2 year guarantee. At current rate of headphone exhaustion I could potentially get through 8 of these babies without having to pay out any more money.
They're £30 at Richer Sounds (but shop around, you might be able to get them for less on Ebay), and they also fold up. The sound is very 'hi-fi' sounding, which makes me realise that the poor sound I've been living with isn't so much due to mp3/AAC compression, but the cheap headphones.
If you see me, have a listen to something through these phones, and you'll see what I mean - they are very good.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Software Piracy
Last week I found myself talking to someone who's the founder of a fairly significant software company about things that I've found interesting recently, particularly the troubling issue of software patenting.
A few minutes into the conversation it occurred to me that his company's innovations have added a fair bit to value and useability in a specific field, for a certain type of computer user (I don't want to be specific here, which is becoming obvious by this point), but that about half of the people I know who use the product are using a cracked, pirate copy.
Piracy/cracking is a funny issue: I'm against it on one level - if you're making a living from using a piece of software (or, in the case of students, gaining qualifications through work produced with that specific programme) you really can't justify stealing what is an integral tool in the process. It's like a blacksmith nicking someone else's anvil.
On the other hand, I'm ambivalent about low-level piracy performed by people who just want to try out a programme, or those who might make occasional use of something for non-commercial ends.
Cracked versus copied software muddies these waters. I can think of times when I've made use of software purchased quite legally by a friend or relative, and at least in that situation the company has made profit from one sale of the product, and I'm certainly not going to add to their costs by asking for telephone support; I may well also end up purchasing my own copy at a later date.
The software the guy's company makes employs no physical protection methods, and, having once pressed a help desk person about their copy protection codes, I realised that their system for giving out codes is pretty rudimentary. Normally I'd be against software employing a USB dongle, but not in this case. Having to use up a USB port on a laptop where you might only have 2 ports total is a pain in the arse if you're using something that needs extra external hardware, like Logic Audio, but I don't think it would be so much of an issue in this case.
I'm sure it's all stuff the company has thought of, but it is strange talking to somebody who you've just met, who you know has been stolen-from, and feeling that you would like to tell him, but deciding it would only be irritating. So I held my tongue instead.
A few minutes into the conversation it occurred to me that his company's innovations have added a fair bit to value and useability in a specific field, for a certain type of computer user (I don't want to be specific here, which is becoming obvious by this point), but that about half of the people I know who use the product are using a cracked, pirate copy.
Piracy/cracking is a funny issue: I'm against it on one level - if you're making a living from using a piece of software (or, in the case of students, gaining qualifications through work produced with that specific programme) you really can't justify stealing what is an integral tool in the process. It's like a blacksmith nicking someone else's anvil.
On the other hand, I'm ambivalent about low-level piracy performed by people who just want to try out a programme, or those who might make occasional use of something for non-commercial ends.
Cracked versus copied software muddies these waters. I can think of times when I've made use of software purchased quite legally by a friend or relative, and at least in that situation the company has made profit from one sale of the product, and I'm certainly not going to add to their costs by asking for telephone support; I may well also end up purchasing my own copy at a later date.
The software the guy's company makes employs no physical protection methods, and, having once pressed a help desk person about their copy protection codes, I realised that their system for giving out codes is pretty rudimentary. Normally I'd be against software employing a USB dongle, but not in this case. Having to use up a USB port on a laptop where you might only have 2 ports total is a pain in the arse if you're using something that needs extra external hardware, like Logic Audio, but I don't think it would be so much of an issue in this case.
I'm sure it's all stuff the company has thought of, but it is strange talking to somebody who you've just met, who you know has been stolen-from, and feeling that you would like to tell him, but deciding it would only be irritating. So I held my tongue instead.
Friday, April 22, 2005
No vote
Damn, I've just found out that I'm not on the electoral register. I called up Tower Hamlets to find out why we haven't been sent a polling card and they suggested that I should check with the last place I was registered. I called Oxford City Council only to find out that they wipe all students off the register, annually. Well, that's it then. I suppose. Too late to register for this election, and I don't exist where I last existed. I know I should have looked into it earlier, but I am frustrated that Tower Hamlets borough council don't share info between departments. You would have thought that paying council tax and all the details they get from you when you do that actually counted for something. Not currently (although they are considering it).
The deadline to register was also 6 weeks ago incidentally, i.e. before they called the General Election. That doesn't seem entirely fair, to me, either.
The deadline to register was also 6 weeks ago incidentally, i.e. before they called the General Election. That doesn't seem entirely fair, to me, either.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Triple Drat
There's something strange, in the neighbourhood...
My phone has started acting up this morning, so I may not be able to make outgoing calls, if the problem persists. Therefore, if you're expecting me to call you and you're wondering why I'm not calling you, it's probably because I can't. So please ring me, and it looks like it should work for answering, at the least.
My phone has started acting up this morning, so I may not be able to make outgoing calls, if the problem persists. Therefore, if you're expecting me to call you and you're wondering why I'm not calling you, it's probably because I can't. So please ring me, and it looks like it should work for answering, at the least.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Product Placement
Unlike the people at FHM, Maxim etc., when I use my blog to tell my readership something is good, it's not because I'm being paid to do it.
So, in light of my love for all humanity, I thought I'd pass on the observation that the Botanics range of products from Boots are very very good. Speaking as someone who doesn't believe in the concept of male grooming, I must say that the mens' face wash and the shaving foam (that I discovered more recently) are really good if you have sensitive or spot-prone skin. Seriously. Stay with me here, try the stuff out and then you can tell me if I'm wrong.
The gentle, unstringent nature of these products comes from them being based upon plant extracts; this leads me on to thinking about the number of adverts you see these days for products containing aloe vera (washing powders, shampoos, toilet tissues!). It's a wonder that there are enough aloe plants to meet the demand, assuming there's not a synthetic process for replicating the extract. Anyway, aloe vera is pretty cool stuff - when I went on a choir tour to the Caribbean in 2001, breaking open a leaf and putting the extract of that plant on my skin was pretty much the only relief I could get from sun burn and mosquito stings. You've got to love nature.
So, in light of my love for all humanity, I thought I'd pass on the observation that the Botanics range of products from Boots are very very good. Speaking as someone who doesn't believe in the concept of male grooming, I must say that the mens' face wash and the shaving foam (that I discovered more recently) are really good if you have sensitive or spot-prone skin. Seriously. Stay with me here, try the stuff out and then you can tell me if I'm wrong.
The gentle, unstringent nature of these products comes from them being based upon plant extracts; this leads me on to thinking about the number of adverts you see these days for products containing aloe vera (washing powders, shampoos, toilet tissues!). It's a wonder that there are enough aloe plants to meet the demand, assuming there's not a synthetic process for replicating the extract. Anyway, aloe vera is pretty cool stuff - when I went on a choir tour to the Caribbean in 2001, breaking open a leaf and putting the extract of that plant on my skin was pretty much the only relief I could get from sun burn and mosquito stings. You've got to love nature.
Ainsley Harriot
Well, Monday, here you are again. I had a pretty great weekend, ranging between visiting Naomi at her parents' house on Friday and Saturday, to going to see a post-hardcore gig last night in Camden (Bullet Union, since you ask).
One thing that has complicated today somewhat was my decision to enter the kitchen for both of my meals yesterday. My very first attempt at a casserole, for lunch, was pretty respectable. The stir-fry I did for dinner (for Luigi and Ian) would also have been fine, were it not for the addition of a handful of bird eye chilis. Those little 'bad boys' have left me with a distinctly delicate feeling today. In future I'll be treating those little sods with the respect they deserve.
One thing that has complicated today somewhat was my decision to enter the kitchen for both of my meals yesterday. My very first attempt at a casserole, for lunch, was pretty respectable. The stir-fry I did for dinner (for Luigi and Ian) would also have been fine, were it not for the addition of a handful of bird eye chilis. Those little 'bad boys' have left me with a distinctly delicate feeling today. In future I'll be treating those little sods with the respect they deserve.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The joys of electronic mail
Today I have been received communications from Peter Wong of Standard Chartered Bank (Hong Kong) Ltd, Dr Graham Douglas, the personal accountant to the late head of state of Nigeria (Sani Abacha, apparently), Victor Osadolor of African Continental Bank PLC, Jiga Idris of Contract Approve Panel, Nigeria, Dr Don Amos of the Nigerian Federal Ministry of Finance, and Dr Mariam Abacha, the wife of Sanni [sic] Abacha.
They all seem to have such wonderful schemes to offer me, but I was thinking that maybe I could act as some kind of intermediary to help them work to pool their investments together into a syndicate for the National Lottery or something.
They all seem to have such wonderful schemes to offer me, but I was thinking that maybe I could act as some kind of intermediary to help them work to pool their investments together into a syndicate for the National Lottery or something.
Monday, April 11, 2005
A 'right' to anonymity
One becomes accustomed to people hiding behind the anonymity of the internet from time to time (God knows, I can think of one time I did it to insult someone, drunkenly); this is why message boards on serious topics aren't always a good idea - but it's coming to something when people think they can pick up a phone and make serious claims about someone's professional integrity without being willing to disclose who they are.
That's the situation I experienced about half an hour ago, where a woman was making spurious claims of impropriety about a someone who's just recently left my place of work, and someone who I have a great deal of respect for. The conversation ended with me saying "and where is it you're calling from" to which the woman replied "I didn't say, and I don't have to" before hanging up. I must say it made my blood boil because if you're going to try and upset the applecart, rightly or not, you should at least have the courage to equal your conviction.
That's the situation I experienced about half an hour ago, where a woman was making spurious claims of impropriety about a someone who's just recently left my place of work, and someone who I have a great deal of respect for. The conversation ended with me saying "and where is it you're calling from" to which the woman replied "I didn't say, and I don't have to" before hanging up. I must say it made my blood boil because if you're going to try and upset the applecart, rightly or not, you should at least have the courage to equal your conviction.
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Body Politic (part 1)
I imagine that every UK blog under the sun is going to take on some sort of political characteristic over the next couple of months, but I think I might as well put my under-informed oar in a little, seeing as I do have strong opinions on some of the things that are being debated. Still, I do promise that I won't let the blog get totally dominated by matters political.
So, the general election has been called, after TB saying that he'd leave it for a couple of days out of respect for the mourning of Pope John Paul II.
Today, I followed a link from Jack's blog, and went to the Labour Party's website, where it appears you can now ask Mr Blair your questions in an electronic form. I thought to myself 'why not?', you have to practise what you preach, and participate in democracy as best you can, otherwise you're a hypocrite to complain about the status quo. My question to Mr Blair was on the mythos of Labour's supposedly-great economic record, and what exactly is being done to assist in the housing problem that exists for our credit-heavy generation who don't already have investments in property, because, as it stands, and unless you're callous enough to hope on some kind of windfall from an elderly relative, you are simply not in the game.
So, the general election has been called, after TB saying that he'd leave it for a couple of days out of respect for the mourning of Pope John Paul II.
Today, I followed a link from Jack's blog, and went to the Labour Party's website, where it appears you can now ask Mr Blair your questions in an electronic form. I thought to myself 'why not?', you have to practise what you preach, and participate in democracy as best you can, otherwise you're a hypocrite to complain about the status quo. My question to Mr Blair was on the mythos of Labour's supposedly-great economic record, and what exactly is being done to assist in the housing problem that exists for our credit-heavy generation who don't already have investments in property, because, as it stands, and unless you're callous enough to hope on some kind of windfall from an elderly relative, you are simply not in the game.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Being Poorly
Dear Oh Dear, I've not been too well over the last week or so, but there's lots to report on from before that, so on with the blog entry.
Last week we went into a little studio in Battersea (in fact, I don't even know if the studio has a name!) to record the first Action and Action EP with a qual engineer and nice all-round feller called Jonny, who also works as a sound engineer at the Barfly in Camden. It was a fantastic three days, and we managed to record five tracks in two days of recording, with each band member performing the absolute minimum number of takes. I have a first mix of it, and despite my tendency to over-analyse and self-criticise these things, I really am pretty happy with it after about a hundred listens, and I think it's an accurate depiction of the nature of the band (and surprisingly melodic!).
During the last day in the studio, I started to feel ill and then by Friday morning was feeling like death warmed up, with the flu. However, I had the prospect of it being my first day due back into work after taking two weeks' holiday, and I realised that if I would then immediately be on sick-leave, it would look suspect, even though it wasn't. As it happened I was fortunately sent home after an hour of coughing and blowing my nose.
Upon realising that I'd need to spend the next few days couped up in the flat, I decided to get something to keep myself occupied. Cue the Gamecube for £59 courtesy of HMV. Soul Calibur II, Enter the Matrix and Medal of Honor:Rising Sun. Oh yes, thank you. There are definitely upsides to being ill.
Last week we went into a little studio in Battersea (in fact, I don't even know if the studio has a name!) to record the first Action and Action EP with a qual engineer and nice all-round feller called Jonny, who also works as a sound engineer at the Barfly in Camden. It was a fantastic three days, and we managed to record five tracks in two days of recording, with each band member performing the absolute minimum number of takes. I have a first mix of it, and despite my tendency to over-analyse and self-criticise these things, I really am pretty happy with it after about a hundred listens, and I think it's an accurate depiction of the nature of the band (and surprisingly melodic!).
During the last day in the studio, I started to feel ill and then by Friday morning was feeling like death warmed up, with the flu. However, I had the prospect of it being my first day due back into work after taking two weeks' holiday, and I realised that if I would then immediately be on sick-leave, it would look suspect, even though it wasn't. As it happened I was fortunately sent home after an hour of coughing and blowing my nose.
Upon realising that I'd need to spend the next few days couped up in the flat, I decided to get something to keep myself occupied. Cue the Gamecube for £59 courtesy of HMV. Soul Calibur II, Enter the Matrix and Medal of Honor:Rising Sun. Oh yes, thank you. There are definitely upsides to being ill.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Bounty-Hunter
During the January trip to Florida, Jack and I ended up telling Thurston about the plight of the indigenous British red squirrel in the face of the imported American grey squirrel. We'd started talking about this during a discussion of what would actually make an appropriate emblem for Britain in the world today, and the squirrel seemed to sum up the tragi-comedy of the whole thing.
Well, I decided to do a quick search on what's being done to help our little fellas, and the craziness of the interweb didn't disappoint me. It turns out that since 1991 there's been an anonymous email address advertised, offering to whack any offending grey squirrels for you (squirrelproblem@airriflehunter.co.uk) and a website that helpfully mentions that a conservation group, the Esme Kirby Trust, is willing to pay you for 'scalps'.
Well, I decided to do a quick search on what's being done to help our little fellas, and the craziness of the interweb didn't disappoint me. It turns out that since 1991 there's been an anonymous email address advertised, offering to whack any offending grey squirrels for you (squirrelproblem@airriflehunter.co.uk) and a website that helpfully mentions that a conservation group, the Esme Kirby Trust, is willing to pay you for 'scalps'.
Kilroy meets the Gypsies
Yes, Robert Kilroy-Silk has decided to spend several days living with the travellers for the purposes of a Channel 4 documentary to be aired during April (see title link). All very nice, and I'm sure it'll be entertaining in a Louis Theroux's Wierd Weekends style, but something jumped out of the text of the Guardian article that's interesting:
'Matters are not helped when Clifford tells him he cannot use his bathroom, because it goes against the strict customs of the community. "It is not because we think you are dirty, it is just to maintain the purity of our unit as Romany Gypsies," he explains.'
Consider that gypsy and other travellers are arguing that they should be able to pursue their way of life (setting up camps, in some cases without planning permission) partly on ethnicity grounds, with the assistance of the Commission for Racial Equality; why has noone pointed out the absurdity of maintaining 'the purity of the unit as Romany Gypsies' - talk of purity in these terms (note the capitalisation) doesn't fall far short of racism.
'Matters are not helped when Clifford tells him he cannot use his bathroom, because it goes against the strict customs of the community. "It is not because we think you are dirty, it is just to maintain the purity of our unit as Romany Gypsies," he explains.'
Consider that gypsy and other travellers are arguing that they should be able to pursue their way of life (setting up camps, in some cases without planning permission) partly on ethnicity grounds, with the assistance of the Commission for Racial Equality; why has noone pointed out the absurdity of maintaining 'the purity of the unit as Romany Gypsies' - talk of purity in these terms (note the capitalisation) doesn't fall far short of racism.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Welcome to Boom Town
I've spent the past week at my parents' house in Cardiff, splitting my time between sleeping, eating and singing at the Cathedral. It's been a good week, and, rarely, all 5 of us have been in the same place at once.
Coming home always seems to be different each time, yet still it's somehow reassuring, and it always makes me compare my experience of London (and Oxford before that) with Cardiff, since those are the only places I've ever lived.
As I got off the train and exited the station this Monday, I was struck by the freshness of the sea breeze and the high quality of the air, made apparent to me after having been away for about 3 months, since I went to Florida.
Then, as I walked through the city centre, I observed other changes. The centre Cardiff I very quiet at 10 a.m. on a Monday. I'd never noticed this before. Making my way down Mill Lane, I spotted that one of the nightclubs had a sign that boasted it's "Cardiff's London-style club". What the hell is that supposed to mean? That the drinks are over-priced, or that London is somehow some magic Dick Whittington metropolis? It reminds of that brilliant episode of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin where Perrin decides to have an anti-sale, increasing the prices of goods at his shop, a shop based on the premise of selling only absolute rubbish [media link]. In the case of the club it appears that if you advertise that you're more expensive, people will buy it. Such is the perversity of human nature.
As the week's progressed, I've noticed other things that are changing here. House prices and rents, for one. Jack came to visit for the day on Wednesday, and we went down to Cardiff Bay. I was astonished to see in the window of an estate agent that an ordinary one-bed flat was going for £650 a month. That doesn't place it far behind London prices at all, considering that I'd paid £600 per month for my studio in Cricklewood. Then yesterday, a medium latté (or whatever retarded Spanish-Italian-French-Esperanto hybrid term they use for 'medium' in that particular coffee chain) cost me £2.19 at Costa. They were charging £1.60 for own-brand muffins as well.
All of this wouldn't be quite so crazy if wages kept pace with those in the Smoke, but it's a completely different story. Looking at jobs advertised in the South Wales Echo this week, it seems that the contractor for rail staff is paying around £10K salary for a full-time assistant station manager. Contrast that with the London Underground worker who was in the press earlier this year for taking stupid amount of time on the sick, and was on a £32K salary as a driver of tube trains.
It's the inconsistency that's baffling. It would appear that there's some group that has enough money to pay London prices for houses and consumer goods and services, despite the enormous wage disparity between the two capitals. I can only guess that Cardiff prices are being driven up by some combination of equity in properties already owned, the rentier buy-to-let brigade (curse them), and the stupid levels of consumer credit available in this country (Britain now has a higher amount of personal debt per capita than the USA, which in turn is well above mainland Europe). It's not a pretty picture, and I am sorry to see this sort of ludicrous price inflation is now affecting even the Principality I call home.
Coming home always seems to be different each time, yet still it's somehow reassuring, and it always makes me compare my experience of London (and Oxford before that) with Cardiff, since those are the only places I've ever lived.
As I got off the train and exited the station this Monday, I was struck by the freshness of the sea breeze and the high quality of the air, made apparent to me after having been away for about 3 months, since I went to Florida.
Then, as I walked through the city centre, I observed other changes. The centre Cardiff I very quiet at 10 a.m. on a Monday. I'd never noticed this before. Making my way down Mill Lane, I spotted that one of the nightclubs had a sign that boasted it's "Cardiff's London-style club". What the hell is that supposed to mean? That the drinks are over-priced, or that London is somehow some magic Dick Whittington metropolis? It reminds of that brilliant episode of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin where Perrin decides to have an anti-sale, increasing the prices of goods at his shop, a shop based on the premise of selling only absolute rubbish [media link]. In the case of the club it appears that if you advertise that you're more expensive, people will buy it. Such is the perversity of human nature.
As the week's progressed, I've noticed other things that are changing here. House prices and rents, for one. Jack came to visit for the day on Wednesday, and we went down to Cardiff Bay. I was astonished to see in the window of an estate agent that an ordinary one-bed flat was going for £650 a month. That doesn't place it far behind London prices at all, considering that I'd paid £600 per month for my studio in Cricklewood. Then yesterday, a medium latté (or whatever retarded Spanish-Italian-French-Esperanto hybrid term they use for 'medium' in that particular coffee chain) cost me £2.19 at Costa. They were charging £1.60 for own-brand muffins as well.
All of this wouldn't be quite so crazy if wages kept pace with those in the Smoke, but it's a completely different story. Looking at jobs advertised in the South Wales Echo this week, it seems that the contractor for rail staff is paying around £10K salary for a full-time assistant station manager. Contrast that with the London Underground worker who was in the press earlier this year for taking stupid amount of time on the sick, and was on a £32K salary as a driver of tube trains.
It's the inconsistency that's baffling. It would appear that there's some group that has enough money to pay London prices for houses and consumer goods and services, despite the enormous wage disparity between the two capitals. I can only guess that Cardiff prices are being driven up by some combination of equity in properties already owned, the rentier buy-to-let brigade (curse them), and the stupid levels of consumer credit available in this country (Britain now has a higher amount of personal debt per capita than the USA, which in turn is well above mainland Europe). It's not a pretty picture, and I am sorry to see this sort of ludicrous price inflation is now affecting even the Principality I call home.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
This Ain't Vegas
Tonight will be the first gig I've done with Action and Action for a few weeks now, and I'm really looking forward to it. All the moreso because we'll be playing with the excellent This Ain't Vegas.
If you're reading this before it happens, and are at a loose end for Saturday night, it's at Nambucca on Holloway Road, London, and entry is free before 8.
I'm excited, and also a little nervous.
If you're reading this before it happens, and are at a loose end for Saturday night, it's at Nambucca on Holloway Road, London, and entry is free before 8.
I'm excited, and also a little nervous.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Underground, underwater
On Sunday evening, travelling up to meet up with some friends near Finchley Road, I experienced powerful feelings of dread about the idea of terrorists planting a bomb that would cause the river Thames to flow into the Underground. Thinking about the scale of such a catastrophe, I can imagine that the water pressure would force the water down each of the tunnels and out pretty much as far as where I was soon to alight from the train (alight - a word very much loved by Transport for London - I bet they're ever-grateful for the richness of the English language), i.e. right the way out as far as the tube lines emerge over-ground.
My other thought was that it probably wouldn't even be that difficult for terrorists to do this - consider the number of subcontracted workers who end up in positions of authority for work on the various lines (see the Camden derailment last year, for instance). I don't even think I'm just scaring myself with all of this. The prospect of such a man-made disaster seems very plausible.
My other thought was that it probably wouldn't even be that difficult for terrorists to do this - consider the number of subcontracted workers who end up in positions of authority for work on the various lines (see the Camden derailment last year, for instance). I don't even think I'm just scaring myself with all of this. The prospect of such a man-made disaster seems very plausible.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Trivial Pursuits
Was I the only person who watched the news a week or so ago and was unimpressed and unexcited by the prospect of Ellen MacArthur having succeeded in her round-the-world sailing attempt?
Maybe it's me, and my own disillusionment with the whole idea of competitive sport (that set in when I was about 12), but I struggle to understand the importance that people attach to these sporting activities, never moreso than in relation to the nautical ones which don't even satisfy a tribal instinct in the way that , for instance, football teams do.
In fact, apart from wasting vast amounts of money (provided for by corporate sponsors, usually - couldn't they lower the prices of their products instead, please?), my other feeling about these sorts of endeavours is that they're so unnecessarily dangerous. Poor kids might join the army at a low level, whereas the children of the well-off go into these risky sports activities. It reminds me of the time Prince Charles and a load of his cronies went off skiing somewhere they shouldn't have and ended up having to get mountain rescue out to save them. I certainly don't think the taxpayer should have to pick up the tab for that sort of thing - if people require mountain rescue, or the RNLI, to save them, chances are they've been off somewhere doing something dangerous based on a lack of danger and uncertainty in their real lives. Ditto for all of those middle-aged men who go off trying to reach the North Pole or whatever. They're the product of a generation that never had to fight a war and therefore has to invent its own dangers.
And while I wouldn't detract from MacArthur's good works at a human level - her charitable foundation is a worthy cause - the idea of her being some kind of heroine just doesn't stack up, for me. Somebody who slogs his/her guts out to feed the children is far, far more remarkable.
Maybe it's me, and my own disillusionment with the whole idea of competitive sport (that set in when I was about 12), but I struggle to understand the importance that people attach to these sporting activities, never moreso than in relation to the nautical ones which don't even satisfy a tribal instinct in the way that , for instance, football teams do.
In fact, apart from wasting vast amounts of money (provided for by corporate sponsors, usually - couldn't they lower the prices of their products instead, please?), my other feeling about these sorts of endeavours is that they're so unnecessarily dangerous. Poor kids might join the army at a low level, whereas the children of the well-off go into these risky sports activities. It reminds me of the time Prince Charles and a load of his cronies went off skiing somewhere they shouldn't have and ended up having to get mountain rescue out to save them. I certainly don't think the taxpayer should have to pick up the tab for that sort of thing - if people require mountain rescue, or the RNLI, to save them, chances are they've been off somewhere doing something dangerous based on a lack of danger and uncertainty in their real lives. Ditto for all of those middle-aged men who go off trying to reach the North Pole or whatever. They're the product of a generation that never had to fight a war and therefore has to invent its own dangers.
And while I wouldn't detract from MacArthur's good works at a human level - her charitable foundation is a worthy cause - the idea of her being some kind of heroine just doesn't stack up, for me. Somebody who slogs his/her guts out to feed the children is far, far more remarkable.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Twitchy Eyelids
I've been slack on blog updates recently due to having a huge workload to complete for a deadline that passed last Wednesday, and after going to bed at 3 a.m. and starting work again at 6 a.m. this morning, I'm sure you can imagine that slightly demented feeling I have weighing down my brain right now.
Nevertheless, there will be updates soon. There are plenty of things I still have to write.
Nevertheless, there will be updates soon. There are plenty of things I still have to write.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Who the hell does this guy think he is?
Ken Livingston, elected Mayor of London.
This, the man who publicly accused the American administration of racism before war began in Iraq, now deems it entirely reasonable to refuse to apologise for repeatedly likening a Jewish Evening Standard reporter to a guard at a Nazi concentration camp, only months after playing host to the lunatic Islamo-fascist Al-Qaradawi
Why is this buffoon allowed to continue, ignoring the toothless Assembly every time he's asked to apologise for errors that, in the past, would have rightly brought down a politician?
This, the man who publicly accused the American administration of racism before war began in Iraq, now deems it entirely reasonable to refuse to apologise for repeatedly likening a Jewish Evening Standard reporter to a guard at a Nazi concentration camp, only months after playing host to the lunatic Islamo-fascist Al-Qaradawi
Why is this buffoon allowed to continue, ignoring the toothless Assembly every time he's asked to apologise for errors that, in the past, would have rightly brought down a politician?
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
The Mars Volta - Frances The Mute
A pre-release version of the next Mars Volta album, named Frances The Mute, has been in my possession for some weeks now, but only this morning did I realise just what a spectacular beast it is.
See Drowned In Sound for music filtered through words into a flask of hype, but believe me, when this thing comes out, it's going to be REALLY special and do what De-Loused in the Comatorium did for my 2003.
See Drowned In Sound for music filtered through words into a flask of hype, but believe me, when this thing comes out, it's going to be REALLY special and do what De-Loused in the Comatorium did for my 2003.
Neil, are you reading this?
Last Friday I was just trying to find anything written by my good friend, Neil, who writes for The Times newspaper. Running a search through Google brings up a result ranked currently at 7 (down from rank 3 last Friday) that reads "French pharmacy jar for venereal disease remedy Neil Fisher". Makes sense to me (!)
Try it for yourself by typing <"neil fisher" times online> into www.google.co.uk
Try it for yourself by typing <"neil fisher" times online> into www.google.co.uk
Friday, February 11, 2005
Fragility
I must say that I've been feeling a bit fragile today, following a fairly substantial session at a local pub with Richard last night. However, I do feel the need to let the world know that you can get a cointreau and lemonade at the Half Moon in Stepney for a mere £1.50. Excellent, Smithers, Excellent
The Naomi Awards
I kept hearing people yesterday who were asking each other (and me) whether I'd be watching the Brits. My reply was a resounding 'no', for the obvious reason that I'm not interested in an event to reward a load of people whose lifestyles and commodification of musical performance have been taking the mick out of the general public's bad taste and lack of cultural discernment for all of 25 years.
I was however, pleased to read that the Naomi Awards are still going strong, with Iain Lee (general teenage funnyman in an adult's body) presenting the flipside of this experience, and pointing out the uselessness of many of those who are deemed to have 'made it' in the music business.
I was however, pleased to read that the Naomi Awards are still going strong, with Iain Lee (general teenage funnyman in an adult's body) presenting the flipside of this experience, and pointing out the uselessness of many of those who are deemed to have 'made it' in the music business.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Wasp T12 Speechtool
As I walked into Whitechapel tube station yesterday, I actually stopped and backtracked to read one of the billboards, regarding the Wasp T12 Speechtool. I'd seen the obnoxious seemingly teen-geared advert a few times already (and it somewhat reminded me of the horrible JD Sports Adverts branded around the "we got it they don't" message), but up until that point, I hadn't realised it was satire. Something from the text jumped out at me in the way it messed with the English language, and I immediately recognised it as the work of Chris Morris, of whom I'm a huge fan.
Have a look at the online version of the advert, pressaging the forthcoming Nathan Barley series (of www.tvgohome.com fame). I don't want to try and demistify it in words, but it's a brilliant piece of work in the way it takes apart many of the unpleasant conventions that have entered into advertising, and the ugly desires that those adverts work on.
Have a look at the online version of the advert, pressaging the forthcoming Nathan Barley series (of www.tvgohome.com fame). I don't want to try and demistify it in words, but it's a brilliant piece of work in the way it takes apart many of the unpleasant conventions that have entered into advertising, and the ugly desires that those adverts work on.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Feeling weary
I've been feeling a bit odd, all day today. I'm sure it's mainly due to lack of sleep, having kipped in the spare room at Luigi's for the sum total of 4.5 hours last night, but I also feel as though I may be on the verge of the 'flu. Anyway, before this becomes a melancholy-blog, I should probably write about something else.
I've been thinking recently that humour in the workplace is incredibly important, and probably something that most employers don't fully factor into their understanding of employee satisfaction. I don't mean some kind of cringe-worthy David Brent-style humour, but that kind of knowing camaraderie humour that you get after being in a job for a little while, where you have enough of a stock of common experiences, or at least enough shared adversity at being at the raw end of something mentalist. We used to have that here, but since the departures of a couple of my workmates around Christmas time, that release valve seems to have disappeared. That's not to say that my workmates aren't generally really nice people, but I just feel the pool of humour DNA has dried-up somewhat.
And yes, I keep telling myself. I know what has to be done.
I've been thinking recently that humour in the workplace is incredibly important, and probably something that most employers don't fully factor into their understanding of employee satisfaction. I don't mean some kind of cringe-worthy David Brent-style humour, but that kind of knowing camaraderie humour that you get after being in a job for a little while, where you have enough of a stock of common experiences, or at least enough shared adversity at being at the raw end of something mentalist. We used to have that here, but since the departures of a couple of my workmates around Christmas time, that release valve seems to have disappeared. That's not to say that my workmates aren't generally really nice people, but I just feel the pool of humour DNA has dried-up somewhat.
And yes, I keep telling myself. I know what has to be done.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Sickening, frustrating financial system
Aaaaaargh. I've just returned to the office after a trip to the Lloyds TSB, and I'm deeply wound-up by the poor service I've had from the banks over the past two months. On my first visit, back during a lunchtime in early December, I discovered that, since so many people in Camberwell are busy stealing bank cards from each other, or impersonating each other, they've had to up the level of security so that you can't withdraw money over the counter without a passport or driver's licence (identity cards, anyone?).
So, in order to transfer any money from one bank to another, the only way to do it without incurring a £20 charge from Lloyds is to take the money out *in cash* and carry it to another bank. Primitive, huh? And importantly, it's not very safe. I wouldn't want to have to physically carry several hundred quid with me if I were an elderly person out and about on the streets of Camberwell.
Right at the start of December, I had to pay my rent to my landlords at and HSBC branch, and, get this, between 11 and 3 (i.e. the only hours anyone who has a job can go to them), they won't serve anyone but people holding HSBC accounts. All of this is really due to the UK's infuriatingly-short, mediaeval banking hours, that mean that banks are pretty much never open when those of us who work 9-5 (or 10-6 ;-) ) are free.
Next, on the 6th December, in order that I could pay Jack for the flights to America, I went down to Lloyds where, because I didn't have a passport with me, I had to take out the money in cash from the cashpoint, in order to pay it straight back in to the bank desk. This all took quite a while, and I was only at liberty to do it because I was officially on my way back from a meeting out-of-office. This all seemed like it had gone okay until Jack pointed out to me as we were leaving for the US that the money hadn't arrived at Barclaycard.
Once we returned from the US, the money _still_ hadn't arrived at Barclaycard. So I went to the Lloyds branch to find out what had happened. They had just decided that it would sit in one of their holding accounts, conveniently. Doesn't look like they intended on telling me - if you were the sort of person for whom £340.10 isn't a lot of money, you probably wouldn't have ever noticed, or been informed that this had happened to your money.
Obviously interest had accrued on this money while it remained unpaid on Jack's Barclaycard. I pointed this out to Lloyds TSB once they'd tracked what had happened to the money, and they said that, since I'd paid the money in on the 6th (the date it was due), that they wouldn't pay the first month's interest because it actually takes them 4 days to electronically transfer the money to another bank or credit card. 4 days to process a simple electronic payment?!! How the hell does that work? A cheque I can just about understand, but cash paid into a human being which will be input immediately?
Strikes me as another way for Lloyds to have the money sitting in their accounts, accruing their own interest.
They conceded that they were responsible for interest beyond the first month, and would pay that. They told me to get statements from Jack, bring them into the branch, and we'd re-process the request. Jack sent me the statements. I went back to the branch. They spent 10 minutes attempting to work out the situation from their Customer Record Management system, then told me that I'd need to get Barclaycard to tell us exactly how much interest was related to the £340.10, so I'd have to get the actual statement from Barclaycard, which Jack would have to request.
I relayed this to Jack on the phone. "They won't process it without the ..." > "Can't process it!" they interrupted from behind the glass. "What about all of the account information on the original mandate?" I asked. "It's not valid" they (helpfully) replied, even though it would clearly be the exact same info.
Now here's the good bit. They then decided to inform me that I shouldn't have been allowed to try and pay the credit card bill originally at all, because I wasn't the cardholder of the credit card, and the cardholder wouldn't necessarily be a Lloyds customer. What about me being a Lloyds customer? And why has it taken them nearly 2 months to express this policy, after botching the original transfer?
Jobsworth scum working in an antequated industry.
So, in order to transfer any money from one bank to another, the only way to do it without incurring a £20 charge from Lloyds is to take the money out *in cash* and carry it to another bank. Primitive, huh? And importantly, it's not very safe. I wouldn't want to have to physically carry several hundred quid with me if I were an elderly person out and about on the streets of Camberwell.
Right at the start of December, I had to pay my rent to my landlords at and HSBC branch, and, get this, between 11 and 3 (i.e. the only hours anyone who has a job can go to them), they won't serve anyone but people holding HSBC accounts. All of this is really due to the UK's infuriatingly-short, mediaeval banking hours, that mean that banks are pretty much never open when those of us who work 9-5 (or 10-6 ;-) ) are free.
Next, on the 6th December, in order that I could pay Jack for the flights to America, I went down to Lloyds where, because I didn't have a passport with me, I had to take out the money in cash from the cashpoint, in order to pay it straight back in to the bank desk. This all took quite a while, and I was only at liberty to do it because I was officially on my way back from a meeting out-of-office. This all seemed like it had gone okay until Jack pointed out to me as we were leaving for the US that the money hadn't arrived at Barclaycard.
Once we returned from the US, the money _still_ hadn't arrived at Barclaycard. So I went to the Lloyds branch to find out what had happened. They had just decided that it would sit in one of their holding accounts, conveniently. Doesn't look like they intended on telling me - if you were the sort of person for whom £340.10 isn't a lot of money, you probably wouldn't have ever noticed, or been informed that this had happened to your money.
Obviously interest had accrued on this money while it remained unpaid on Jack's Barclaycard. I pointed this out to Lloyds TSB once they'd tracked what had happened to the money, and they said that, since I'd paid the money in on the 6th (the date it was due), that they wouldn't pay the first month's interest because it actually takes them 4 days to electronically transfer the money to another bank or credit card. 4 days to process a simple electronic payment?!! How the hell does that work? A cheque I can just about understand, but cash paid into a human being which will be input immediately?
Strikes me as another way for Lloyds to have the money sitting in their accounts, accruing their own interest.
They conceded that they were responsible for interest beyond the first month, and would pay that. They told me to get statements from Jack, bring them into the branch, and we'd re-process the request. Jack sent me the statements. I went back to the branch. They spent 10 minutes attempting to work out the situation from their Customer Record Management system, then told me that I'd need to get Barclaycard to tell us exactly how much interest was related to the £340.10, so I'd have to get the actual statement from Barclaycard, which Jack would have to request.
I relayed this to Jack on the phone. "They won't process it without the ..." > "Can't process it!" they interrupted from behind the glass. "What about all of the account information on the original mandate?" I asked. "It's not valid" they (helpfully) replied, even though it would clearly be the exact same info.
Now here's the good bit. They then decided to inform me that I shouldn't have been allowed to try and pay the credit card bill originally at all, because I wasn't the cardholder of the credit card, and the cardholder wouldn't necessarily be a Lloyds customer. What about me being a Lloyds customer? And why has it taken them nearly 2 months to express this policy, after botching the original transfer?
Jobsworth scum working in an antequated industry.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Spike
There was a spike in the mains at our office this morning, that took out both the phones and messed up the network for a few hours - thankfully I've pretty much sorted everything out, but it's reminded me of how important it is the get everything backed-up as well as you can.
If you're sitting at a computer right now, consider making a back-up within the next couple of hours. You never know when it'll save your bacon (or at least your mp3s)
If you're sitting at a computer right now, consider making a back-up within the next couple of hours. You never know when it'll save your bacon (or at least your mp3s)
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
My holiday blog: To the beach (Day 10)
For our last full day of the holiday, we went down to a place called Cocoa Beach. As with much of the holiday, I got to play iPod DJ in Andrew's car, choosing a selection of music that seemed appropriate to the glorious weather (including up-beat Beatles songs, some Death Cab for Cutie, and some A, as I recall).
When we got to the beach, we lazed around, watched some bloke trying to operate one of those giant kites that is supposed to lift a man off the ground, into the air (I kept wishing he'd actually take off into the hostile wind direction and crash into a nearby building), and watched amorous old folks and metal detector enthusiasts walking on the beach.
It really was a lovely day, the perfect way to spend our last day in Florida, and I even got some sun on my skin for the first time in 3 years.
For the last night we went back to Will's Pub and the Peacock Room to see a pretty amusing band called Doris Delay and the headliners, The Sharp Objects. Unfortunately I started to feel a bit unwell (Jack attributes this to meat poisioning, but he's a vegetarian, so he would). Not even brandy could cure me. We made one last pilgrimage to Steak and Shake at the end of the night, then back to Amber's place for some tea, which i missed because I kept falling asleep.
Nonetheless, a great day.
When we got to the beach, we lazed around, watched some bloke trying to operate one of those giant kites that is supposed to lift a man off the ground, into the air (I kept wishing he'd actually take off into the hostile wind direction and crash into a nearby building), and watched amorous old folks and metal detector enthusiasts walking on the beach.
It really was a lovely day, the perfect way to spend our last day in Florida, and I even got some sun on my skin for the first time in 3 years.
For the last night we went back to Will's Pub and the Peacock Room to see a pretty amusing band called Doris Delay and the headliners, The Sharp Objects. Unfortunately I started to feel a bit unwell (Jack attributes this to meat poisioning, but he's a vegetarian, so he would). Not even brandy could cure me. We made one last pilgrimage to Steak and Shake at the end of the night, then back to Amber's place for some tea, which i missed because I kept falling asleep.
Nonetheless, a great day.
My holiday blog: Here Gators! (Day 9)
Since our previous attempt to see an alligator hadn't been entirely successful (!), we decided that we ought to take a trip to Orlando's best half-day attraction, Gatorland... oh, come on, we didn't go to any other theme parks while we were in Orlando!
We set out around mid-day, as we did pretty much ever day, seeing as we'd got into the late getting-up, late going-to-bed routine, proudly sporting our unemployment beards for all to enjoy. Mary-Anne kindly drove us to a Burger King situated directly opposite a McDonald's, their signs standing tall over either side of the freeway like fast food totem poles. Inside, I was delighted by the menu on offer - Burger King in the US has a MUCH wider selection of meals, including things like salads with hot prawns. More importantly, they had 1/3lb Aberdeen Angus Burgers plus chips and a drink for $5. I was not amused that they're able to sell burgers made of quality British meat like this, prepared-to-order for such a low price, when we in the UK have to eat burgers made from oestrogen-pumped cattle from the Amazon rainforest! However, since returning home, I've read that this has helped them increase market share in the US by 12.5%, and they will be bringing this burger to the EU and Britain next year. Good news, I think, but we'll have to see how the price will be set.
So, onto Gatorland. Gatorland was a lot of fun, the world centre for alligator excellence, if you like. Just as we walked into the park, there was a sizeable crowd gathering around the outsides of a large pool to watch the alligator jumparoo (where they try to get alligators to jump out of the water by dangling chicken entrails over the surface). Despite cries of "here gator! gator! gator!" from the bizarre prozac™-induced woman leading the whole event, the gators weren't really that bothered to 'jumparoo', knowing they'd get the meat in the end, one way or another.
We went around the rest of the park, looking at the gators, truly impressive reptiles and (get this, people from the RSPCA) surprisingly resilient to having quarters thrown at them - they don't even wake up when you're really hoping to get some sort of jaw-snapping reaction from them. That day was unbelievably hot, at least in the high 20s on the centigrade scale, and highly unusual even for Florida in January, which perhaps explains the lack of reptilian reaction. Still, they were impressive. We also caught a Gator Wrasslin' show, where 2 blokes dressed as Indiana Jones whipped and wrestled child alligators, charging small British children $10 to sit on the back of a gator and pose for a photo. They had some cool tricks too, like keeping a gator's snout shut within the mouth of one of the gator-masters.
That night, everyone agreed that we could go somewhere where I could buy a big steak. You always hear about people eating stupid weights of steak in the US, and I thought I ought to try it while I was there. At the Alehouse I ordered a 20 ounce steak. It was a beast, but I beat it, then went on to eat a small burger Thurston couldn't finish, some of his fries, and a fried piece of cheese. Don't forget this is the day I'd already eaten a third of a pound of Angus steak [Frank, I hope you are pleased by this prospect!].
Half an hour after leaving Alehouse, however, my body decided it couldn't cope with the sheer weight of steak ingested and it left my system again. The less said about that, the better.
That evening we were due to go to Will's Pub again, but we couldn't get in due to fire regulations (they thought a man who'd eaten over a pound of meat could pose a fire hazard), so in the end we went to a place called The Peacock Room where we saw a really good band called Hurrah. I seriously enjoyed them, and I recommend you check them out, just my kind of band. This was my idea of a really good day, capped off by accidentally finding a venue as we walked past it and heard a band playing, and accidentally discovering a band you really like.
We set out around mid-day, as we did pretty much ever day, seeing as we'd got into the late getting-up, late going-to-bed routine, proudly sporting our unemployment beards for all to enjoy. Mary-Anne kindly drove us to a Burger King situated directly opposite a McDonald's, their signs standing tall over either side of the freeway like fast food totem poles. Inside, I was delighted by the menu on offer - Burger King in the US has a MUCH wider selection of meals, including things like salads with hot prawns. More importantly, they had 1/3lb Aberdeen Angus Burgers plus chips and a drink for $5. I was not amused that they're able to sell burgers made of quality British meat like this, prepared-to-order for such a low price, when we in the UK have to eat burgers made from oestrogen-pumped cattle from the Amazon rainforest! However, since returning home, I've read that this has helped them increase market share in the US by 12.5%, and they will be bringing this burger to the EU and Britain next year. Good news, I think, but we'll have to see how the price will be set.
So, onto Gatorland. Gatorland was a lot of fun, the world centre for alligator excellence, if you like. Just as we walked into the park, there was a sizeable crowd gathering around the outsides of a large pool to watch the alligator jumparoo (where they try to get alligators to jump out of the water by dangling chicken entrails over the surface). Despite cries of "here gator! gator! gator!" from the bizarre prozac™-induced woman leading the whole event, the gators weren't really that bothered to 'jumparoo', knowing they'd get the meat in the end, one way or another.
We went around the rest of the park, looking at the gators, truly impressive reptiles and (get this, people from the RSPCA) surprisingly resilient to having quarters thrown at them - they don't even wake up when you're really hoping to get some sort of jaw-snapping reaction from them. That day was unbelievably hot, at least in the high 20s on the centigrade scale, and highly unusual even for Florida in January, which perhaps explains the lack of reptilian reaction. Still, they were impressive. We also caught a Gator Wrasslin' show, where 2 blokes dressed as Indiana Jones whipped and wrestled child alligators, charging small British children $10 to sit on the back of a gator and pose for a photo. They had some cool tricks too, like keeping a gator's snout shut within the mouth of one of the gator-masters.
That night, everyone agreed that we could go somewhere where I could buy a big steak. You always hear about people eating stupid weights of steak in the US, and I thought I ought to try it while I was there. At the Alehouse I ordered a 20 ounce steak. It was a beast, but I beat it, then went on to eat a small burger Thurston couldn't finish, some of his fries, and a fried piece of cheese. Don't forget this is the day I'd already eaten a third of a pound of Angus steak [Frank, I hope you are pleased by this prospect!].
Half an hour after leaving Alehouse, however, my body decided it couldn't cope with the sheer weight of steak ingested and it left my system again. The less said about that, the better.
That evening we were due to go to Will's Pub again, but we couldn't get in due to fire regulations (they thought a man who'd eaten over a pound of meat could pose a fire hazard), so in the end we went to a place called The Peacock Room where we saw a really good band called Hurrah. I seriously enjoyed them, and I recommend you check them out, just my kind of band. This was my idea of a really good day, capped off by accidentally finding a venue as we walked past it and heard a band playing, and accidentally discovering a band you really like.
My holiday blog: The Mall (of America) (Day 8)
On Thursday we got the whole New Year's Eve gang together again and went to a restaurant called Red Lobster for dinner. We hadn't done very much at all during the day itself, after waking up late, but we got in a few games of Soul Calibre II, naturally. At Red Lobster, I went for a tripartite meal of two seafood dishes and a steak. It was very good.
Later that evening, we went to The Mall to have a look at the shops. It was as if this was a more highly-sugared, highly-scented version of shops as you see them everywhere else, and reminded me of the line in the Desaparecidos song, The Mall of America, "If my sadness needs a catalyst I'll just uncover my eyes, so much stimulus". Jack and I looked for a thank-you present for Thurston, hoping to find a BBC comedy DVD of some sort, and found it in Borders across the street from the Mall.
Later that evening we headed down to Will's Pub, a very cool little pub and venue where we saw a synthy funk-post-rock band who sounded a lot like the most recent Q and Not U record. Their set got better as the evening went on, but I wasn't blown away, and I actually stayed to listen to them for much longer than T, Jack, or Mary-Anne. Later, we drank in the open air section of the front of the pub and were approached by a pony-tailed bloke who had gone to school with T and Mary-Anne and now worked as a talent scout for boy bands.
Later that evening, we went to The Mall to have a look at the shops. It was as if this was a more highly-sugared, highly-scented version of shops as you see them everywhere else, and reminded me of the line in the Desaparecidos song, The Mall of America, "If my sadness needs a catalyst I'll just uncover my eyes, so much stimulus". Jack and I looked for a thank-you present for Thurston, hoping to find a BBC comedy DVD of some sort, and found it in Borders across the street from the Mall.
Later that evening we headed down to Will's Pub, a very cool little pub and venue where we saw a synthy funk-post-rock band who sounded a lot like the most recent Q and Not U record. Their set got better as the evening went on, but I wasn't blown away, and I actually stayed to listen to them for much longer than T, Jack, or Mary-Anne. Later, we drank in the open air section of the front of the pub and were approached by a pony-tailed bloke who had gone to school with T and Mary-Anne and now worked as a talent scout for boy bands.
My holiday blog: Shopping (Day 7)
On the Wednesday, we went to a large shopping area in Orlando, with a view to finding a shop called Guitar Centre (I've subsequently learned that this is a large chain with stores all over the country). We had some trouble finding the actual building among the many many substantial out-of-town stores, but went into a furniture shop where a middle aged lady gave us proper directions. I thought the atmosphere they'd managed to create was much more carefully-considered than in your average retail park back in Britain. There was a feel that this was a little town within a town, with pretty little boulevards lined with palm trees and chic cafes spilling out onto the wide pavements alongside the various retail emporia.
Inside Guitar Centre, I quickly found the right guitar, in black and aluminium colours. It played really nicely, and I knew almost immediately that this was the one I should buy. I easily saved myself a couple of hundred quid off the cost of buying one on ebay, and I was also able to play it to see how that particular instrument played. After putting my guitar in the boot of Thurston's car, we went to a computer game shop where T and Jack picked up some bargains. I was really tempted to buy a Gamecube, at about £30 versus the £80-£100 in the UK, but I didn't want to risk the added difficulties of converting the voltage for the UK.
After grabbing some lunch at what amounted to a Subway-on-steroids sandwhich bar (with much better ingredients and an amazing choice of salads), we went back to Park Avenue, the excellent record shop, where Jack bought Subhumans records and a t-shirt.
That evening we tried to take it a bit easy. Just a few Irish Car Bombs and some Chris Rock DVDs at Thurston's house.
Inside Guitar Centre, I quickly found the right guitar, in black and aluminium colours. It played really nicely, and I knew almost immediately that this was the one I should buy. I easily saved myself a couple of hundred quid off the cost of buying one on ebay, and I was also able to play it to see how that particular instrument played. After putting my guitar in the boot of Thurston's car, we went to a computer game shop where T and Jack picked up some bargains. I was really tempted to buy a Gamecube, at about £30 versus the £80-£100 in the UK, but I didn't want to risk the added difficulties of converting the voltage for the UK.
After grabbing some lunch at what amounted to a Subway-on-steroids sandwhich bar (with much better ingredients and an amazing choice of salads), we went back to Park Avenue, the excellent record shop, where Jack bought Subhumans records and a t-shirt.
That evening we tried to take it a bit easy. Just a few Irish Car Bombs and some Chris Rock DVDs at Thurston's house.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
My Holiday Diary: Back to Orlando (Day 6)
We all woke up a little worse for the wear on the Tuesday, following the One Dollar Per Pint Incident (as I like to call it; noone else calls it that).
By mid-morning I'd realised that I needed to take advantage of the free wireless internet access that three of Karin's neighbours were broadcasting my way, to get some work done (I didn't get around to doing it before I came to Florida so had to email it off because it was date-sensitive). While I was frantically typing away in the room abutting the kitchen, I could hear the programme Andrew, Jack and T were watching, about the growth of white supremacist movements and neo-Nazism in America. It actually sounded pretty informative, and I was sorry I was working on work work instead.
As we left G'ville, I persuaded Andrew to drive us to a guitar shop, which sadly ended up no longer being in existence. On our way there, we stopped at a middle eastern cafe for lunch. I had falaffel for lunch and as we were about to leave someone spotted a Camel Rider special on the blackboard. God knows what that meant!
The homeward journey yielded few surprises other than the dubious roadside adverts aimed at truckers. A short stop-off at the road-side services also gave me the opportunity to enjoy some retro arcade game action on a machine running the original Street Fighter II (hadoken!).
That evening we were all pretty washed-out, but me, T and Jack went out in search of pizza. We stopped off at the pizza place (literally a large, enclosed hut) and watched cops come and go. Thurston had told us the previous day that this was where the local cops provided some special protection to the owners in return for pizza, and the delivery drivers didn't go out on deliveries without being armed. Nice!
We went Downtown again that evening, and after a couple of drinks in the Bar B Q, where we played Cursive, The Mars Volta and At the Drive-In on the jukebox (!) courtesy of an old washed-up Guns and Roses fan who insisted he wanted to hear some new music, went next door to The Social.
Within minutes of us arriving at this altogether more trendy establishment, a live hip hop group had started up. Between them, they delivered a ten-minute speech about how 'for real' they were, but then actually launched into something very that was very musically-interesting, like a version of the Black Eyed Peas for serious musicians. Their backing was played live on two sampling drum-machines by a really talented percussionist and the rap-singing was well-rehearsed and full of syncopation.
It takes a lot to get me excited about hip-hop, but I'm really glad we stayed to watch most of this set, because it was good.
(Unfortunately we forgot what they were called on our way home. Maybe Thurston or Jack can add something to this in the 'comments' section of this diary entry)
By mid-morning I'd realised that I needed to take advantage of the free wireless internet access that three of Karin's neighbours were broadcasting my way, to get some work done (I didn't get around to doing it before I came to Florida so had to email it off because it was date-sensitive). While I was frantically typing away in the room abutting the kitchen, I could hear the programme Andrew, Jack and T were watching, about the growth of white supremacist movements and neo-Nazism in America. It actually sounded pretty informative, and I was sorry I was working on work work instead.
As we left G'ville, I persuaded Andrew to drive us to a guitar shop, which sadly ended up no longer being in existence. On our way there, we stopped at a middle eastern cafe for lunch. I had falaffel for lunch and as we were about to leave someone spotted a Camel Rider special on the blackboard. God knows what that meant!
The homeward journey yielded few surprises other than the dubious roadside adverts aimed at truckers. A short stop-off at the road-side services also gave me the opportunity to enjoy some retro arcade game action on a machine running the original Street Fighter II (hadoken!).
That evening we were all pretty washed-out, but me, T and Jack went out in search of pizza. We stopped off at the pizza place (literally a large, enclosed hut) and watched cops come and go. Thurston had told us the previous day that this was where the local cops provided some special protection to the owners in return for pizza, and the delivery drivers didn't go out on deliveries without being armed. Nice!
We went Downtown again that evening, and after a couple of drinks in the Bar B Q, where we played Cursive, The Mars Volta and At the Drive-In on the jukebox (!) courtesy of an old washed-up Guns and Roses fan who insisted he wanted to hear some new music, went next door to The Social.
Within minutes of us arriving at this altogether more trendy establishment, a live hip hop group had started up. Between them, they delivered a ten-minute speech about how 'for real' they were, but then actually launched into something very that was very musically-interesting, like a version of the Black Eyed Peas for serious musicians. Their backing was played live on two sampling drum-machines by a really talented percussionist and the rap-singing was well-rehearsed and full of syncopation.
It takes a lot to get me excited about hip-hop, but I'm really glad we stayed to watch most of this set, because it was good.
(Unfortunately we forgot what they were called on our way home. Maybe Thurston or Jack can add something to this in the 'comments' section of this diary entry)
My Holiday Diary: More Pool (Day 5)
Playing pool represents an important priority when you're on holiday. Never moreso when there are $1 pints on offer. Oh yes.
There was a funny bloke running the door at the massive pool hall, who asked me about my Converse - "Hey boy, where you get those soft-toe shoes? We ain't seen them since the seventees!". An observant young man, he'd failed to notice that Thurston was wearing them too. Sure, never seen 'em since the 70s. At turning -out time we went back to Karin's student house in her friend's Sport Utility Vehicle (that's a jeep to you and me), and I tried to sleep on an incredibly noisy air matress while Thurston and Jack took the couches.
There was a funny bloke running the door at the massive pool hall, who asked me about my Converse - "Hey boy, where you get those soft-toe shoes? We ain't seen them since the seventees!". An observant young man, he'd failed to notice that Thurston was wearing them too. Sure, never seen 'em since the 70s. At turning -out time we went back to Karin's student house in her friend's Sport Utility Vehicle (that's a jeep to you and me), and I tried to sleep on an incredibly noisy air matress while Thurston and Jack took the couches.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
My Holiday Diary: Trip to Gainesville (Day 5)
We'd stayed the night at Andrew's House, so came back to T's place, then set out for Gaineseville that afternoon. Gainesville is one of the biggest university towns in the state, and Karin, Andrew's sister, goes to 'school' there. G'ville also used to be the hot place for punk bands in Florida, but that seems to have died down now, which is a shame. We 4 lads went out with Karin and a flatmate of her's to the Swamp, where there were $4.95 pitchers of Budweiser and Coors (that's about 4 pints for £2.50, and not at all unusual here). Food was good, again - this time I had a blackened Mahi Mahi fish.
After that, we all walked Karin's flatmate home, before heading out with a different flatmate to a big pool hall.
After that, we all walked Karin's flatmate home, before heading out with a different flatmate to a big pool hall.
My Holiday Diary: Visit to Andrew's (Day 5)
I spent some of Sunday writing up things for my blog (for your delectation!), then mid-afternoon we all went to Andrew's house for a barbecue. Andrew's step-father refurbished his barbecue that afternoon, with new grilles and metal trays, then cooked us some very fine barbecued salmon. The sea food on this trip has really been excellent!
It was a really nice gathering: the mums of Andrew, Thurston and Buddy's dad (two sisters and a brother) were all there together along with their husbands and wife and it was great to see a large portion of a close-knit family all together. It was great to talk to Buddy's Dad also, who was a huge fan of a number of different styles of music, and has clearly had a lot a reciprocal musical influence upon and from the kids. We, the yoof, ate dinner together, and then went off the Blockbuster to rent something to watch that evening. We went with The Anchorman in the end. It was okay, but I felt that the jokes-per-minute rating was too low to stop me from falling asleep, so I had to bow out a little after midnight, before the film had finished.
It was a really nice gathering: the mums of Andrew, Thurston and Buddy's dad (two sisters and a brother) were all there together along with their husbands and wife and it was great to see a large portion of a close-knit family all together. It was great to talk to Buddy's Dad also, who was a huge fan of a number of different styles of music, and has clearly had a lot a reciprocal musical influence upon and from the kids. We, the yoof, ate dinner together, and then went off the Blockbuster to rent something to watch that evening. We went with The Anchorman in the end. It was okay, but I felt that the jokes-per-minute rating was too low to stop me from falling asleep, so I had to bow out a little after midnight, before the film had finished.
My Holiday Diary: Dixie Crossroads (Day 4)
In the end we decided against trying to find the beach and went for dinner to a seafood restaurant called Dixie Crossroads. Now here's an idea they could export to Britain: seafood at sensible prices! The restaurant was generally really unpretentious and I was able to order a locally-caught, fresh lobster for the equivalent of £8. I've never seen anything like that in the UK, and I'll bet that TV chef Rick Stein would love the idea. Thurston ordered a platter of various shrimp and other seafood, and Jack had half a pound of catfish.
At the restaurant they also had a tall, barrel-chested Sheriff on duty at the welcome podium (near where I shot the photo of the giant shrimp wearing a Christmas wreath). It was a bit intimidating, but seems to be part of the public-private nexus that goes on here in the US, where the police are sometimes employed outside of their hours to work or are assigned to a public place like a pub or restaurant as a preventative measure against drink drivers and other potential problems. I really wanted to get a photo of me with this Sheriff, but I can't imagine he'd have found it as funny an idea as I did.
We drove back from Jacksonville and went to Jimmy's, T's local pool club. I put some Cake songs on the jukebox and we had a few games of pool before returning home.
At the restaurant they also had a tall, barrel-chested Sheriff on duty at the welcome podium (near where I shot the photo of the giant shrimp wearing a Christmas wreath). It was a bit intimidating, but seems to be part of the public-private nexus that goes on here in the US, where the police are sometimes employed outside of their hours to work or are assigned to a public place like a pub or restaurant as a preventative measure against drink drivers and other potential problems. I really wanted to get a photo of me with this Sheriff, but I can't imagine he'd have found it as funny an idea as I did.
We drove back from Jacksonville and went to Jimmy's, T's local pool club. I put some Cake songs on the jukebox and we had a few games of pool before returning home.
My Holiday Diary: Hidden alligators (Day 4)
Saturday began slowly, but by the afternoon we set out looking for a beach near Jacksonville. On our way, we decided to have a look at a alligator nature reserve to see if we could spot some of the wee beasties. They were evidently hiding, but I managed to get this nice shot of the sunset for my blog!
My holiday diary: Irish Car Bombs, Hookah etc (Day 3)
The evening carried on with aplomb, nearly everybody trying out a politically-incorrect cocktail known as the Irish car bomb (a shot glass with Irish whiskey and Bailey's dropped into a glass of Guiness), followed by more Guiness, Newkie Brown Ale (in my case), bloody Marys and tequila. Thurston (pictured) fired up his hookah with some lemon tobacco from the Middle East.
Later on, their 20-year-old cousin, Buddy, vommed everywhere (including on my hand). The TV remote doesn't work properly any more.
...And let's just say that love was in the air that evening,
Later on, their 20-year-old cousin, Buddy, vommed everywhere (including on my hand). The TV remote doesn't work properly any more.
...And let's just say that love was in the air that evening,
Sunday, January 02, 2005
My holiday diary: Hebrew National (Day 3)
On Friday evening we started to tuck into the lovely ham and shrimps that Thurston's mum had cooked us, and then other cousins and friends started to arrive to see in the New Year. We also enjoyed Hebrew National hot dogs. They answer to a higher authority, apparently.
My holiday diary: Awesome to the Max (Day 3)
I'd never seen the third Matrix film, so we watched that on Friday morning.
Then, in the afternoon we went shopping to a supermarket and a specialist off license for the New Year's Eve alcoholic drinks. After we arrived back to Thurston's house, we decided to take a walk, and saw lots of really nice houses in the area, that are surprisingly affordable. Quite a few of T's neighbours had extensive/ostentatious Christmas displays up, such as the large-scale snowmen above. Even more impressive, there's a house on this street that has a mechanical reindeer in its front garden!
Then, in the afternoon we went shopping to a supermarket and a specialist off license for the New Year's Eve alcoholic drinks. After we arrived back to Thurston's house, we decided to take a walk, and saw lots of really nice houses in the area, that are surprisingly affordable. Quite a few of T's neighbours had extensive/ostentatious Christmas displays up, such as the large-scale snowmen above. Even more impressive, there's a house on this street that has a mechanical reindeer in its front garden!
My holiday diary: Spy Bar (Day 2)
On Thursday we started out the day slowly, with a few games of Soul Calibre on the Gamecube. Thurston and Andrew were much more proficient than either me or Jack, but I have a feeling this will change over the course of the holiday.
That afternoon, we drove over to a couple of guitar shops (to look at potential purchases for me) and a pawn shop (to buy DVDs and gamecube accessories for T and Andrew). Apart from being able to buy colour gameboys for the equivalent of 8 pounds, the other interesting thing about the pawn shop was the sheer number of garden tools, fishing rods and drill/tool kits for sale. Although there was a sign saying that the ownership of all items was verified by the sheriff's office, I'd bet a lot of the merch was stolen from people's garages. They also had a big shotgun mounted behind the desk, ready for use, with a sign saying something along the lines of 'do not ask, this gun is not for sale'.
After that, we went to a fantastic record shop, better, certainly than any record shop I've ever been to in the UK. I bought myself a Cursive hoodie and a CD by a new band called Hanalei, and the other guys each bought t-shirts and CDs.
That evening we went to downtown Orlando, to find some bars. We looked around quite a few different places, many of which didn't look like we'd fit in, and then we finally landed on a little bar where a friend of Thurston's was DJing. I was most excited about the fact that they had Newkie Brown Ale on tap, something I've never seen in Wales or the South of England. Then we went onto another bar called the Spy Bar. It was a really nicely themed bar with secret doors and CCTV cameras all over the place. The picture of the 6 of us above was in a secret room, concealed behind a bookcase.
At the end of the night (it must have been around 1 a.m.) we went to an excellent diner called Steak and Shake, and I had a 'Frisco Melt which was delicious. We were served by 2 staff: a very friendly middle-aged woman, and a lunatic bald guy in his early 20s. On my way out, a girl and guy stopped me to say how much they liked my Cursive hoodie. Again, I went to sleep quickly once we got home, but I didn't sleep much beyond 4, because my body clock was still messed-up from the jetlag.
That afternoon, we drove over to a couple of guitar shops (to look at potential purchases for me) and a pawn shop (to buy DVDs and gamecube accessories for T and Andrew). Apart from being able to buy colour gameboys for the equivalent of 8 pounds, the other interesting thing about the pawn shop was the sheer number of garden tools, fishing rods and drill/tool kits for sale. Although there was a sign saying that the ownership of all items was verified by the sheriff's office, I'd bet a lot of the merch was stolen from people's garages. They also had a big shotgun mounted behind the desk, ready for use, with a sign saying something along the lines of 'do not ask, this gun is not for sale'.
After that, we went to a fantastic record shop, better, certainly than any record shop I've ever been to in the UK. I bought myself a Cursive hoodie and a CD by a new band called Hanalei, and the other guys each bought t-shirts and CDs.
That evening we went to downtown Orlando, to find some bars. We looked around quite a few different places, many of which didn't look like we'd fit in, and then we finally landed on a little bar where a friend of Thurston's was DJing. I was most excited about the fact that they had Newkie Brown Ale on tap, something I've never seen in Wales or the South of England. Then we went onto another bar called the Spy Bar. It was a really nicely themed bar with secret doors and CCTV cameras all over the place. The picture of the 6 of us above was in a secret room, concealed behind a bookcase.
At the end of the night (it must have been around 1 a.m.) we went to an excellent diner called Steak and Shake, and I had a 'Frisco Melt which was delicious. We were served by 2 staff: a very friendly middle-aged woman, and a lunatic bald guy in his early 20s. On my way out, a girl and guy stopped me to say how much they liked my Cursive hoodie. Again, I went to sleep quickly once we got home, but I didn't sleep much beyond 4, because my body clock was still messed-up from the jetlag.
My holiday diary: Fish on Fire (Day 1)
Once we got back to Thurston's House, we dropped off our things, met Thurston's parents, and then went out for something to eat. We decided to try a small fish specialist diner called Fish on Fire, which none of the guys had ever been to, but wanted to see what it was like. Inside, there were men with mullets playing a game where they had to hit a pin on a board with a ring on the end of a piece of string. Once we sat down a very friendly waitress came over, then demanded to see our ID. It seems this is common custom (it's happened in each subsequent place we've bought alcohol), and as a result everybody here carries photo identification with them at all times. We got our pitchers of beer and the iced glasses they give you with them, and ordered our food. I had a jerked grouper which was excellent.
After Fish on Fire we went on to a bar by car. I think the bar (pictured) was pretty much a local's place, judging by the shouts of 'white guys, white guys' from the man behind us, when a Lynyrd Skynyrd song came on the jukebox. A couple of blokes with big Harley Davidson's dismounted and came in for drinks as well. It was a hell of a lot of fun just to catch up with Andrew and T, soak up the unusual atmosphere of Florida, and enjoy a few drinks after such a long day. And I do enjoy my American beer.
Since there was only one designated driver who was going in our direction, we had an interesting time trying to fit 4 6ft-or-more tall men in the back of Andrew's sister's car. I'm pretty sure I went straight to sleep when I got back, as the jetlag was getting me.
After Fish on Fire we went on to a bar by car. I think the bar (pictured) was pretty much a local's place, judging by the shouts of 'white guys, white guys' from the man behind us, when a Lynyrd Skynyrd song came on the jukebox. A couple of blokes with big Harley Davidson's dismounted and came in for drinks as well. It was a hell of a lot of fun just to catch up with Andrew and T, soak up the unusual atmosphere of Florida, and enjoy a few drinks after such a long day. And I do enjoy my American beer.
Since there was only one designated driver who was going in our direction, we had an interesting time trying to fit 4 6ft-or-more tall men in the back of Andrew's sister's car. I'm pretty sure I went straight to sleep when I got back, as the jetlag was getting me.
My holiday diary: Arrivals (Day 1)
For the next week or so, I'll be writing my holiday diary here.
The first day of my holiday to Florida, with my mate Jack, was marked by the usual things like needing to get up early, catching the tube then the train, then arriving at Gatwick Airport. Once at Gatwick, I opted for a full English breakfast, and then realised that I had to send off some cash to an ebay seller in Germany before I left, which involved a little trip to the bureau de change. Just after we'd been there and found a post box, Jack and I were walking towards the terminals at a leisurely pace, when we suddenly noticed that the overhead monitors showed that they were closing our terminal, the display flashing this information out in bright red. We sprinted like crazy for the next 4 or 5 minutes, and managed to get there okay. Needless to say, the plane didn't depart for about another 40 minutes.
The flight itself was quite uneventful. Since the only TV screens were a fair way away (which I thought unusual for a 9.5 hr flight) I decided to read my book on the birth of punk, which kept me occupied for most of the journey, apart from when I would look over and burst into laughter at how much a nearby old American lady looked like Stephen Hawking. On a couple of occasions I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but it wasn't going to be easy with the noises of kids behind us to the left. As luck would have it, they couldn't provide change for my banknote, so I got a beer for free. Also, the prepacked meals on the flight weren't completely awful, which was good.
Our connecting flight was to fly from Cincinnati. As we got off the plane, we had to giver Thurston a call to find out what his address was, or immigration officials would have big problems with us, and I'd also dropped my phone on the plane, but it was kindly retrieved by one of the staff. I went for the routine immigration interrogation and was greeted by a man who said "where you goin' today, dawg?". I still held back from making any jokes about carrying explosives with me, however.
Outside the airport there was thick snow, punctuated by the runways scoring their way across the fields. To me, it was a bit reminiscent of the airport that the mother is trying to get back from in Home Alone, particularly since they had Christmas decorations up all over the place. While we waited at Cincinnati, I grabbed a coffee and bought some headphones with a retractable cord.
Our next flight was only 2hrs or so long, and then we arrived at Orlando airport. We saw Andrew very soon after getting out of immigration, then Thurston seconds later. It was a huge relief to have arrived, and I was looking forward to the holiday enormously.
The first day of my holiday to Florida, with my mate Jack, was marked by the usual things like needing to get up early, catching the tube then the train, then arriving at Gatwick Airport. Once at Gatwick, I opted for a full English breakfast, and then realised that I had to send off some cash to an ebay seller in Germany before I left, which involved a little trip to the bureau de change. Just after we'd been there and found a post box, Jack and I were walking towards the terminals at a leisurely pace, when we suddenly noticed that the overhead monitors showed that they were closing our terminal, the display flashing this information out in bright red. We sprinted like crazy for the next 4 or 5 minutes, and managed to get there okay. Needless to say, the plane didn't depart for about another 40 minutes.
The flight itself was quite uneventful. Since the only TV screens were a fair way away (which I thought unusual for a 9.5 hr flight) I decided to read my book on the birth of punk, which kept me occupied for most of the journey, apart from when I would look over and burst into laughter at how much a nearby old American lady looked like Stephen Hawking. On a couple of occasions I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but it wasn't going to be easy with the noises of kids behind us to the left. As luck would have it, they couldn't provide change for my banknote, so I got a beer for free. Also, the prepacked meals on the flight weren't completely awful, which was good.
Our connecting flight was to fly from Cincinnati. As we got off the plane, we had to giver Thurston a call to find out what his address was, or immigration officials would have big problems with us, and I'd also dropped my phone on the plane, but it was kindly retrieved by one of the staff. I went for the routine immigration interrogation and was greeted by a man who said "where you goin' today, dawg?". I still held back from making any jokes about carrying explosives with me, however.
Outside the airport there was thick snow, punctuated by the runways scoring their way across the fields. To me, it was a bit reminiscent of the airport that the mother is trying to get back from in Home Alone, particularly since they had Christmas decorations up all over the place. While we waited at Cincinnati, I grabbed a coffee and bought some headphones with a retractable cord.
Our next flight was only 2hrs or so long, and then we arrived at Orlando airport. We saw Andrew very soon after getting out of immigration, then Thurston seconds later. It was a huge relief to have arrived, and I was looking forward to the holiday enormously.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Chocolate Euros
This year my Christmas Stocking contained CHOCOLATE EUROS, not the made-up currency I usually get. What an underhand way to try and convince me this currency is the future. Pah!
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas to anyone and everyone who may be reading my blog.
If I may posit that we all lend our thoughts to those in distant places on this planet whose lives are threatened, and if you pray, even as a once-a-year Christian, think of those in jeopardy.
I hope that you have a safe, and most of all, happy, season.
If I may posit that we all lend our thoughts to those in distant places on this planet whose lives are threatened, and if you pray, even as a once-a-year Christian, think of those in jeopardy.
I hope that you have a safe, and most of all, happy, season.
Friday, December 24, 2004
The possibilities are endless, so the cliche runs
I had an idea a few weeks ago that it'd be an interesting social experiment to spend a week approaching people that I've never met, and acting like we're really old friends. It relates somewhat to a book I read sometime ago, that suggests that people will generally relate to you as you relate to them. This could be used to explain the idea of Christmas 'spirit', or Christmas 'cheer'. Once an idea like this is established, it seems that it's contagious, but it relies on the agency of goodwill among at least a proportion of the population to keep it going year-on-year. In today's climate of mutual suspicion, don't forget the value of going out of your way to be pleasant, as the knock-on effects may be substantial.
Christmas shopping: the beginning
Okay, so it's Christmas Eve, and I've not yet bought any Christmas presents, apart from Naomi's, and we've already had our Christmas a bit early.
The news has been full of doom-and-gloom warnings from retailers for the past couple of days. I like the idea of the retailers across the country being made nervous by the uncertainty that's been generated by shoppers realising you don't have to go shopping on the high street, except maybe for last-minute items you can't buy via mail order or from ebay. I'm no anti-capitalist, but I do like the idea of people generating their own market price (as with ebay) rather than being stuck with what the high street cartels are willing to offer you. That said, it's now so late, I'm going to have to use high street shops myself.
Yesterday afternoon, I was out and about in Cardiff city centre, and decided to get a coffee to try and clear my light-headedness from the couple of pints I'd had. Walking into Starbucks, with James H and Dom, we queued up for a bit, then I announced to the barista [how annoying is that title] that I would like "a grande latte, to go away". I seemed to have created a new, confusing terminology for ordering a hot drink, fusing the English form, to take away, with the American one, to go. And in so doing, it sounded like I really didn't want the drink I'd just ordered.
The news has been full of doom-and-gloom warnings from retailers for the past couple of days. I like the idea of the retailers across the country being made nervous by the uncertainty that's been generated by shoppers realising you don't have to go shopping on the high street, except maybe for last-minute items you can't buy via mail order or from ebay. I'm no anti-capitalist, but I do like the idea of people generating their own market price (as with ebay) rather than being stuck with what the high street cartels are willing to offer you. That said, it's now so late, I'm going to have to use high street shops myself.
Yesterday afternoon, I was out and about in Cardiff city centre, and decided to get a coffee to try and clear my light-headedness from the couple of pints I'd had. Walking into Starbucks, with James H and Dom, we queued up for a bit, then I announced to the barista [how annoying is that title] that I would like "a grande latte, to go away". I seemed to have created a new, confusing terminology for ordering a hot drink, fusing the English form, to take away, with the American one, to go. And in so doing, it sounded like I really didn't want the drink I'd just ordered.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Christmas is cancelled
I was reading a comment in the free Metro paper this morning by Krishnan Guru-Murphy who was saying how poor the Christmas build-up has been this year, referring to things like the shoddy state of the Oxford St Christmas lights. I also heard from Luigi that they cancelled the Christmas parade and Santa's grotto in Uxbridge (this time because it was deemed offensive to other religions - a parade and grotto to the year's big push on unnecessary consumer spending hardly strikes me as Christo-centric anyway). I write this not as a the voice of the Daily Mail, but in confusion at the illogic of the situation: there's something a bit mad in the liberal self-loathing of the Christian festive tradition in this country, to the extent that people shy away from referring to Christmas (at least in the sector I work in), but harp on and on about festivals of other religions that occur at this time. One rule for you, one rule for me.
An aside:Krishnan Guru-Murphy can be used to illustrate the truly horrific value of third rate celebrities at the webpage below. Why on earth would anyone want to look at a car crash on the interweb, and several photos, at that? There's something wrong with the way culture is going.
http://www.mynottinghill.co.uk/nottinghilltv/photogallery/krishcrash.htm
An aside:Krishnan Guru-Murphy can be used to illustrate the truly horrific value of third rate celebrities at the webpage below. Why on earth would anyone want to look at a car crash on the interweb, and several photos, at that? There's something wrong with the way culture is going.
http://www.mynottinghill.co.uk/nottinghilltv/photogallery/krishcrash.htm
The cunning plan (pt II)
Regular readers may recall a little customs-dodging concept "a friend of mine" came up with recently, involving a dummy guitar that would be left in a certain foreign land, this New Year. The strength of the pound against the dollar is at an all-time high. The pieces of the jigsaw are starting to fall into place (Moriarty-style evil laugh), as "a friend of mine" has now purchased a severed guitar body, minus the neck and all the electrics. This will be the perfect dummy. Mwhahahahahaha.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Merlin
This lunch time I ate at MacDonalds (<- have you ever noticed how "i ate" sounds really American compared to "I have eaten"?) and was served by someone called Merlin. It pleased me to meet someone with a wierd name, myself being someone who has a reasonably wierd name.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Epiphany
Yesterday evening I found myself walking down a hill in a suburb of South London - a slightly Dickensian scene, and certainly not the sort of place where you'd expect to have many feelings other than a certain suspicion that you might be mugged. I was carrying with me a bag full of letters that I'd stupidly agreed to deliver; this was to-all-intents-and-purposes a pretty pointless exercise that I'd been lumbered with, and yet, in these miserable surroundings, I had a sudden realisation that I was really happy. There was probably some sort of electrochemical alignment that occurred to produce this feeling of elation, and I'm pretty sure the dual-keyboard song by The Gloria Record that I was listening to had something to do with it, but it was one of those fleeting moments I think I'll always remember. Looking up into the air, I saw the flashing lights of one plane, high up, and then I spotted another, much closer, close enough that I could see its undercarriage lit up with an orange glow against the velvety midnight blue of the sky. In that moment I felt like I suddenly understood the vastness of the world, but my insignificance was mixed with a kind of contentment. It was that rarest thing: recognition of being happy, and being in love, when you are, not after the fact.
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