The Ambition of Authors

Like most Authors (capital 'a'), I'm fairly ambitious in the area of having a book published. This should not be mistaken for proactivity. For years, I have had ambitions of getting something out there, but have been rather lazy about it. I intend to bring a halt to this pathetic state of affairs, either by trying hard to get published, or (and this is the show-stopper, ladies and gents) by 'giving up'.

The art of 'giving up' was first introduced by the French, and had been perfected by the time Hitler swept across Europe. On hearing that he was on his way with hordes of drunk, screaming Nazis, raping and pillaging as they went (so sue me for slander, I dare you), vast swathes of France simply dropped their pants and bent over for him. To be fair, a sizable portion didn't just faint and surrender, they formed La Resistance instead, and good on them. If I was French, I'd hope to be descended from one of those guys, not one of the cheese eating surrender monkeys.

But enough about the French. They did the 'giving up' thing in style, and I could never hope to match their achievements. If I gave up on the writing thing, it would be low-key, subtle, a slow decline in the (admittedly already erratic) weekly word count, rather than a full-scale dive off the Beachy Head of writing. I would give up in such a fashion that, wait for it... you would hardly realise.

Gone would be the ambition, the drive, the constant desire to make it, replaced instead with a laissez faire (there's the French for you again, inventing whole phrases about simply not giving a shit) attitude to the world of literature which might actually see me pick up a book by an author I've not already read to death (disclaimer: no authors were harmed in the making of this library).

I would flourish, reading book after book, not letting my creative juices out, bottling them up inside so that suddenly I became the life of the party, the go-to man in a crisis of wit. And before long, I would have to start writing some of this stuff down. Maybe thinking about a book or two.

Damn. Damn it all.

Teacher Charged over Teddy Row

I'm shocked, but unfortunately not surprised by this story. I would suggest this is more likely a silly mistake than a "calculated action and another ring in the circles of plotting against Islam", as Sudanese clerics have claimed.

Whilst they have every right to enforce the law of their own country, it should perhaps be pointed out to these lads that they're coming across as rather childish, as opposed to the strength I imagine they wished to show.

The Muslim Council of Britain has commented that the bringing of charges is "a disgraceful decision and defies common sense", and it's easy to see why they're keen to be heard - they don't want Muslims in this country to the tarred by the same brush as a group of what are best described as fundamentalists. With the emphasis on the last three syllables.

Already this issue must be filling the Daily Mail readership of the Kingdom with yet more anti-Islamic feeling. Let's hope for a quick resolution to this story so they can get back to complaining about Gordon Brown instead, someone who truly deserves their ire.

Formula One Rubbish from Tom
I've been thinking about this new rule next year, where driver aids are removed from the car. Seems like a fairly sensible move to me. That's it really...















Only kidding. What I was going to get around to saying is that I think the new kids on the block, the Hamiltons of this world who have only recently graduated from GP2, might well just thrive on this idea. There are no driver aids in GP2, and as such these guys are ideally placed to take advantage of the rules. They and the drivers who've been around since before traction control was reintroduced, which is basically David Coulthard. Roll on the new season...

Well done Kimi, you deserve it...

I'm ill. I hate being ill. Being ill is officially rubbish. In fact, I'm sick of being ill. I've spent considerable time today sneezing at things, which isn't good for me, or for things. Work has been abandoned in favour of being at home, although I did actually manage to stay there until lunchtime, so yay me. Now I'm slightly bored, even with the power of blog to keep me happy. Feel the power of blog. Blog...

I really can't write right now. I was trying to write this really well-constructed argument about conspiracy theorists, but it sounded a lot better in my head while I was hanging up the washing. Damn...

Well done Angry Mr Cyclist Man

Every morning my run to work is fraught with worry as I gamefully decide precisely the right moment to cut across the last couple of metres of bus lane and get into the lane I want for a big roundabout. Seriously, this is a big issue at ten past eight in the morning.

Usually, there will be a few commuters who simply cannot be bothered to wait, and just ignore the rules, driving down the whole length of the bus lane, thereby saving themselves a vital 30 seconds or so. This morning, though, the bus lane was full. Completely.

And because it was full of cars, people began to panic, thinking they wouldn't be able to get across later, and so they joined the back of the big queue. I didn't, because I can actually stay in the right hand lane and get where I want to go, it's just usually a bit slower.

Anyway, you have the scene now - lovely long strip of green tarmac full of things which are neither buses, nor taxis, nor indeed bicycles. Cue Angry Mr Cyclist Man, who, when cut off by a car in the bus lane, proceeds to shout very loudly at the driver of said car. And then proceeds to ride off down the road, kicking the doors of all the cars queueing in the bus lane. Genius.

I smirked to myself, comfortable in the knowledge that, quite simply, I am a better person than these people for not blocking the bus lane. Yay me. And well done Angry Mr Cyclist Man.

"I could care less"
Really, could you? Then how about caring about language and actually realising that what you're saying is wrong. The phrase, please let me remind you, is, "I couldn't care less", suggesting that it would not actually be possible for you to care less about a situation than you currently do. Currently, you do not care at all. If, however, you could care less, then you certainly have some emotional involvement in the situation. I really could care less about this whole situation, because I've bothered to take time out of my hectic schedule to have a go about it. Please, for the love of the English language, get it the f*** right. AAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

Sir Geoffrey Reed
It's odd to find out that your great grandfather has his own Wikipedia entry. I possibly should have checked out whether this was the case in the past, but I only bothered to do so today. If you have anyone even remotely famous in your past, try Wiki and see if there's something there.

Spitfire Mk. Vc Robert Stanford Tuck, Commander Biggin Hill Wing 1941

More picture fun now, because I said I was going to sleep, and that means I have to start doing ridiculous things, like editing pictures and posting them. Over the weekend we were away in the Lake District having fun with family, and on Monday I had a great opportunity to show off how much of a geek I am by getting excited about the steam trains. Here's the one which took us from Haverthwaite to Windermere. Yay! That really is it, I need to sleep...

I've finally managed to change my profile picture, after many years. Ardent blog enthusiasts will have as little idea as the rest of the world about what's going on in the picture. I am close to sleep now, but I leave you with this thought: it's kangaroo leather. Sleep tight.

Aircraft Pictures (ok, so one of them is a tank...)
Depending how observant you are, you might or might not have noticed the proliferation of photographs of models on the page below. These are all things I have built recently. There are others missing, including a Spitfire and a Subaru Impreza WRC, but I was going with those I have pictures of on the net. Just wanted to post them somewhere. Cheers.

Tornado ECR 'Tigermeet'

American M10 tank destroyer

Douglas A4 Skyhawk

Gloster Meteor F8

Sea Harrier FRS1 (no. 2)

Sea Harrier FRS1

Boeing 747-200, Qantas delivery scheme

Bristol Beaufighter Nightfighter

1/48th scale 208 Sqn. BAe Hawk T1, 90th Anniversary scheme

Formula 1 spying thingy
We've heard a lot about this story. Well, I say 'we'. I've heard a lot about this, and so have other people who follow motorsport. Anyway, my point (I think) is that we (I) have heard a lot about this story, bouncing backwards and forwards, and yet no-one has seemed all that keen to ask how Coughlan actually got hold of the Ferrari dossier. Has he gone from engineer to master sneak theif? I'm guessing that's fairly unlikely, especially as he got his wife to take it to a photocopying shop for him. Have Ferrari suddenly become so lax in their security that a designer from a rival team (indeed their main rival) can just walk into their garage and nick the thing? Somehow I suspect that this, too, is highly unlikely. So, how did it come into Coughlan's possession? I don't actually have the answer to that, in case you were hoping for some sort of revelation. I think something rather odd is going on. Still, makes Formula 1 more exciting, doesn't it?

I've finally drawn another Bates Street Comic, more than a year after everyone moved out.

Non-amusing dentist story which becomes amusing
This story isn't that funny, until you get to the last line. I won't spoil it for you, just read all the way to the bottom.

Bonkers bankers

I got a call from my bank this evening. At about half past eight. That's rude, quite frankly, but I suppose they thought I might be in. It was a customer satisfaction survey. I don't get the point of these myself, but I'm sure they tell the bank all sorts of fascinating things. Who knows?

Anyway, at one point they asked me to quantify, on a scale of 0 to 100, exactly how warm I feel my relationship with the bank is. How warm? I'm sorry, what was that? It's a bank, a financial institution. You're not meant to feel all warm and fuzzy about your relationship. They take the money, they hold the money, they give the money back when you ask for it. That is the entirety of the relationship I need to have with my bank.

I don't want it to take me down the pub once in a while and ask very earnest questions about my well-being over a rapidly warming pint. This is a service my bank does not need to provide. That is, in fact, what friends (and more importantly, wives) are for. I cannot take my bank to the cinema and then rave on about the film afterwards. I cannot laugh as my bank misses a really easy pool shot in the pub. I cannot, indeed, cheer in celebration with my bank as our favourite generic sports team wins again. These are things I cannot do with my bank.

My relationship with my bank, therefore, does not need to be ranked on a scale of 0 to 100 for warmth. It is a ridiculous concept which has no place in a serious satisfaction survey. Of course, me being me, I didn't tell the nice lady on the other end of the line that. I said "about 60", and then beat myself up for furnishing them with an answer.

I had thoughts about Adelaide, and my grandparents. Thomas is feeling melancholy.

Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink...

Was meant to be at the Waddington Air Show at the moment, but about a mile away from the airfield we were turned away. It's off due to the bad weather. I won't pretend I'm happy about getting up at 6:45am and sitting in the car for three hours all for nothing. There have been floods here in Sheffield over the last couple of weeks. It doesn't feel like summer.

The Bates Street Comic
A few years ago (four, actually) I was living with some mates in a shared house, and created a house comic based on the goings-on in our communal dwelling. I've added these below, in the order in which they were 'published'. I won't offer any explanation - if you were there, you will understand. If not, then you will simply have to wonder. Or buy me a pint and ask me.

Interesting things you should know...
(the following numbered points are copyright BBC Top Gear magazine - buy the June 2007 issue for more. Italicised sections are my comments)

1) According to Euro NCAP, an Audi Q7 (SUV, villified) is less harmful in a pedestrian impact than a Ford Fiesta (small, 'safe' family runaround).
2) A season of F1 racing burns less fossil fuel than a single transatlantic 747 flight.
3) The Stern Report found that cars make up less than half of all transport emissions in the UK.
4) The average British home emits 1500kg more carbon dioxide per year than a Ford Focus.
5) A car carrier (the ocean-bound variety) burns 1756 tonnes of heavy fuel oil one way from Japan to the UK (that's a lot, and the worst kind, and makes the Prius - made in Japan, shipped worldwide - not suddenly so environmentally friendly. According to an earlier article, that journey adds 1 tonne of carbon dioxide emission to an average 16.5 tonnes for 100,000 miles of Prius driving, a significant amount).
6) Oxford Street is the UK's most polluted street. Most of Oxford Street's length is closed to cars.
7) Like trains, cars are only efficient when they're full. A fully loaded Discovery emits less carbon dioxide per occupant than a fully loaded Smart (of the two-seat variety).
8) Acid rain from mining nickel for Prius batteries has destroyed the landscape of Sudbury, Ontario to such an extent that NASA now uses the area to test drive its latest lunar vehicles.
9) The average saloon car is responsible for its own kerbweight in carbon dioxide per year. The average Brit accounts for 30 times their own body weight.
10) The UK's superminis emit three times as much carbon dioxide as its SUVs.
11) While 85% of cars are recycled by law, trains go unregulated with much of each heading to landfill.
12) A domestic flight emits 400g/km of carbon dioxide, four times that of a small diesel car with only the driver onboard.
13) Despite being smaller and emitting LESS CARBON DIOXIDE THAN A PRIUS, the Volkswagen Polo Bluemotion is not exempt from London's Congestion Charge.
14) Farting cows are responsible for 18% of all greenhouse gases, more than cars, planes and all other forms of transport put together.
15) A Landrover Discovery has a smaller carbon footprint than a London cab.
16) A Boeing 747 emits 400 tonnes of carbon dioxide in 24 hours. It would take 250 cars a year to achieve this.
17) Some electric cars aren't governed by today's safety legislation - I urge you to buy the magazine and see what happens when they crash test a G-Wiz. A technician is apparently heard to utter: "I see these tests every day but I've never felt sick before". Alternatively, the footage is available at www.topgear.com/gwiz.

This isn't going to persuade anyone who's already made their mind up that cars are evil, but banning them from the roads based on emissions is not going to solve the problem. It won't even make us meet the more stringent Kyoto targets. How about targetting homes and businesses instead, environmental lobbyists? Get a clue...

Every so often the little paperclip thing looks at me and raises its eyebrows, then looks at me sympathetically. It's like it knows more than a simple Office assistant should. [sigh...]

It's plausible, nay likely, that I've completely run out of steam with the whole blogging lark. Through four years (or something) of existence, there have been large periods without any entries at all, but never before has there been a period with quite such an irresponsible lack of humour as that in which we currently reside. I never said the bloody thing had to make you laugh, but invariably at least one post in four (87% of statistics are made up on the spot, remember. Also worth noting 87 is my favourite number) had some humourous element. I've sacked all that off now, though, haven't I? It's dropped down to 1 in 14,000 or so (roughly. I've not broken out the Casio on that particular calculation), which is frankly lame. I put it down to working too hard, and also to a lack of sunshine, an imposition forced by my current office-based work schedule. I therefore plan to remove the upper layers of my office building, and work in the glorious sunshine in which we currently bask, like basking sharks without all the fins.
Sometimes I go out by myself, and I stare across the water. Except that I'm not actually one of the Zutons, and I only know a couple of people called Valerie (my aunt, my landlady), and I don't live near all that much water. Unless you count the pond, and let's face it, staring out over three feet of murky, tadpole infested water isn't really what they're getting at, right? I think what I'm trying to say is that I'd like to go out sometimes, and stare across the water.
I raised the idea of moving to Australia recently, in a roundabout sort of way. Which is to say I said I wanted to live there, and that it was great, and Jen said 'do you want to move there?'. On sunny days, when I'm working for someone else's profit, I wonder what it would be like. I love my life here, to be honest. I don't love my work, but then that's nothing unexpected. Sometimes I desperately want to write. Oh shit, it's all gone a bit random and directionless again. I'm out of here.

Ever get the feeling that everyone around you understands things a little better than you do, that you're missing the point somewhat and not really getting things? I've felt that way since I was about 12. Every day of my life. I don't know what it is, but I'm constantly out of my depth. People think I'm getting it, but I'm actually just very good at making you think I know what I'm talking about. I'm not really getting anything much at all. I'm constantly swimming against a tide of incomprehension. Seriously need to be doing something with my life that doesn't tax my brain, because I think I left it behind a long time ago.
We have a rabbit, called Arthur. This is new. A picture of Arthur will almost certainly appear here if I post one. It might not, even if I do, but there's a good chance.
We also went snowboarding. It was fun. Lots of fun. No pictures will appear here unless they give me one of those clever CDs of pictures, because I took my old film camera away, it being much smaller and lighter than my digital behemoth, and thus more suited to the alpine ranges. I might get one of those clever CDs of pictures, just in case. You never can tell. I tried and failed to break myself. No-one else was seriously injured, although I doubt Fi's knees will ever be the same again. More snowboarding, now!
T' weather has become spring. This is not entirely unusual, since the season, too, has become spring, and we are into the months generally regarded as 'spring'.
My car needs a good clean, but I really can't be bothered. Maybe I'll save it up as a treat for the weekend, when I also have to run 10k for charity. I don't know which I'm dreading more. Probably the car cleaning, because at least the run just involves running, not going down to the cellar (to get the car cleaning stuff, of course). I don't like the cellar, it's too short for me by several feet, and a few hands and the odd head, too. Kafer seems to get on well enough with the place, but then she's barely two hands high, not likely to bang her head. Jen's generally ok, although she still has to duck a bit at the bottom of the stairs. We've not tried Arthur down there yet.
I have to go now, because I've run out of 'interesting' things to say. Goodbye.

Whale attacks boat in Japan
Hahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Hee hee!!!

(this blogs vehemently opposes the practise of whale hunting in communities where it is unnecessary, such as Japan)

It's really annoying trying to write a 3 when you wrote a 2. You have to scribble out the 2, because it looks really crap when you try to put the 3 over the top. Sometimes things are ok - turning a 2, 3, 5, 6, 7 or 9 into an 8 is easy enough, as is 1 to 7, or 1 or 7 to 9, and you can almost get away with 7s into 4s if you've not made the top bit too big. But don't even try turning anything into a 1 or a 0, unless it's a 1 into a 0. And 8 can't become anything, and nothing can become 1. The whole thing would be easier if I was incapable of writing the wrong number in the first place...

(disclaimer: the above list may or may not be exhaustive. The author bears no responsibility for people wasting time/paper/ink/graphite trying to turn numbers into other numbers without making them look crap)

Here's a pic, linked to the story below:

Honda Genius Strikes Again (well, actually, it was Simon Fuller, but he's a prat)
Nobody, but nobody, else in the Formula 1 paddock saw this coming. It's just a simply brilliant idea. I love it. I looked around the net a bit, and even the usually cynical Top Gear lot couldn't bring themselves to say anything too bad about the move. I can't wait to see this thing on the grid and on the track, tearing around and generally looking both cool and somewhat menacing. There's a coherence, a flow to the shape of the car which is entirely down to the paint-job. In a sport where most of the cars are beginning to resemble the Batmobile, this design has changed everything, hiding the monstrosity beneath. Hats off to Honda, and (begrudgingly) to 19.

Why when I type 'resistivity' into Word does it assume I've made an error? Why does the annoying little office assistant thing pop up its little lightbulb and suggest a method for 'moving between errors in your document'? It's not my bloody error, it's Microsoft's. It's not as though 'resistivity' is a masssively obscure word - it's used in physics, chemistry, engineering (mechanical and electronic) and geology, to name but a few.

For the second time in as many weeks (just about) Internet Explorer has just crashed, taking with it another f***ing huge article. This time it was for my model aircraft blog, and it was by no means quite the opus that my previous lost post (about the awful Grand Scenic) had been, but it had still taken some time and effort to produce. Not... a... happy... bunny...

Huge mouth
Andy Murray has an enormous mouth, as can be seen here. This information is of no use to you.

Debt-hit NHS removes light bulbs
Ok, the idea is meant to be that we're shocked by the fact that this hospital is saving a few quid by taking some lightbulbs out. Problem is, the MP they quoted really has rather missed the point. He said "If our hospitals are scrimping money on light bulbs, how can they afford the latest drugs and high quality patient care?". Er, by scrimping money on lightbulbs perhaps?

Mornings aren't a good time. They're full of forgetfulness, which is the most frustrting thing in the world sometimes. I can't think straight at all, and I don't remember to do things that I've spend ages trying to remind myself to do. I find that really annoying. I'm utterly off-kilter this morning, entirely feeling out of shape and out of place. My eyes just want to shut, my head wants to stop hurting and the rest of my body craves sleep. I have absolutely bugger all to do at work, too, just when it's quiet enough to be getting on with things. Mornings are not a good time. I wish my shoulder would stop hurting.

I'm really on it today... two more things:

A1) Weddings should be cheaper - according to the church, we should all be saving money and having cheaper, greener weddings. Bloody good idea. With the statistic banded around that on average a wedding in the UK costs 17 grand, we could all do with spending a bit less. Jen and I noted the problem, and made our wedding cost far less than that without losing any of the impact. We made our own invites and orders of service, didn't buy a wedding dress (although I didn't have a hand in that decision, and wouldn't have minded), refused to hire an expensive photographer (everyone has a digital camera, so we gave out CDs), and generally saved money by doing things ourselves that otherwise we'd have paid through the nose for. Had we not gone for one of the most expensive locations in South Yorkshire for our reception (certain things are worth forking out on), the whole thing could have been even cheaper, maybe less than 8 grand, and that includes the honeymoon in Mauritius. The church should be commended for making the recommendation.

A2) Can't remember the second thing.

There are so many things bugging me today I'm going to have to listify:

1) Sport - why is sport so rubbish these days? Seriously. I can't remember the last time I actually got really excited by a sporting event. Take the Premiership, for instance. It's dull and boring. The same people win all the time, the same people lose all the time. There's very little unexpected, and 99.9% of the headlines are about politics, mostly managers getting annoyed at how craps the referees are. Pretty much every other sport we see is crap, mostly because Sky have bought the rights to and raped everything else that's interesting, charging people unpleasantly large sums for an inferior product. I realised last night as I scanned the pages of BBC Sport that for the first time in a long time, I really was looking forward to the excitement of Formula 1, and that's saying something considering the driving is as dull as it's possible to get.



3) John Howard - I am, for about the four billionth time in my life, embarrassed by my home nation. It's always the politics, because you just can't deny that the place is really behind the times. John Howard (stupid, stupid man on a par with George W) has come out and slammed Barack Obama, an American Democrat presidential candidate, for suggesting that he would pull American troops out of Iraq within a year if he was in power. Now, there are plenty of people in world politics who would share Mr Obama's views on the subject (I know I do). So why has John Howard slammed the guy? After all, he's not even in the same political arena! Perhaps, and I don't want to suggest that mr Howard is racist here (he is, by the way), this has something to do with the fact that Obama is an African-American. By that I mean his dad is African, his mum American, rather than he's just black and can trace one of his ancestors three hundred years ago to Africa. And that he would certainly not be a political ally of Mr Howard. If Howard gets another term, Autralia is only going to become more embarrasingly outdated. I pray that this doesn't happen.

4) Paul Jewel, and the referee situation - have a look at this. I can understand the Wigan manager's response to what is quite clearly favourable treatment for a big club at their home ground. It happens all the time at Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge and the Emirates. We're past the point where we can excuse the odd mistake with the old 'only human' chestnut. These aren't odd mistakes any more. They're common, and categorical, and should be picked up by referees who deign to call themselves 'professional'. Clubs are being cost points and financial bonuses by men who are making more errors than they should be allowed to get away with. And my team (Boro) haven't even been that badly affected by refs!

That's it for the list. Other than that, my Monday morning is full of annoyance on the work side of things, and full of sleepiness elsewhere. Really need to get this whole body clock thing sorted. Hey ho.

There is a glade of trees, an oasis among the otherwise scorched pasture, withering in the summer heat. A structure lies within, a cold stone hut, the roof collapsed, the walls bowing outwards, ready to tumble at the slightest breeze upon them. Water trickles from a small pipe in one wall, clean and fresh, obviously the source of the abundant plantlife.
The glade is quiet. Too quiet to be empty. Carefully, eyes darting around always, a hunter emerges from the shadows and into the shaft of sunlight which catches the trickling water and makes it shimmer like diamond. She is thin, too thin, and carries a bow that looks far too strong for her to draw. Kneeling, she cups her hands benath the flow, letting them fill before bringing them to her lips. A little taste first, tongue darting out and lapping at the water, then more urgent drinking. She takes her fill, hands cupped beneath the water twice more, before filling her gourd. All the time, eyes watch around her, ears listen for the slightest sound that shouldn't be there. Slowly, carefully, she stands once more, stepping backwards into the shadows, her drab hunter's garb disguising her sooner than the darkness does, and is gone.

Wales is Funny
I'm doing a bit of work at the moment on an aqueduct which runs out of Wales and into England. Obviously there's a bit of geography involved here, and with Wales to consider there's always a chance of a couple of good names popping up. So far (and it's a small list, but good I think) we have:
1) New Ho
2) Pant Y War, crossing Glug Hill
Thank goodness for the druids, eh?

I received an e-mail including the phrase "by close of play tonight". Wouldn't be quite as funny if we hadn't been denouncing jargon in the pub on Saturday night...

Just unsubscribed from an e-mail alert from a credit card company (no point in saying who), and was sent to a rather strange page. Oh, it was of the normal ilk (elk!), saying "the following e-mail address has been removed from our list", that sort of thing. What really got me was the line afterwards:
"You will no longer hear from us."
I could almost hear the hurt feelings coming out of the screen!
"We know when we're not wanted!" they're saying. "You never liked us anyway. We're going to go and eat worms!"
How very odd.

I woke up during the night needing a drink, and considered the dream I'd been having. It was a strange thing, all about death, and it had spooked me somewhat. But what had seemed so thoroughly logical within the dream in fact turned out to be utter rubbish during my waking moments. I'm not drawing any conclusions, really, just thought it was funny. Funny strange, not funny ha-ha.
In other news (well, not so much 'news' as 'olds'), I'd often wondered about The Angel, Islington, most commonly referred to as a tube station (just 'The Angel'), and as a Monopoly board location. I heard it mentioned last night, and it got me thinking. It's not a normal name for a tube station - they're usually a little more geographical, a little less spiritual. It turns out that the Angel is a geographical boundary after all, describing an area of Islington which housed the famous Angel Inn between the 17th and 19th centuries. The Angel became a coaching inn in 1819, the first staging post north of the city of London, originally having been situated near a toll gate on the Great North Road. The original building was replaced in 1899, and since then it has served as a coffee house and a bank. The Angel legacy lives on, though - next door to the bank is a pub bearing the same name. And the Angel tube station? Down the road, of course...

Ok, a few pics from the Ben Folds gig as promised. The middle shot shows the synth he used extensively, and the last shot shows him conducting the crowd in three part harmony during Not The Same, near the end when he'd whipped us all up into a very polite frenzy. The bass player and the drummer are both there somewhere...

Well, it was always going to be good, wasn't it? There wasn't a chance that it was going to be lame. But that good? No-one knew. Over two hours of classic Ben Folds, including three completely improvised songs (well, one was Rock This B*tch, but so completely morphed and individualised to Sheffield that it was practically brand new). So much energy! The drummer was only playing his third gig with Ben, and yet as the man himself said, it could have been his three hundredth. Totally rocked out One Angry Dwarf, Kate and Underground, songs I really missed the last time he was in town. Beautiful virtuoso performance of Gracie, and hilarious adaptation of B*tches Ain't Sh*t, which is a song I usually don't appreciate from him.
We were so close that there was no chance of an impeded view. No more than 15 feet from the guy, and it rocked. So many things I could tell you, but I won't, because I'd rather just think about it and smile. Pics will follow - I made sure I got a few. And finally a big recommendation to see Clem Snide if you get the chance. He was supporting last time Ben was in town, and he rocked both times.

For the first time since I've started driving to work every day (something I thought I'd hopefully never do, but has become necessary to maintain my sanity), I honestly didn't think I'd make it in one piece this morning. The most ridiculous of the moves perpetrated by my fellow commuters was the guys who drove straight at me down my lane of the road in order to turn the wrong way down a one way street and drive at the people there. Because there was a queue right down the lane to my left, I was left sitting there waiting for a gap to open in that traffic so he could break the law even further. And then he thanked me. Wonders shall never, ever cease.

On a brighter note, we're off to see Ben Folds tonight, due to my wife's brilliance in obtaining tickets. For those of you who are not regular blog readers, this is a huge event for me, and the first time I've ever been to see someone for the third time. In fact, I've never seen anyone else twice before, so I'm sure you can understand the enormity of this event. I will attempt to use my lovely cameraphone to get a pic and post it here at some point, just like last time a couple of years back. I will, however, not be taking any video - the odd pic is ok, I reckon, but a whole piratey vid thing is a bit disrespectful to a man who plays so hard for you that his fingernails have to be taped on. Bring it on...

On a slightly lighter note, this article amused me if only for the quality of the picture used to represent Mr Dacre. Clearly upset at the Mail editor lashing out at the BBC, the editors of the news website have chosen a particularly flattering picture of him to illustrate their story. A delightful little dig...

Big Brother Racism
Normally I wouldn't comment on any issues that I view as inflammatory, and as regular readers will know I've only broken this self-imposed rule a couple of times in the past. I'm worried, though, about the recent turn of events in the Celebrity Big Brother house, where one of the contestants (in case you missed it, or aren't living in the UK or India) was accused of racially abusing another, the Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty.
My reaction to the number of complaints, and the way that some of the comments have been singled out, swings between two extremes, and can settle on neither because I don't think that I have a full understanding of the accused's character. On the one hand, I think the complaints are fully justified. The massive street protests in India (including the od favourite of effigy burning) are another thing, but then that's simply because we wouldn't be doing it that way here, so it's unusual to me - we're just too damn polite to actually stand up for ourselves most of the time. But on the whole, when I hear the comments and see the way Shilpa has been treated, I'm pretty disgusted (though not wholly surprised, a view which has developed over my years in the wider world - more on this below).
The other extreme is concern. That sounds a little mild-mannered to be an 'extreme', but it is. I'm worried that this is going to become another bandwagon, that the issue will be hijacked by those wishing to make a point not central to the issue. The discussion of racism and the underlying current of this social problem is all good and well, and if this situation brings the issue to the forefront and forces us to confront the ignorance and bigotry in this country, then all the better. The problem comes when this issue is used as a stick with which to beat the UK, for other perceived crimes (and real ones). The crime, of course, is the nature of our foreign policy, which is imperialistic and out of line with the general wishes of the public. We have had a chance to fix this, but because it was more comfortable to do so, the majority left Labour in power. Ever since we invaded Afghanistan, and then went after Iraq in the name of freedom (a pen-name for the otherwise anonymous 'Mr Oil Greed'), the UK has been a target of hatred. Believe me the hatred existed before Tony Blair gave extremists an excuse to vent it (and a direction, by aligning ourselves with the beligerently stupid American George W), but since it has become normal to hate the UK and America, and the reasons have become more and more mudied by politics, any excuse to have a go at the British is seized upon.
I don't mean to sound like we should be feeling sorry for ourselves. We have no-one to blame but our own voting public. But I am concerned that this stance seems to have risen to the level of international politics, with India seeking to question the UK about the Shilpa issue. Racism happens every day, in practically every country (with the possible exception of Iceland), and governments don't get involved. India's excuse this time is that the racism is being given an airing, and that the goverment has a responsibility to step in and halt it. This is, in the case of, say, holocaust denial, perfectly reasonable - not every viewpoint deserves a view, because not every viewpoint is based on an intellectual decision. The idea that a citizen of the UK automatically deserves the right to spread hatred under the banner of freedom of speech demeans the very basis of the concept, which is nothing like 'freedom of hatred'. However, in this case, I rather think the comments need to be aired so that the likes of middle England, peaceful in its ignorance of these issues, can be made aware that they exist, and can be disgusted enough to try to make things better. My point here is elucidated by the case of a Shipwrecked (another Channel 4 program) contestant, who was heard to utter racist remarks in the first few days of the show. Channel 4 claims it wants to continue airing the series on the basis that later on this contestant's views change. I agree, therefore, with their decision, because it's worthwhile showing that the ignorant can be educated, that those who hold these views are not entirely beyond hope, and not entirely acting out of malice.
Before I went to university, I never really encountered racism. To me, a comfortably-off, white, middle-class male, it was a historic thing. The N-word was banned quite publicly from the playground when I was a kid, and although the war wasn't quite done, we all knew at some level that the fight had gone out of the fascists. It was a false view of the world, but it was comfortable. I attended a private all-boys school for my secondary level education, and it was a fairly well-mixed place culturally (even including kids from across the financial spectrum due to a thorough scholarship scheme). I wouldn't say it was a perfect mix, because we didn't have stupid people there, but the racial mix was pretty healthy. I left this environment firmly believing that racism was dead as a concept, because there really wasn't any at school. Yes, there were cultural divides, but that's just tribality - skin colour didn't matter. But when I left that little bubble and experienced the outside world for the first time, I was shocked to discover that it's full of bigotry and racism. It still disturbs me now.
I'm not entirely sure what my point is here. I think I wanted to say that I'm still unsure whether the way in which this issue has been dealt with really is right. Jade is ignorant, as is this girl on Shipwrecked, and they're not alone. Social education is the only cure, and ignoring the issue by shutting down Big Brother isn't going to help.
Having said that, I still can't stand that bloody program...

They (the ubiquitous 'they') say that everyone has one good book inside them. Everyone. Who am I to argue with a universal rule like that? It does raise some interesting issues, though...

For instance, putting aside the kind of accident that Bill Bailey's character Manny had in episode one of Black Books, this means that in effect I should be able to produce one decent manuscript. I feel this may be a problem, since I do not, in fact, have one decent book inside me.

I wonder, therefore, if I could strike some sort of deal to keep my end of the bargain. You see, I have many books in me. They spill out of my brain and through both pen and keyboard to be recorded for as long as the media on which they are written will last (saying 'for all eternity' there would be a blatant lie).

Could I, lacking a certain amount of quality (and therefore unable to tick the box marked 'good'), make this up with sheer quantity? Could I produce 100 books, all only 1% good? What if it was discovered that I had produced a book which exceeded the quality of its siblings, and was in fact 2% good - could I cut the number of required manuscripts to merely 99?

Such thoughts trouble me as I shower.

The nice thing about Blogger is that you can always edit posts if you don't like what you said, or if it makes you feel silly. Just an observation, nothing more...
I reached a milestone today at work - the first Post-It note tacked to the bottom of my monitor reminding me action is needed on one of the spreadsheets. Time to get out...

Having recently ranted about the way in which shirts I bought from Marks and Spencer were packaged (private rant, not blogged), it pleases me to note that they are at least making the effort to go carbon neutral. Reminds me that I need to sort out neutralising the car and our flights this year.

Ok, I'm not the most politically correct person in the entire world, but as I sat watching The Simpsons this evening, I was rather shocked to see that they'd shown the episode including the attempted assassination of Saddam Hussein. Now, normally this wouldn't be anything to worry about, but if you have a look at the dateline on this post and check out the news for the week (assuming you're not reading this this week), you'll find out that the man himself was executed for crimes against humanity only a few days ago. For some reason, it just doesn't seem right.