Beautiful, wonderful interwebs

I've expressed my love of the internet before. I think it's great. There are so many genuinely life-improving elements to the web that even as a den of iniquity it is still a thing of wonder. It connects me with things I'd never have known about, and has expanded my interests and improved both my writing and my drawing capabilities. Fan-blinkin'-tastic.

It's also good for opening your eyes, be that in regard to political or social injustice or simply to the musings of a group of people who are genuinely convinced of the existence of extra-terrestrials among us. I'm not for or against the ET crowd, because it strikes me that I only know a very small corner of the world, the corner which I inhabit. Oh, I learn fragments of other things when I can, but I have hardly scratched the surface of the rich diversity of human life.

Whilst scanning around the Google Analytics stats for our company's website I found that we had been visited by the Navy Network Information Centre (NNIC). Curious about this traffic source, I popped over to Google and had a quick search. One of the first few hits directed me to a site called abovetopsecret.com, which appears to principally deal with the concept that the US government has a lot to cover up. Fair enough, they probably do. Perhaps it's their business, and they did what they did for the right reasons, and perhaps it isn't, and they didn't. Who am I to say? I've not seen the facts. However, from this website I followed a link to another site, ufo-blogger.com, and this page (clicky).

The page contains a traffic source report from the site highlighting the visit of the NNIC to ufo-blogger, having apparently followed a link from Google, generated by the search term "bob dean and wikileaks ufo". Apparently, this means that the NNIC is "Crawling Internet Ahead of Upcoming Wikileaks UFO Disclosure". Now, if like me you study the report carefully, you'll notice one visit for the day - and three in total - with the latest lasting 1m22s.

I don't really want to burst their bubble, but I can't help feeling that perhaps this was someone who works at NNIC having a surf of the internet over a coffee. You can almost hear the conversation now.

Jim: "Hey, Bob, those wackos on the internet reckon they're going to leak some filers about UFOs. Haha!"
Bob: "Really, Jim?"
Jim: "Yeah, Bob. Hell, all you have to do is search for 'bob dean and wikileaks ufo' and you'll see what I mean!"
Bob: "Haha! Yeah, I'll do that while I'm drinking this cup of coffee."

Somehow three hits hardly seems to be conclusive evidence that the US government is after our souls. Of course, it might just be cleverly designed to make us think that way...

The truth is out there. In a box set of the X-Files. 

The Queen’s Democracy: An Utterly Fictitious Political Satire

Anthony Flair paused by the mirror and adjusted his perfectly tied tie, checked his crisply starched collar one more time, and dismissed any lingering doubts about the smile. They accepted the smile now. It was okay.

The door was opened for him – Rupert, this morning, wasn’t it? Or David – and he stepped out into the grey, unrelenting drizzle of yet another day in office. It was brightened temporarily by the pinging flashes of a handful of bored paparazzi across the way. There, too, was that Nick guy from the Beeb. Pleasant chap, wasn’t he? Must keep his guard, though, can’t be too friendly with the press, never know what they’re going to say next.

The car door thunked closed behind him with a satisfyingly British air of Jaguar solidity. Something in that, perhaps, some rhetoric about nationality? Could do with a bit of that these days. Perhaps mention it to Alex Clodwell later – he always knows the right thing to say. The driver was new this morning, wasn’t he? Normal pool was all off with avian flu or something, hadn’t that been the note on the table? Nearly ate it instead of the toast again. Darling Charlie had grown so exasperated with him about working at the breakfast table, but he’d promised her another baby and everything had been alright.

A towering pile of papers sat on the crumpled leather seat beside him, a permanent passenger on his daily commute. He idly wondered who put these files there, and whether or not he was meant to do something with them. No-one had ever said, and no-one had checked that he had ever done so much as glance at them. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was one of those yellow books on Prime Ministering for stupid people.

Traffic was bad this morning. Nothing new there, not that the mayor seemed to be doing anything about it. He’d have to have a word. Actually, perhaps not. Scary little guy, the mayor. Glad he could ship him out of the party to look after the city, really. Better to just imagine he was doing something. He was bound to be. There was no reason to haul him up about it if he didn’t have to. Yeah, that was it he would just –

Funny. He didn’t remember the car being upside down this morning. Yet here he was dangling awkwardly from his seatbelt. Why would that be? And what were all those sounds, those wailing ones? For a moment his heart leapt – there wasn’t a terrorist attack somewhere in the city was there? Oh, the sounds were getting closer. Maybe it was somewhere nearby. And he still seemed to be upside down for some reason. Oh, and the papers, the papers were scattered all over the car. Someone would be angry. He had no idea who.

Ah, a friendly face. She would know what was going on. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. She just smiled at him and said nothing, and out came a hand with something shiny in it, and suddenly things were a bit wobbly, and was it getting dark?

---

Oh, the sumptuous pleasantness of waking between crisp white sheets on a sunny morning, with the breeze playing through an open window. Perhaps it was early, and he could stay in bed for a while. No sound from the kids’ room, good. A quiet, insistent beeping from somewhere though. Whose alarm clock was that? Damn. Still, keep your eyes closed, pretend you’re asleep, Anthony. Don’t break the spell.

Perhaps Charlie was enjoying it, too. Maybe she was awake and they could, well, you know. Look the other way, Lord, we are about to make another believer. He stretched a hand sideways to feel for her. Hmm. Metal. Cold metal. Why was there cold metal on the bed? Maybe this was one for the eyes to deal with.

He tried to open them. Hmm, must have slept well, they were welded shut. He tried again. That’s better, open now. Blink once, twice. That doesn’t look like the ceiling. Why doesn’t that look like the ceiling? The lights are different, that’s why.

Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps this wasn’t his bedroom. He raised his head and looked around. A small room in a hospital. Why was he in a hospital. His heart started beating faster, and the beeping became more insistent. Sitting up was out of the question, his muscles wouldn’t respond. Why not? A sedative, maybe? He’d had one of those once, paralysed him almost completely. Bit of an overdose.

He sank back into the pillows, breathing deeply to calm himself. OK, so he was in a hospital. Something must have gone wrong somewhere, but he was safe now. He didn’t even feel too bad. Perhaps a nurse could tell him what was going on. Ah, there was one now, maybe she would be able to help.

“Excuse me.”

Nothing. She just carried on fussing around the bed, tucking him back in, twiddling dials on the machine next to him. Try again, perhaps.

“Er, nurse?”

Nothing. She just adjusted the angle of the bed slightly, sitting him up, and then walked out of the room without a backward glance, the door shutting softly behind her.

Time passed unevenly. Sometimes glancing out of the window at the grey, anonymous buildings which made up the entire view would waste a whole quarter of an hour. At other times, minute examination of his surroundings passed no more than thirty seconds, whilst feeling like an aeon.

The door opened smoothly, on silent hinges, and a middle-aged doctor with greying temples entered the room. Classic, competent British doctor. Heart and soul of the NHS, that sort of thing. A silver fountain pen in his coat pocket. He came and sat in the chair at the side of the bed, reading his notes for a few moments before raising his eyes – they were a startling blue.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. How are you feeling?”

The voice was low and resonant, and deeply reassuring.

“I, er, I’m fine doctor. What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

“Do you not remember the car crash, Mr. Flair?”

The man on the bed shook his head.

“No, nothing after breakfast. What happened?”

“You were hit by a bus, Mr. Flair. Turned the car over. No real harm done though, bit of muscle damage in your back and neck, and a scrape or two from broken glass. Nothing that ought to keep you out of action for too long. Just need to rest for a few days.”

“My wife. Can I see my wife?”

The doctor rose again, the warm smile back on his face.

“She was here whilst you slept, Mr. Flair. I’m sure she will be able to return this afternoon.”

Once again he was alone with his thoughts.

---

When the door opened again, another middle-aged man entered the room, this time with an unblemished head of black hair and a far more serious look on his face. He was followed in by a tall, slim, younger man, who has an earpiece in. The younger man went straight to the window, glancing out and around carefully before turning the blinds to exclude the world.

“Clear, sir,” he said to his boss, but remained facing the window. 

Ah, thought Anthony, this will be the security debrief. All feels rather familiar. That’s why Charlie isn’t allowed in yet. She’ll understand, obviously. He scratched around the corners of his mind for the month’s password, and eventually alighted upon it.

“Rhubarb,” he said to the elder man, who looked at him with an expression of utter and bizarre confusion.

The younger accomplice helped him out.

“That’s MI5 for the month, sir. I did pass on the list.”

“Yes, yes,” said the elder irritably, as if it was all too regular an event to be shown up by his junior. “Well, Mr Flair,” he continued, “it seems you have your wires crossed. We’re not from security. Or rather, not from the security forces with which you are familiar.”

Anthony’s heart beat faster again, causing the machine to his side to start bleeping furiously. The younger man crossed the room quickly, and with skilled fingers instantly silenced it.

“Thank you, Roberts,” his superior said. “Now, Mr. Flair. A quick question, and then some answers. First of all, what does QDF mean to you?”

Anthony racked his brains. Nothing. Abolsutley nothing. He shook his head.

“Ah, good. As I’d hoped. It may help to know that when we have a  male monarch, we are the KDF. It means Queen’s Democratic Force, Mr Flair, and if even our illustrious Prime Minister is unaware of us, we are doing well. Her Majesty will be pleased.

“What are we, then? Well, most of the time our work is done in the background. This is certainly the most impressive, public thing we’ve done since I joined the service. Don’t like the style myself, but there you go, it's not my place to make the decisions.”

“Why?” asked the now thoroughly flummoxed PM.

“Ah, you see, that’s to the very core of what we do, Mr. Flair. We help, where possible, to make sure the right thing is done. We are interventionaries, you might say. A little tweak here, a quiet word there, a subtle blackmail from time to time. All in the name of ensuring that this country stays on the straight and narrow, you see, no matter who happens to be at the helm.”

He paused, folding his hands on his lap, apparently satisfied for now. Anthony summoned the strength to speak.

“Are you telling me the Queen has a roving force of mercenaries enforcing her decisions about how the country is run? That’s dictatorial!”

The man shrugged slightly, a benevolent smile still upon his face.

“You might look at it that way, Mr Flair, though there is no need to be quite so dramatic. You yourself have been accused of ignoring the people on occasion, yes? We do nothing more than Her Majesty’s bidding. She wishes the voice of the people to be heard, Mr. Flair. We are their megaphone, you might say.”

“And what does Her Majesty want me to hear that she could not tell me herself?” the Prime Minister spat.

“Come now, Mr. Flair. No need to take that tone. Her Majesty merely cares that her subjects are listened to on key topics.”

Anthony Flair sighed. He couldn’t understand how it could come to pass that Her Majesty felt unable to discuss policy with him, and that she needed to reach him in this manner.

“What would Her Majesty like to suggest?” he asked wearily. The man smiled and leaned forward, whispering into the Prime Minister’s ear. The PM’s reply was immediate and resolute, his voice filled with horror.

“Never!”

“Very well, Mr. Flair. We will pass your response to Her Majesty. She will make a decision.”

“A decision about what? What decision?”

But the question went unanswered. Both men swept from the room, and the door closed silently once more. He was left alone. Lengthening shadows hinted at the closing of the day, and yet there was no sign of Charlie and the kids. And what of the press secretary – surely he should be preparing a note to the nation? And there never was a proper security debrief, was there?

---

Newsflash

Government sources say they are still puzzled by the vanishing of the Prime Minister on Tuesday morning. He was seen on CCTV leaving Downing Street in his usual car, but both car and driver mysteriously left their police escort seven minutes into the journey, somewhere near Pall Mall. The car vanished and cannot be traced, along with the driver and the PM. Mr. Flair’s emotional wife, Charlie, made this plea on the steps of No. 10 today:

“If anyone has Anthony, please just let us know he’s alive. Please. All he wants to do is serve the people. Please just let us know. His children miss him so terribly.”

---

When Anthony Flair woke the next morning, the two men were once again in his room. He tried to speak, but found that he could barely lift his head. The older man smiled at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. Her Majesty has given her answer. Do you want to hear it? I believe you should just about be able to nod. Is that right, Roberts.”

“Correct, sir. Just his head.”

“Excellent. Down to business, then. I shall ask a series of questions, Mr. Flair. Just nod or shake, OK?”

Nod.

“Good. Now, do you remember why we came to see you yesterday?”

Nod.

“Do you remember what I asked you to consider. Or, rather, asked you to consider not doing?”

Nod, nod.

“Good. Now, Her Majesty was quite emphatic last night. She was terribly upset that you seemed unwilling to change your mind. ‘Such a waste’, I believe she said. But she was unwavering, Mr. Flair. She sees your decision to go ahead as being utterly against the will of the people. She has sanctioned me to ensure that you do not go ahead. Do you understand?”

Shake, shake.

“Ah, I see. Well, if you decide to go ahead, we will be required to stop you, using one of our fascinating range of specialist techniques. And if you decide to change your mind, you may return to your family unharmed and unaltered. So, would you like you change your mind?”

Stillness for a minute. Shake, shake.

“Are you sure, Mr. Flair? One last time. Would you like you change your mind?”

Shake, emphatically this time.

“No? Very well, then. Her Majesty will be upset, but she was very resolute on this one, I’m afraid. Mr. Roberts, if you would be so kind.”

The young man turned from the window and produced a thin syringe from his coat pocket. He flicked off the cap as he approached the bed, then roughly grabbed Anthony’s arm, turning it so that he could access the veins on the inside of the elbow. There was no pain as the needle bedded home, and no sensation as the orange liquid entered his body.

---

Newsflash

The Metropolitan Police anti-terrorist branch today confirmed that they have no solid leads in the case of PM Anthony Flair, whose mind has been left irreparably altered by non-surgical means. Mr Flair was found in a central London location last Friday, stripped to the waist and with the phrase ‘No war in Iraq’ tattooed onto his chest. Unconfirmed reports of an arrest in the case were made last week, but no further details have emerged. Mr. Flair has himself spoken for the first time, apparently expressing surprise that he was once allowed to run the country, and asking why he was allowed to do so.

In related news, police are labelling as ‘hearsay’ reports that stand-in PM Gareth Black was briefly reported missing just hours before the key speech in which he pledged not to follow the United States on their ‘modern crusade’ in the Middle East. More to follow.

"What news, good sir, of the hunt for the Lesser-Spotted Tigueg?"

VW cars are pretty good, let's be fair, but they can be guilty of a bit of confusion-making.

The principle source of this perpetrated upon the masses is the decision to bridge the gap between Touran (a proper MPV) and Touareg (a proper SUV) with the Tiguan (a mini SUV).

I don't have a problem with the product itself - it fills a bit of a fashion-over-function niche, which isn't my favourite reason to design a car, but that's economics for you. What I don't quite get is the naming convention. Not because I think they've made a huge mistake, but rather because it leaves an unfilled, unsatisfactory niche.

The gap they've created by filling a gap which wasn't there (still with me?) is for a mini-MPV. Some say the Golf Plus fills this niche, and again that's fair enough. But it's not called what it ought to be called; if one follows the VW naming convention, it should be called the Tigueg.

Should I tell VW, or are you going to?

On the Nature of Cursing

I was making a cup of tea this morning. Nothing too unusual there, I usually have one at work to get the day going. Bit of a habit, you might say. Anyway, I was making my tea, and I spilled hot water all over the counter. Typically, for me at least, and probably many others, this would lead to an expression of annoyance, ranging between mild (often) and furious (occasionally). Mild expressions of annoyance are a softly-spoken 'damn!'.

This morning, however, I remained silent. I calmly went to the paper towel dispenser, removed two paper towels  in a controlled fashion, and carefully wiped the surface dry. I made no outburst, mild or otherwise, and did not let this minor mishap affect my mood.

Buddhists would suggest (if I've understood correctly) that to remain calm will grant you calmness, that the expression of annoyance leads to the annoyance itself. That's neither as deep nor as far-fetched as some would have you believe, and it certainly seemed to work for me this morning. I remained calm and thus was calm.

There is an alternative belief, that to bottle everything up inside is bad for you, that you should let things out. The 'Latin temperament', it's often called. However, I've realised that to suggest this as an alternative viewpoint to the 'Calm-ist' way is to miss a point somewhere - to have an annoyance to voice, first you must be annoyed. A vicious circle if ever there was one. Remain calm and there will be nothing to hold back, nothing to bottle up inside.

So, is there a point to all this rambling? If there is, it's this: many things are worth getting worked up about. Spilling a little hot water is not one of them.

The skies they are a-burning!

And, ten minutes later:

Just look at the range of blues in that second picture, from violet right through to indigo. Astounding, said the Gruffalo.

Car Park Bingo x2

Some serious metal this week...

911 GT3 - base list price £89,785

Maserati GT - base list price £82,140

The British Tabloid Press = Unpleasant People

I've always had a bit of a thing about misrepresentation. I hate people saying things about me which aren't true, and I despise others telling me they know what's going on in my head - there's very little chance you actually do, unless you're my wife and thus psychic (in a nice way).

The British tabloid press are the very worst for this kind of thing. They simply make stuff up, all day and all night, and people buy it (literally and figuratively). They can't be hauled up on it because it's like a runaway train, gathering momentum, flinging aside the innocent and the guilty with equal measures of blatant falsehoods. There's no point fighting it, because you can't afford it unless you're very rich, and even then you'd have to really want to get stuck in, because it's not going to be easy. Just look at this article to see what I mean.

Oh yes, I'll support the freedom of the press to report the truth, and of course opinion articles are important, but the two so often seem to be confused in the minds of the desperate, money-grabbing tabloid editors' pathetic little minds (it is, of course, merely opinion that the minds of the tabloid editors are pathetic and little - they may well be as large as any normal person's mind. Just not as capable of moral rectitude, perhaps...). Often 'artistic license' is used as a by-phrase (like a byword, only longer) for 'making shit up and passing it off as fact'. This ires me in the way that any injustice does, especially when there's so little chance of comeback.

So, what's the solution? If you've read this blog before, you'll know I like coming up with an answer, and this article is no diferent. The answer is thus:

Newspapers will be required to hold documentary evidence of every single factual claim made in their publications. Should a claim be made that the newspaper has falsely reported, and the paper is unable to defend its 'facts', then it shall instantly be find £1000 for every false word printed.

There will, of course, have to be a panel of experts examining claims against newspapers - perhaps the fines could fund them. Judging by the amount of nonsense published daily in the British press, there should be ample financial support for several hundred of these people each year. And the great thing is the burden of proof is on the newspapers - go ahead, boys, publish what you like... if you can back it up.

Of course, this will lead to hundreds of thousands of claims a year. The papers will be inundated. Reporters will have to spend countless hours in tribunals, defending their false stories and not sitting around making things up. It would be a disaster for an important institution, surely? Well, no, it wouldn't, because all a paper would have to do is be able to provide evidence upon request that their story is based upon fact.

And to prevent spurious claims? A £1000 penalty on the claimant should the story turn out to be wholly true.

It's a self-regulating system. No more lies, no more need for libel lawyers to be paid a mint for very little work. See? It just gets better.

There, problem solved.

Crosshatchery

Paperclipsical

Paper clips. Amazing things, really. Quite apart from the vast array of functions which any given paper clip might serve (holding two sheets of paper together, for instance. Or three. Sometimes even four), these small metal moments of joy can also boast a plethora of brilliant names in European languages.

The Dutch plump for the simple 'paperclip', which is nice, if a little easy.

The Spanish, in true mañana spirit, have settled on the abbreviated 'clips'.

The Hungarians, linguistic outsiders of astonishing uniqueness, use 'irodai gemkapos', sounding not unlike a flavour of orc in Lord of the Rings.

Our industrious friends the Czechs use the wonderful 'dopisni sponky' ["Hi, a box of medium sponkies, please"]

But first prize goes to the French who, in a bout of literalism to rival the Welsh for microwave ('popty ping' - literally 'an oven which goes ping') have dubbed these mighty curls of wire 'trombones'. Parfait!

:)