Eins, Zwei, Polizei.

2006-09-06T13:24:00.000+01:00

So, I got me a blog on that newfangled Vox thing. I'm not sure that I'll keep this blog, so you're probably best off going there, assuming you're up for more Broadchurch.

2006-08-22T17:05:00.000+01:00

Mathematician Grigory Perelman seems to be getting a bit of attention these days, even warranting a piece in the Guardian (unusual for a pure mathematician), for turning down the Fields Medal.

Personally, I wouldn't trust any mathematician who would accept a medal. The man's probably set for life as it is, even without the award. With a result like the one he's come up with he can probably be assured of a place at any university or institution you'd care to name, along with a degree of freedom that most scholars would envy. When you have that, you don't need no stinking medal, unless you're a prick.

Leave the gongs and accolades to needy types like scientists and authors.

2006-08-22T01:17:00.000+01:00

People who are inexplicably on television:

1. Rowland Rivron.

2006-08-21T11:36:00.000+01:00

As a society in constant fear of attacks by Islamo-Fascisto-Terroristimists it is time that we finally started to ask the important questions, such as

Which book would you take on a long haul flight, knowing that, since there's a very real chance that Osama bin Laden will be hiding in one of the overhead compartments with a really big bomb, it might be your last chance on Earth to read something?

Only in my nightmares am I so pitiful a wretch that I'd seriously consider spending my last moments of life reading, so I'd probably take a hollowed out copy of the bible with a Derringer .22 and a hip flask of whiskey concealed inside it. As the plane plummeted towards the ground, my last moments would be spent firing wildly into the air, laughing and cursing God at the top of my lungs, possibly shouting "I'm coming for you, you bastard!" at the devil.

That's the only way to die.

2006-08-20T23:46:00.000+01:00

Everyone knows that an otter bit off Terry Nutkins' hands, but what most people don't realise is that to this day the otters keep Terry hostage in a secret location and regularly hurt him every time someone throws a shopping trolley into a river, and sometimes they do it just for fun.

2006-08-18T16:36:00.000+01:00

Afternoon all,

Broadchurch is in Norwich at the moment.

Norwich is mega.

And I've bought a house.

It is also mega.

Internet is less mega.

I'll be off now.

Later.

2006-08-14T19:56:00.000+01:00

Another idea for a tv show:

Russel Brand and Will Self are buried alive for a week in an airtight chamber that only holds enough air to sustain one person for the entire duration.

Either:

a. Both die.

b. One is dug up having spent an entire week in close quarters with the corpse of the other, who they've had to either strangle or bludgeon to death with their fists in the name of survival.

I think the easy money would be on Self, he looks a bit handy whereas Brand is nothing more than a demented, rat faced harlequin.

2006-08-13T16:24:00.000+01:00

I want my own TV show. It would feature me watching and trying to comment on music videos by new and unsigned bands, my bewilderment increasing with every clip until confused apathy began to set in.

The theme music would be Sliver by Nirvana.

2006-08-11T02:12:00.000+01:00

I'm all about Mania TV now.

The dodgy sets and ropey dialogue all harken back to when MTV was new and exciting. Also, without it I would never have discovered Do me, I'm the Best by Otafuku Rex. It's something special.

2006-08-11T01:21:00.000+01:00

I don't know if I'm tremendously out of the loop, but if so, why on Earth did no one tell me about Internet Television ?

Fuck You Tube, I want tv channels like these that, whilst ranging from amature to a semi-professional level, are aimed at a specific community or market that although very general still excludes me. In short, I want North Georgia Local TV (ETC). It's magnificent, like viewing someone else's life through their own eyes, or at least those moments in their life when they're in front of a TV watching local TV, and I don't mean that in some wanky ironic way - there's something genuinely enthralling about it. Also, adverts for funeral homes!

Highlights include:

Mania TV - Like MTV, only 15 years ago, and all the better for it.
Pentagon TV - Pretend you're a solider, only without the occassional mortar round interrupting your viewing!
Watching NYC Atheists on Manhattan public access TV - Two guys, sitting at a table, telling us why they're atheists. Nothing more, nothing less.

I'm a bit concerned about the Pittsfield, Massachusettes local TV, mainly because when I clicked on the link I found myself watching a slideshow of local sex offenders, complete with their names and addresses. Chilling.

2006-08-10T18:58:00.000+01:00

Dan kindly tagged me with this meme, and I thought it would make a nice change from the bile and being needlessly offensive just for the sake of it:

1. One book that changed your life.

I don't think any book could be accused of changing my life. The closest that I've ever come to having such an experience is reading Britain, Rome's Most Northerly Province: A History of Roman Britain which saw the birth of my creepy obsession with Ancient Rome. A small change I know, but a change nevertheless.

2. One book you've read more than once.

I've read Songs of Innocence and of Experience twice, one of the few examples of poetry in my collection to have a creased binding.

3. One book you'd want on a desert island.

Dude, Where's My Country?, just so I could burn it and feel proud in managing to rid the land of Michael Moore.

4. One book that has made you laugh.

I have never laughed at anything unless it's at someone's expense or involves an hilarious noise. Literature just doesn't cut it.

5. One book that made you cry.

I weep with despair every time I see a book by Rob Newman.

6. One book you wish had been written.

The Dummies Guide to Common Plant Toxins and Constructing Your own Blowpipe would be handy.

7. One book you wish had never been written.

Jane Eyre cast a long, dark shadow over my GCSE's. I never got beyond the Red Room, the interior design suggestions being the only parts of the book that have any merit.

8. What book are you currently reading?

Ancient Rome.

9. One book you've been meaning to read.

Applied Exterior Calculus. Which I would read, but it's summer, and I have a lot of smoking to do.

10. Now tag 5 people.

Anyone who fancies it, dive on in! First come first served basis.

2006-08-10T12:19:00.000+01:00

Not a day has passed, and already the conspiracy theories have begun to circulate on the Guardian's Comment is Free section.

Here's a brief summary of how the conspiracy works:

1. The security services and government uncover a plot and act accordingly to prevent it.

Actually, there was no plot. The government manufactured the crisis, deliberately encouraging mass hysteria which they can then manipulate and exploit in order to tighten their stranglehold on the populace.

2. A plot goes undetected, or attempts to prevent it fail.

Either there was no plot and the government deliberately attacked its own citizens and blamed terrorists in order to create a climate of fear whereby they can tighten their stranglehold on the populace, or the government knew of the plot beforehand and deliberately did nothing for the same reason as above.

There are a lot of people out there who never got over finding out about Father Christmas.

2006-08-10T02:10:00.000+01:00

Manhattan Cable! That's the name of the public access show that was on Channel Four around 1992 or so. I've been racking my brain over that for the past five years.

Now what? Work it into some conversation? Forget it again? I am now at a loss what to do with this information, a small part of my life has been robbed of its direction. Ruin cannot be far off.

I'm a cautionary tale to all on the verge of fulfilling their ambition.

2006-08-09T16:58:00.000+01:00

My summer project: To Cultivate a lasting obsession with brat pack films.

Expect me to be telling you how cinema should have ended after it's highest point, Pretty in Pink.

2006-08-08T16:38:00.000+01:00

I wish bumble bees were the size of cats, and could be kept as pets. I would keep mine on a leash and take it for a fly in the park every day! Giant bumble bees promise all the best that dogs and kites have to offer, all rolled into one. That's why I like them.

2006-08-08T12:19:00.000+01:00

According to the Channel Four news, U.S. Democrats are taking part in a "battle for the party's soul" and holding an "unofficial referendum on Iraq" - a rather melodramatic portrayal of Connecticut's primaries (where Joe Lieberman's trailing behind a challenger with an anti-war agenda).

A more accurate framing of the story would perhaps have been "Slightly more soccer moms and SUV owners against war than for it".

2006-08-07T23:43:00.000+01:00

Nice to see those chancers Einsturzende Neubauten can still do what they do best (On BBC2's Tales From Berlin).

By that I of course mean it's nice to see they're still playing bog standard po-faced art rock on slightly unusual instruments, throwing in a bit of noise, and still, after so many years, managing to fool starry eyed ponces into thinking that they're innovating.

Man, Toby Aimes is the biggest suck up ever. Lift up his ankles and push him round the room and he'd give even Henry a run for his money.

Toby Aimes, Xtra, interviewing some try-hard in a neckerchief (not pictured)

Next week Tales From London - Kirsty Wark interviews Nicky Clark (Hat-tip to Mrs Broadchurch for the analogy) about Social tensions and emerging trends in London, smiling and nodding along in another one of her grusomely sycophantic displays.

2006-08-07T20:36:00.000+01:00

What Muslims Want on channel four raises some important questions, the most important being: if you were at school where Jon Snow was the token self-consciously casual teacher, what derogatory nick name would you shout out at him in the corridoors? Would you base your abuse on some aspect of his appearance or personality? Or would you just shout "Spacky pants arseface" and throw paper clips at his head until he ran off for a cry in the stock cupboard?

It's a tricky one. The rest of the programme is very boring.

2006-08-07T10:30:00.000+01:00

There's nothing like four hours of sleep to bring out the pettiness in a Broadchurch's nature, especially when it's a result of a couple of second year munters and their Justins-of-choice putting their music on loud until four in the fucking morning.

In they roll at two in the morning, stumbling in from whatever piss weak and ramshackle student night runs on a Sunday, accompanied by the kind of braying pseudo-toff that infests Bristol, and so the night began. Shit music began to filter through the floor, the four-to-the-floor anthem of a million awkward courtships punctuated by the kind of mechanical, over-enthusiastic horsey laughter that is less an indication of amusement and more a hopeful, timid request for a clumsy handjob from some minging blunderfist.

After the first hour I knocked on their door and requested they turn it down, which, to their credit, they did. All was peaceful and quiet in Broadchurch's lair once more, and he settled down to sleep. Alas, it did not last more than five minutes, for, their passions obviously dampened, they instead settled down to watch some war movie, presumably ironically, at full volume. Mrs Broadchurch shouted up, her voice the very model of a polite but firm request, all to no avail. Despite a grunted acknowledgement from the window above ours, the night's entertainments continued at full wack. And so it came down to another visit, the time now being four am, from Broadchurch. After having to knock at their door three times, presumably to demonstrate I wasn't going to go away, rising from a firm rapping motion to something approaching punching their door, they came to the door. When I say "they" I mean one of the girls who rent the flat above, flanked by some wretchedly scrawny Rupert - whatever he hoped to accomplish by turning up to the door can only be guessed at, since even he couldn't fail to realise that it wouldn't have taken me that much effort to pull his arms off. Naturally, her tone was dismissive, condescending even, and as soon as the door was closed I heard a resentful "well he obviously isn't trying to get to sleep" coming from the room, but the tv was turned down and, at least in my hopes and dreams, their night spoilt.

Thankfully, we're moving out in a month or so, and, since we don't have any need for references from the letting agency, we have the ultimate advantage should this come to a battle of wills. Perhaps my last day in Bristol will be commemorated by an appearance on a points west report, brawling with wannabe toffers in the street to the sound of Diesel Power thundering out of our flat. I can only hope.

2006-08-05T18:39:00.000+01:00

Hooray! UEA accepted my application!

Boo! The house I wanted to move into is surrounded on three sides by some skank council estate.

And thus the cosmos maintains balance.

2006-08-04T19:18:00.000+01:00

I think I may just have solved some of the ongoing questions concerning reform of the welfare state, particularly how to encourage those who've been on long term benefits back into the workplace, without having to resort to the kind of "demeaning" stigmata of poverty such as vouchers.

Essentially, we assign to each able bodied person a sum total of £150,000 that they can then receive over the years in the form of benefits. When the total amount of benefits they've received matches this sum, they are officially reclassified as state property. From then on they work for the state until the estimated worth of their labours reaches £150,000, at which point they're judged no longer property of the state, and can be relocated from Dr. Nemesis' Evil Salt Mines back to their home towns and eager families. It's like a loan, only better because you only have to pay it back if you exceed a certain limit!

Now, slavery is such an ugly term, so I propose we call it something else, like "super happy mutual riches plan".

2006-08-04T01:03:00.000+01:00

Writing coherently. No energy for it. Thus,

More Condensed Broadchurch

BBC News 24: Awful, lumbering into my brain like a glutton bloated with opinion. ABC News: Excellent, more facts. The toothsome smiles of showy ladies and gentlemen obscure and distract from news less completely than does the self-importance and sombre visages of men and women who believe their own opinions.

ABC News reminds me of a gambling machine. Pound coins spilling into my eager hands. Occassional thrill of triumph and consistent entertainment easily compensates for whatever losses may be incurred.

This isn't too concise so far.

BBC News reminds me of a post office. Waiting. Endlessly waiting for some sour faced and officious jobsworth to finish counting paper clips so I can get what I want. Decor inspired by Purgatory and 1974. My local post office is the exception. It's staffed by a man who looks like Chris Morris wearing a false moustache.

Walter Wolfgang was better when he was a heckler. Sympathy is much diminished.

I should draw more comparisons between the current situation in the Middle East and the 100 Years War.

I think I would be happy in the U.S., for a while. Suspect that New York would start grating on my nerves after a year though - novelty would either be replaced with jaded dissatisfaction or be transformed and carved into a mythology. Mythology's for pricks. On the other hand, Virginia or Montana could sustain me for years and years.

Why does John Simpson annoy me? Maybe it's because he makes so conspicuous an effort to deliver the news in a tone so lachrymose that only by broadcasting footage of a small child asking "Why is the world so cruel?" could the BBC make it more explicit that they want me to know that war is a very, very bad thing. I already know that, get the incredible melting man off my screens. Perhaps it's just because he looks like a St Bernard.

I'm done now.

This has been a failed attempt at...

More Condensed Broadchurch.

2006-08-03T23:19:00.000+01:00

The Condensed Broadchurch

Time Trumpet was shit.

Armando Ianucci is shit.

Stewart Lee is also shit.

2006 has it's own comedians, so there's no need to bother with ours (1990-2000) anymore, especially because they're crap.

On the other hand...toast with melted butter? Four slices? Score!

This has been...

The Condensed Broadchurch.

2006-08-01T23:41:00.000+01:00

The exterior of my flat features a series of small plastic pipes embedded in the walls, so as to air the concrete I believe. Anyway, it turns out that each and every one of these pipes is home to a massive black spider. Shining a torch on each one reveals four large, glistening, knife like legs protruding from the opening. It is the stuff from which my nightmares are made.

How did we discover this? Searching the outside of the flat to find out where a series of mysterious and disturbing scratching noises were coming from. Further examination revealed it to be beneath our floorboards.

Not a good night for Broadchurch. And Club Reps isn't making it any better.

2006-08-01T10:12:00.000+01:00

According to something I read somewhere, sometime, it has been reported in at least one Californian newspaper that Blair's visit to California could harm Schwarzenegger's political career, since "most Californians would choose Blair as their governor over Schwarzenegger".

I'm not in any position to check of the veracity of such an assertion, but I can only hope it's true - as it could be the basis of what would be the one of the best trade deals ever between the U.K. and the U.S. I'd be more than happy swapping Blair for Schwarzenegger.

For a start, it'd be nice to have a bit of razzle dazzle during Prime Minister's Questions to replace the usual prancing rhetoric and luke-warm battle of wits.

Average Exchange at PMQ's

Cameron: ... and what is the Prime Minister's view on the increased competitiveness of Chinese manufacturing in footwear and its implications for British manufacturers.

PM: Well, to quote a song I mistakenly think would make a good pop culture reference, I'd like to reassure the right honourable gentleman that our "boots are made for walking", and under the government's new 'Pissing away Money to Support Crappy Little Industries' initiative those boots will continue to walk... straight off the shelves and into the hands of the British consumer!

(a sound similar to that of a gang of seals clapping resounds through the chamber)

Cameron: I have seen the proposal for the Prime Minister's initiative. In fact, I can only assume that he hasn't! Because if he had, he'd realise that the only way the British public are ever going to feel secure and reassured is if he puts on his boots and starts walking right now... away!

(silence)

Cameron: I mean to say he should resign immediately.

(a hundred overweight and elderly pigs stuffed into suits and sat on the benches suddenly start oinking loudly and rolling around with glee).

PM: Well, may I remind the right honourable gentleman that... oh yes, you can all laugh... but let me tell you, I can remember, as can he, as can the British public, a time when the only boots familiar to his party were the ones they were using to stamp on British manufacturing! And let me tell you something: The British public hasn't forgotten that, or how it took a labour government to do something or other about it!

(The chamber erupts with even more braying laughter)

Campbell: I once owned a pair of boots. They were brown.

(Silence and sombre equilibrium is restored once more).

Stick Arnold in there and it might actually be worth watching again. It's telling when I feel I can more easily identify with an Austrian body builder and filmstar turned state politician than I can our own politicians. I can't even imagine someone like David Cameron breathing oxygen, never mind residing anywhere outside of a Billy Bunter novel.

2006-08-01T00:05:00.000+01:00

Broadchurch Tips!

If, thanks to the construction of the building in which your flat is situated, you can hear the snotty cow who lives in the flat upstairs having a slash, the noise can easily be drowned out by a loud, spirited rendition of "The First Noel", or any other festive standard.

It's even more gratifying when the condescending bitch has just lectured you about the noise of your television at 10:30 pm, despite having herself spent the last week returning to her flat at 4:30am each morning and playing loud and, most importantly, shite music.

Enjoy and use your Broadchurch Tip!

2006-07-31T22:06:00.000+01:00

It was inevitable that upon watching the adverts for Channel Four's 'What Muslims Want', someone, somewhere would start singing "Muslims just wanna have fun" to the tune of Cyndi Lauper's 'Girl's Just Wanna Have Fun'.

I'm just glad it was us.

2006-07-31T01:18:00.000+01:00

Fight of the Century? Only if we give them rusty hooks to hack at each other with, and even then it has to be admitted that only a few hook enhanced fights, regardless of who the contestants were, could fail to be spectacular.

Other than that, I doubt much can be made of this squabble between ranting taxi-cab driver and part time academic Greer (Driver #5132 and Professor of Apparently Everything at Warwick's prestigious School of Dinner Party Rhetoric) and Rushdie, one of Britain's most boring yet unfortunate of authors (and who was only beaten to the top spot by one Jim Plimsol, who's attempt to rewrite the entire telephone book in Renaissance prose was cut short when he was skewered by a frozen shaft of piss that happened to be jettisoned from a plane flying over his house).

Literary giants my eye! Have J.K Rowling and Dan Brown kick the crap out of each other for hours on end in a disused meat processing factory; then the world will be interested.

2006-07-29T01:20:00.000+01:00

How often does a person have to hear a name before they're obliged to form an opinion about whoever it belongs to? Specifically, how many more times can I get away with not spitting on the ground and tearing at my own flesh at the mention of Ann Coulter before I should begin to worry about being labelled a passive agent of right wing eliminationists and strung up from the nearest lamp post?

So far I've come up with:

A bit ugly, looks like a tranny.

That's about it I'm afraid.

Judging by some of her statements, she's clearly a bit damaged, and her awkward reasoning suggests that she's less smart than her credentials would have one believe, but I feel not so much outrage as an overwhealming sense that it's all been heard before.

2006-07-28T21:57:00.000+01:00

The Playground Law seems to be improving - leave it up to mocking poor kids to raise its game.

No one wants to hear about bunking off school and dinner ladies. Spastics and poor kids: that's all kids need for hours of fun, and all we want to hear about. Play by the rules, Channel four.

I'm warming to Alan Carr, and I think Matt Blaize might be my favourite comedian... but Iain Lee is still a shit.

Also, on the subject of nostalgia, I am still too young to face the Greatest Hits Fatboy Slim retrospective being released. To whoever happens to be responsible: Please recall all copies and fuck off for ten years.

2006-07-28T14:30:00.000+01:00

As I've mentioned briefly in previous posts, with any luck I'll be starting at UEA come October. I have to say, I'm beginning to look forward to the change more than I might have thought.

My most immediate worry was that Norwich would be just another York, a dismal little relic town that to all extent and purposes is far smaller and limited than its population numbers suggest - the shambolic, grunting zombie of English cities, but the more I read, the more reassured I am that it's a proper civic entity in its own right, and not just a glorified retirement colony for tea shop enthusiasts.

I'm also looking forward to UEA itself. The University of East Anglia seems to occupy a perculiar position, being one of the forgotten good universities - it's to the 60's universities what Birmingham is to the Red Bricks. The differences with Bristol are considerable, not least the mere size of the department. UEA's maths department is considerably smaller than that of Bristol's (although it must be said that Bristol has a fairly large department anyway, which was one of the reasons I chose to study there), has a different emphasis on the focus of its research, and is almost devoid of Russians and East Europeans. I think I will probably miss the the last feature of Bristol the most. By and large, the best lecturers I had were members of that grouping (or American): they have a frankness and an obvious passion for their subject that is often lacking in their British counterparts. Having said that, it'll be nice being in a smaller department for a while, seeing the same faces teaching different topics, and they offer courses more geared towards my chosen specialization than many universities. Also, the RAE awarded UEA's pure maths group the same rating as Bristol, which, in conjunction with the subjects offere, informed my decision to apply.

Also: Norfolk! I'm all about the rural. I may decide to live on a house boat.

2006-07-28T01:41:00.000+01:00

What kind of man buys a T-Shirt with a close up picture of Stephen Hawking's face on it?

A good man? A bad man? A mad man? A Mr Loverman?

Could one of these men have bought such a T-Shirt?

I should have asked him when I saw him when walking about Bristol the other day. "You with the Hawking face on his chest!" I should have said, asking "What kind of man are you?" and getting ready to twat him over the head with a big stick if he answered "Why, I am a physics student, and my 'Electrons rule!' one is in the wash, that is why I wear this t-shirt!".

That is what I should have done.

2006-07-27T23:41:00.000+01:00

Man, writing on a blog can be difficult at times. The problem is one of slipping into a clichéd style of writing that I know in years to come will make me cringe inwardly to myself. Take for instance the following sentence:

For the past week or so I've been dashing out to the front door each morning, full of giddy anticipation at the prospect of finding some mail from the University of East Anglia.

It's not too bad a sentence. The pacing is a bit clumsy, and it's an unfortunate conceit of mine to use such a hackneyed technique as letting the action introduce the motivation behind it - a narrative method that only serves any real purpose when coupled with the question why is the reader "dashing out to the front door"? on a basic comprehension test , but it works in its own little clunky way. The real problem is how to follow it up. Shamefully, my first impulse is to use something like:

Not that I'm given to receiving unsolicited correspondence from random institution, you understand... [explanation of why UEA would be sending me anything].

Weak. So very weak. Firstly, I'm both flattering myself and testing the reader's levels of endurance by portioning out an already minor section of the intended post into what amounts to a trail of breadcrumbs and expecting them to maintain interest and obediently ask "why?", gobbling up each stale morsel of an explanation. Secondly, I'm guilty of employing that most overused (and just plain twatty) of comic devices: Hilarious Misinterpretation and Potential Misunderstandings; that the potential for misunterstanding in this case is deeply unlikely and arises only from ambiguities in the narrative that I have deliberately manufactured for just such a purpose makes it that much worse. Would it be even remotely funny to raise the possibility of some tepid absurdity such as, say, being penpals with an entire university, desperately hoping that you'll endulge and humour me with a polite chuckle? Of course it wouldn't, I'd just be wasting your time, like the bastard I am. And yet this impulse continues to survive whatever critical faculties I have, a grotesque smear upon my monumental pride. However, I'm not the only one to suffer from this affliction, at times its effects can be so clearly seen in everything from websites to newspapers that it almost seems to be an epidemic. Personally, I blame the writers of Blackadder. I'm not sure why, I simply have a sense that they are in some way responsible.

The second problem I always encounter with blogging is coming up with an introduction to each post. Take this post, for instance! Were I a reasonable human being, I would have simply typed exactly what I meant to say, that being:

Have applied for a MSc in Pure Maths at UEA.
Waiting for response.
Optimistic, can't wait to get there.

Instead I've wasted your time with all this toss about cliché and writing in a misguided and entirely counterproductive attempt to justify the time and effort expended by both myself and the reader in performing our respective roles. What's more, I don't care - anyone who doesn't like it can meet me in the playground at 3:30 and we'll settle it like men. Teenage men with poor social skills and a chip on their shoulders.

2006-07-27T13:07:00.000+01:00

I've never understood the recent fashion for providing up to the minute news updates on blogs and personal sites when a major story is breaking, especially since most of these updates are surely taken from sources we all have access to anyway.

The image such a practice conjours up is of thousands of unhinged and compulsive bloggers hunched over their favourite blog suddenly pointing to the heavens and declaring "This calls for a post!" after reading about a van backfiring in whatever country or city the story of the day is unfolding in.

2006-07-27T10:20:00.000+01:00

The last time I remember being this hot was back in the old cockpit of my Spitfire, duelling with German fighter aces over old blighty, both saving Britain from the indignity of invasion and providing future generations something to carp on about whenever their collective insecurities threaten to boil over. In those days we found ourselves having to wage an ever wider war with ever fewer resources, a crisis which famously spurred the British knack for ingenuity into action - indeed, my own Spitfire was made completely out of wool stretched over a wire frame made of coathangers, hence the heat experienced when flying. I can't say that the situation was ideal: The plane had a nasty habit of soaking up rain in unclement weather and plummeting out of the sky, and our only real offencive capability was to fly very close to German fighters and hope that their propellors would get caught up on a loose thread (resulting in the entire fuselage or wing unravelling), but by God it was exhilerating!

I still remember the time I did battle with a Messerschmitt over Aachen. So bemused was the pilot by the sight of me guiding my woollen symbol of British defiance towards him that he didn't even fire a single shot. I drew closer and closer until I could clearly see the blighter pointing and laughing, and plunged my wing into his propeller. That wiped the smile off his face. Within the blink of an eye I found myself tumbling through the air, my enemy surging towards the ground with my plane wrapped around his engine. Back then we didn't have parachutes, due to the national stockpile of silk being earmarked for the lingerie industry so that our girls back home could put on a good show for the gallant, if somewhat bawdy G.I.'s who were massing in England at the time, and so I had to hope that Bomber command had succeeded in the strategic placement of haybales up and down Germany to cushion our pilots' fall. As luck would have it, our boys were up to the task they'd been set, and I regained consciousness several days later with injuries no more serious than a couple of dozen fractures and a crushed foot.

In those days only staff officers had proper uniforms, the rest of us having to make do with whatever was deemed unsuitable for the production of armaments, and so I found myself trying to navigate my way through Germany, crawling on my broken limbs, wearing nothing more than a boxing glove on my left hand and a yoghurt pot tied around my genitals. Fortunately, I bore a startling resemblance to Hitler in my youth and so found little difficulty in commandeering a German destroyer and making my way back to Britain, but not before having to endure an embarassing encounter in which I was found drunkenly sprawled in a fountain in Berlin, asking Eva Braun if she fancied some yoghurt - an event which I believe helped unsettle the real Hitler and provoke his rash invasion of the Soviet Union.

So, yes. It's a bit warm, isn't it?

2006-07-27T09:21:00.000+01:00

I'm unusually looking forward to my regular summer visit home this year. It will be nice to get away from things for a while, and there are few places quite so removed than a barren, windswept rock in the middle of the Irish Sea. That and I crave having more than three rooms to move around in.

At lease that's what I hope is behind this anticipation. Thanks to what scientists believe may be a gypsy curse, inhabitants of the Island have, upon reaching a certain age, a tendency to freak out and scuttle home in order to spend the rest of their lives having their souls burnt out by office lighting and wallowing in a grim, joyless kind of nationalism.

That my anticipation is a first symptom of this process in action is unlikely, but not impossible. To ignore it could result in a dangerous complacency that allows such impulses to grow to such a point that I may one day find myself working in insurance, staring out at the slate grey sea as I try to ignore a melancholic voice in my head repeatedly whispering "what the fuck are you doing here, man?".

2006-07-27T07:31:00.000+01:00

As if being bitten by a mosquito weren't upsetting enough, I'm now nursing a swelling on my thigh around the bite that's around three inches in diameter, with a darker red inch wide lump at the centre - I look like an extra from a Children's BBC historical drama set during the black death.

Whatever happened to the plan of wiping out all mosquitos through genetic modification? Screw the ecosystem, every last one must die.

2006-07-26T11:14:00.000+01:00

Does anyone actually still buy The Independent? I can't help but think of it as not so much a newspaper, but an eccentricity of British newsagent shelves. To my mind, it's the Liechtenstein of the publishing business - it's boring and of minimal influence, no one knows why it's there, few actually visit it, and its only real point of interest is that it's a wonder that it still exists at all.

Actually reading the thing is destined to become the new Morris Dancing.

2006-07-25T01:52:00.000+01:00

Having just watched some programme or other all about reality TV shows, the justification or defence of such shows can be boiled down to either:

a. The public are great, it's democracy in action. Not everyone wants to watch Civilisation, you patronising wanker!

b. The public are wankers. At least we can sneak some educational matter into whatever reality tat they watch as they relentlessly shovel oven chips into their permanently slack jawed mouths.

c. I am a wanker! As long as you call it cinéma vérité, you can film yourself rubbing shit into my carpet and abusing my children, and I'll still clap like a seal being tossed a tasty looking fish.

There are of course flaws to each argument, as there are to many of the criticisms of reality TV. To discuss them any more than they already have been would be a pointless recreation of thousands of tedious dinner parties past. Instead, attention should be drawn to the most glaring omission in this list: perhaps the most convincing argument for reality shows that cut ever closer to the bone is that there's a slim chance that they might herald the collapse of society into the kind of debauchery and anarchy that provides the perfect environment for a relatively young tyrant to flourish.

Come that time I shall drink from a goblet carved from Simon Cowell's skull.

2006-07-23T23:40:00.000+01:00

When compared with the website of the same name, Channel Four's 'The Law of the Playground' provides definitive proof that people are funnier than professional comedians.

Compare and contrast:

a) A genuine entry from the site.

b) This excerpt from Iain "Iain Lee" Lee: "Right, oh, right, right, Space hoppers? What are they all about, eh?!?! Oh! And what about Tucker from Grange Hill, what's he all about then???????? Boob! Ahahahahahaha!".

I suspect the problem is that comedians are possibly the worst people to approach for such a project. Much of The Law of the Playground revels in the harsher side of childhood, whilst many comedians were the kind of kids who honestly believed that they could appease their tormentors with humour... and still spent their schooldays getting crammed in a Head bag and flung up a tree. Especially Justin Lee Collins.

2006-07-20T11:43:00.000+01:00

Broadchurch-Nature conflict update!

The black spiderhopper appears to have been only the first salvo in nature's bombardment of my flat with crazy new species. This morning we discovered a mottled, sandy coloured spider with a completely flat disc for a body running around on our clothes. Suffice to say, a great cry of "what the fuck!?" resounded before the wretched beast met its doom.

If this keeps up, I'm going to take George Monbiot hostage.

2006-07-20T10:57:00.000+01:00

The graduation ceremony on Monday was a bit of a let down. I wasn't looking forward to it anyway, but even so I had hoped that the pomp would compensate for the interruption to my lifestyle of cigarettes and Monk.

The first disappointment was that the Chancellor was too busy to attend, as was the Vice-Channcellor (currently occupied by a project to replace ivory towers with glass ones), and so we got lumped with some middle management pro-Vice Chancellor whose idea of inspiring ceremony was giving a poorly delivered speech on 'transferrable skills'. To my mind, if you've gone to the bother of wearing silly robes, taking part in a ceremony based on that of medieval monastic shools held in a neo-gothic hall, you deserve something a bit more inspirational than handy CV tips being recited at you.

The second cause for disappointment was that, despite being assured throughout the ceremony that the whole thing was about us, the undergraduates who've worked for our degree, we had to sit through an unimaginably boring half hour life history of the honoury graduate, Rear Admiral Nigel Fairfax-Agincourt-Boatrace, who already had a fucking doctorate anyway. You go to all the trouble of dressing up like a mental, just to please your family who've turned up to watch with pride as you receive your degree, and then have to spend half the time listening about some guy in an orange cape.

Finally, there was all the alumni crap to wade through. In my view, if you're not going to give graduates a copy of their degrees on the day (apparently they're mailed out later), you shouldn't then add insult to injury by instead bombarding them with pamphlets demanding money from them. The worst of these pamphlets, for there were a few, all asking for money for different things, was one that read:

Bristol has given you so much: a great education, new friends. Now it's time to give something back.

I'm sorry, I had assumed that the university would be adequately compensated for having to educate me by the fact that they demand full fees for people from the Isle of Manx. Also a bit rich to claim that they had something to do with my making friends (presumptuous too, since in all my years I didn't learn the names of anyone there, being the crazed loner that I am).

Still, at least it provided subject matter for another post on here. Expect more of the same next year if I get in at UEA.

2006-07-20T01:25:00.000+01:00

As I've made clear before, I and nature have an uneasy relationship. So far I've been capable of maintaining a shaky equilibrium in our dealings: Nature blows pollen into my face, I take pills; nature sends spiders and flies after me, I kill them; and so forth. This is how we learned to live with each other, both adopting the same yearly routine of goad/dope, attack/crush until it resembled some kind of ritual, with neither party being too shaken by the other's actions.

That is, until now.

Nature has upped the ante by apparently creating an entirely new species of animal to torment me! The creature in question is pitch black, about an inch to an inch and a half long, with a transluscent yellow underbelly, and has the hind legs of a grasshopper, only with all the movements, attitude and characteristics of a spider. It can hop a thousand feet in the air, climb sheer glass, and, although I haven't actually heard it do so, I'm pretty sure that it can roar like a million lions trapped in a giant steel can. It is also spikey.

Now, I refuse to believe such a creature is a mere accident of evolution, every individual feature of it being tailored so perfectly to my many fears. Obviously, what has happened is that nature has cross bred a spider with a grasshopper to make what I am calling Bastard Species X, solely with the intended purpose of fucking me up. Looking back, this is the latest in a supicious chain of events to take place this year:

1. I suffer from chronic hayfever, and so the UK suffers mysterious shower of pollen so dense that in some parts of the country it formed a powdery coat on the cars.

2. I have a low tolerance for heat. Too much and I tend to bleed out of my nose and slip into delirious and violent trances. As if by magic, the country finds itself amidst the biggest heatwave in years.

3. The emergence of Bastard Species X on my bathroom floor.

Coincidence? Unlikely. For some reason nature has decided that the time of reckoning has come, and that one way or another this ongoing dispute between us must be settled. With this in mind, I can only draw one logical conclusion: That being that I am Jesus, the second coming of the messiah, and that nature, controlled by Satan and his wizard friends in Snake Mountain, seeks to thwart my destiny to deliver humanity from sin into paradise. Well, it's not working! First thing in the morning I'm going to spray oil over lovable fluffy creatures, invest in a vivisection lab, and chop down the oldest tree I can find just to turn it into a gigantic novelty pencil. Then we'll see who means business.

First I'm going to have a nice snooze.

2006-07-19T13:04:00.000+01:00

Blimey! What a scorcher! The BBC reports that the heat is coming from France, which in my mind is a clear act of hostility on the part of the French. That they failed to provide sufficient warning or accompany their attack with demands is an unambiguous indication of their intent to stop at nothing short of our destruction. Is it not now obvious that France's opposition to the war in Iraq came from a desire to conserve their forces whilst ours are dispersed around the globe, allowing them to fortify their coasts and perform invasion drills whilst they boil our capacity to resist to nothing?

We have only one course of action available to us, this challenge demands only one response. We must withdraw all our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan immediately with the aim to mounting a total invasion of France. Once there we have to locate every heat producing facility and destroy them entirely, we must divert all their rivers into a gigantic solar powered atomiser that's capable of covering the UK in a cooling mist at all times. Finally we must increase the size of the English Channel, both in an attempt to increase the cooling mass of that body of water and to make self aggrandizing attempts to swim it impossible, and use the earth and stone recovered to construct a gigantic wall to shield us from any future attacks.

2006-07-18T16:23:00.000+01:00

Regular readers will undoubtably know my views on the assessment boycott persued by the AUT not so long ago, but did you know that I'm at the very forefront of the Anti-AUT and Anti-NUS movements? I bet you didn't, and who could blame you? You didn't have a chance, what with only the occassional vitriolic post here to go on. That is of course exactly what I wanted you to think. By not featuring in any interviews, or taking part in any campaigns, or even having any public or private dealings with an organized campaign or movement, I have duped you all and obscured the fact that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am behind it all.

So why the confession now? As much as it saddens me, my secret identity and diabolical plans have been discovered and exposed by Archaeologist and crusading Man of the People (surely the two are synonymous), Kenny Aitchison. Readers, I am undone. But, in all fairness, how could I expect my secret to go unnoticed by this brush wielding champion of the masses and occassional uncoverer of pottery? To be sure, I owe Kenny a great debt, for only with my plot in ruins and subjected to the full glare of public exposure, like so many shattered greek urns carefully picked from the ancient earth, could I possibly see the evil in my actions.

What next for me, you may ask? I can only hope that in time and with great effort, I too can become both a fully integrated member of the community and the kind of person Mr Aitchison describes as having learned what it is to be a "valued member of society". As everyone knows, there are few professions that offer such high social esteem or encourage so many virtuous everyman qualities as that of the professional archaeologist, so perhaps spending all my time pissing about in a ditch talking about burial grounds will be a good first step on my long quest for redemption.

Ken, rugged crusader for justice and my self declared nemesis. Also not on good terms with Streetfighter's Ryu.

Me, aristocratic arch-conspirator. Once plotting against the free world and especially the poor, now just quaking in my silk lined, emerald studded boots (not pictured).

2006-07-17T23:13:00.000+01:00

My first day as a graduate:

Sitting in my underwear, smoking cigarettes and watching Due South.

Beginning things as one means to carry them on, and so forth.

2006-07-17T00:33:00.000+01:00

Well, despite all my best hopes that I had left ordering my robes too late, or that the kind of incessant whining that would ordinarly shame a grown man might be effective, I'll be attending the graduation ceremony on Monday.

I wouldn't mind quite so much, but I have to be robed and in my seat 45 minutes before the ceremony begins, looking like a right plum and trying not to freak my mental under the strain of relentless chatter and boring rehearsals competing with nicotine cravings to send me over the edge.

As a silver lining, it's one of Bristol's traditions that graduands don't wear the mortar board cap. Legend has it that "this is because, at an early graduation ceremony, the male graduands all threw their headgear either at the female graduands, or off the Clifton Suspension Bridge, by way of 'protest' at coeducation". As ever, legend has some of the basic facts, but not all of them. In actual fact, male graduands threw female graduands off the bridge, who in a desperate bid for survival, grabbed at the silly tassels adorning their assailants' caps, thus dragging the hat with them to the bottom of the Avon Gorge. The university was keenly sensitive to both the shocking waste of headgear, and the improbability of being able to convince men not to throw women off bridges, and so every year all the caps that would normally be worn by its graduating students are instead donated to poor people in far away lands. As a result, Bristol has the lowest annual costs incurred as a result of hurling women off bridges of any British university.

2006-07-16T00:20:00.000+01:00

Is there a solution to the current crisis involving Israel? All parties knocking seven bells out of each other doesn't seem to have worked and diplomacy, in addition to being boring, doesn't appear to be working, and so we're left only with pop cultural solutions to try.

Now, if my years of lounging around the place watching TV until I'm as fat and swollen as my own sense of self importance have taught me anything, and they have, it's that conflict can only be resolved by friendly aliens and pop music. With this in mind, I'm campaigning to raise the funds necessary to parachute Michael Eavis and Steven Spielberg straight into the Gaza strip, against their will if need be, in an attempt to bring Palestinians and Israelis together in a festival of animatronic delights and feel good melodies.

Preliminary studies suggest that results are likely to be "powerful" and "deeply moving".

2006-07-13T23:05:00.000+01:00

Why do a bunch of Madeleys on the news keep telling me that I'm interested in The Adventures of Lord Cashpoint and the Promiscuous Peerage? They keep saying things like 'the nation is gripped' and 'the public are hammering each others' faces in with frenzied interest'.

I'm having enough difficulty trying to care what's going on in and around Israel at the moment without some dreadful newsbore trying to convince me to spread my enthusiasm even thinner.

2006-07-12T01:35:00.000+01:00

This article asks why all the worst insults are about mothers, and concludes that it's because of America, Catholicism, Freud, or Something. It really doesn't matter because it's based on the entirely false assumption that dad related insults either don't exist, or are just met with bemusement on the part of the person being insulted*.

I remember plenty of dad related insults floating around the playground at school, all of which were pretty effective in terms of the upset/rage they caused in their victims. The standard one involved Your Dad bums someone or something (usually the victim), or getting bummed by someone or something (again, the victim). As is the nature of the playground, and as any brief look at The Playground Law will show, all insults, including the standard model of dad bummification insults could be elaborated upon for extra effect, usually by saying he was handicapped.

Example:

X: Urgh! Y done a big guff!
Y: Fuck off X! You bum your mentally handicapped dad every night whilst he bums your cat because he thinks it's you because he's a big mong but he really wants to bum you!

A fight breaks out.

I rest my case.

*I also question the validity of the author's assertion that "Paradoxically, in Britain we find the c-word offensive but not the disparagement of the sexual integrity of one's mother". Again, I can remember many fights breaking out after someone had said another person's mum was an "ugly slag". I know that to some a world in which first year psychoanalytic, cultural, or feminist arguments may fall short of answering a particular question is a frightening, alien place in which nothing makes any sense, but could it be that people, through emotional bonds of loyalty and self consciousness, simply don't take too kindly to having their loved ones, and by extension themselves, mercilessly insulted?

2006-07-11T22:53:00.000+01:00

That's odd. In one twenty minute period, seven people came to my blog searching for Ben Jewell and Beauty and the Geek. Has something happened? Did Ben discover his nickname at Cambridge and go on a murderous rampage?

2006-07-11T21:32:00.000+01:00

Is your child "gifted", or do you at least like to think he or she is "gifted"? How to shop for the dreadful little beast in the months coming up to Christmas? You could do worse than shopping here. Admittedly, "worse" here is confined to a narrow spectrum of activities consisting mainly of punching the child in the face on Christmas day and pissing on it's Frosties, but still, you could, in theory, do worse.

Fair play, some of the stuff is alright and looks fun, but, for fuck's sake, Descarte's Cove? Surely if the child is genuinely "gifted" it'll be smart enough to see that it's being denied quality toys thanks to it's parents' odious pretentions, instead having to spend a miserable Christmas pretending to be "marooned on a deserted island once inhabited by Rene Descartes"?

I have no problem with clever kids, and encouraging them, but I find even the terminology "gifted child" makes my skin crawl (to even call them "gifted" carries the taint of pseudo-religious aspirations on the part of the parents), never mind making their entire lives revolve around their academic potential.

2006-07-11T11:07:00.000+01:00

Although I've never been a great fan of the government's plan to introduce identity cards, some of the arguments against it make me cringe. Those opposed to the cards do themselves no favours when they insist on wailing about Orwell's 1984 and civil liberties, which does little but characterise the opposition as acting through hysterical obstinacy.

It's hard not to roll one's eyes the moment someone starts moaning about cards being an invasion of privacy, and this urge soon becomes irresistable when they justify whatever lame example of invasion of their privacy they've provided (the government knowing which gym you go to, what museum you visit the most) by arguing that it's "the principle" that is important. Sorry honey, you've lost the argument the instant you start arguing about "the principles of it all", a phrase that in the blink of an eye forever condemns whoever utters it as the kind of cloistered and obstinate loon who writes in to Points of View every week.

2006-07-09T17:57:00.000+01:00

300 Reasons why we love The Simpsons, which also happens to imply three very good reasons not to love The Simpsons:

1. It's simply not that funny.

2. The only person in the world actually dim enough to rate the Simpson's satirical or otherwise 'grown up' element is Richard Madeley. By supporting The Simpsons, you're helping Madeley delude himself into thinking that he's anything but a self-obsessed numbskull.

3. In the mould of Monty Python, The Simpsons is designed to appeal to and indulges the kind of obsessive compulsive freak who's entire social life is built entirely upon their ability to recite fonny quotes in rapid succession.

2006-07-09T01:00:00.000+01:00

The Guardian recently ran a feature detailing the report by EurekaUK designed to draw attention to recent (i.e. less than 50 years old) ground breaking, world changing research to arise out of British institutions. Most of the entries are worthy, but there are some howlers in there, three of the worst being listed below:

Cooling the Tube - The exact research cited hasn't even been accepted yet by London Underground, is part of a larger body of different ideas all competing with one another, and surely, is by no stretch of the mind world changing.

Improving the Effectiveness of Schools - This world changing research was published in 1979 and, according to the report, revealed the secrets to success for poor inner city schools. 27 years on and those schools are still shite.

And, finally, the astounding claim that Karl Popper 'Debunked Science'. That's right, all science has been officially exposed as a sham, and by Popper no less! The rest of the discoveries on that report, most of which are scientific, are all big fat lies. Since Archimedes, Science has been nothing more than an elaborate hoax! The actual purpose of which is not at all what scientists claim, but is merely part of a wider plot to divert funds away from the Arts and Humanities.

I'm not sure if that last one is featured in the report, or if the choice of words is down to the Guardian, but in either case you'd hope that they would have at least employed the services of someone who understood both Popper and Science on at least a basic level.

2006-07-08T15:52:00.000+01:00

I was so disappointed to find out that Animal Farm was about Stalinism, tyranny, and all that. For years I'd been reading it as a moral justification for eating meat, the idea being we have to eat animals in order to keep them in their place, otherwise they'll go mental, take over our farms, and eat all our sweetcorn.

I myself have a cracking idea for a novel: It's set in some dystopian version of Britain in the year 2064, and centres around the life of Ernie, a 46 year old cobbler from Bolton (only in the future it's called Gamma District 4b, Zone: Arseville - all towns and cities of the future are given derogatory names in order to demoralise the public). The story mainly involves fixing shoes, futuristic shoes, (perhaps they glow in the dark and have speakers attached that broadcast propaganda 24 hurs a day, I'm not sure), until Ernie comes accross a shoe that he can't fix, no matter how hard he tries! In fact, it's not even a shoe, but an antique sandal, with a nail driven through the sole that continually bleeds. Confused by this mysterious problem, Ernie travels to Alpha District 1a, Spazopolis (modern day London) to consult with the Glorious Ruling Party of National Salvation's official Master Cobbler, Barry, who turns out to be really evil. Whilst there, Ernie discovers that the very idea of broken shoes has been abolished by the Party, who view complaints about uncomfortable footwear as subversive criticisms about National manufacturing policies. Instead of fixing people's shoes, Barry instead mashes people's feet up with a hammer until they fit the shoes, before handing them over to National Guardians (the equivalent of the police), who all ride around on motorized penny farthings and wear bowler hats that can emit nerve gas.

Anyway, upon seeing the sandal, Barry reports it to the authorities, who immediately recognise its significance and send sexy ladies who know karate to seduce Ernie, kill him, and take the sandal. It's ok though, because Ernie beats them all to death with a heavy army boot that has been passed down his family since the Second World War, and which he carries with him for good luck. Now a fugitive from the Law, Ernie disguises himself as a pile of military boots in order to smuggle himself into the Great Leader's security complex on Guernsey. During the journey, Ernie discovers that being in such close proximity with so many boots has resulted in him developing a telepathic link with footwear. The shoes, boots, sandles etc of the world understand that Ernie is a good man, that his years of healing broken footwear have not gone unnoticed, and, by way of thanks, they have voted in the great shared consciousness of shoes to allow Ernie to control all footwear with the power of his mind, pledging allegience to him as their new leader. Using this talent, he makes all the security people on Guernsey kick each other up the backside, resulting in a viscious battle royale which none survive.

The path now clear, Ernie slays the grand leader by strangling him with some shoelaces, and, as if by magic, discovers that he can fix the mysterious Sandal! Pulling the nail out with ease, where before it was immovable, he is startled to find Jesus materialising, who tells him that it is in fact HIS SANDAL! and that today he has fixed more than a mere sandal, but also tended to a wound that has incapacitated all of humanity.

THE END.

I'm torn between whether I should call it, Look, Shoe's Talking or something along the lines of The Weatherberry Conundrum.

2006-07-07T23:20:00.000+01:00

Newsnight is so boring.

"We're all Londoner's now". No we're not. I don't mean that in any surly, ardently provincial way, we're just not all Londoners now. We are bored though. Try harder, Newsnight.

Some dodgy allusion to the blitz? I suppose there are more nutcases out there bent on bombing stuff, but it still pales to waves and waves of Heinkels making their way over the channel on the regular basis. Sorry, I'm not scared. But I am bored.

"The day 9/11 came to Britain". Now you're just being silly.

Oh god, now there's some dreadful gospel choir accompanying Britain's grief with jaunty fingerclicks and close harmonies.

Statue of Ghandi in Tavistock Square. He studied Law at nearby UCL, although to listen to Esler you'd think it was put there just to lend extra poignancy to any terrorist attack that might happen in that general vicinity. Yawn.

It has to be said that I'm not dissing the act of rememberance, just the cloying, peripheral attempts made by some to emphasise the poignancy of the date at the cost of its solemnity and dignity. Rememberance Sunday, by comparison, is full of quiet dignity and, most importantly, a sense of strength and resiliance that happily marches alongside the grief without ever eclipsing it. Watching the media's presentation of today was more akin to seeing a day of national mourning as organised by the producers of The Oprah Winfrey Show, full of trite allusion and the contrived trappings of showbiz grief that only serve to desensitize, trivialize and ultimately bore. The last reaction may be seen as callous, but the act of reducing such a ceremony to a staged performance where the "message" is at least as important as the events that are a part of that performance justifies it by the distance it inserts between the viewer or participant and the subject.

2006-07-06T20:08:00.000+01:00

Hey, you there! Yes you, the one I'm sneering at! Put down that copy of the Daily Proleshout, stop enjoying that episode of Rummage Sale Dimwit Excursion, and listen up, because I've got something to say: History Matters!

Why does it matter? Well, without an appreciation of history you're nothing more than an emotionally stunted numbskull guilty of sabotaging the nation's future. That's why it matters, you dick! At least that's pretty much the implication lurking beneath the promotional quotes on the website.

I'll have none of it, of course. Outside of personal and general interest and the academic context, History matters little. It's fine if you don't like history, civilization isn't going to come crashing down because a number people find it a desperately boring subject. Of course the argument can be made that, in principle, a knowledge (or the lack of it) of History can influence a person's opinion, and thus the issue is important in relation to people expressing their opinions at the ballot box, but such an argument is little more than a flattering conceit for those who regard a full bookcase as a measure of the importance of them and their opinions.

In any case, the form of history that the campaign is encouraging has little to do with history in its truest sense - the idea of 'heritage' for instance, which can be found appearing all over that site, has little place in a serious discussion of history, belonging more in the vocabulary of the petite nationalist. This campaign does not seek to elevate the status of history. It is instead merely yet another one of those piss weak attempts, so beloved of misguided enthusiasts and those who fancy themselves the intelligentsia, at reforming the British public. It is motivated not by any real or perilous shortcoming in the nation's appreciation of history, but of a certain type of person holding the opinion that Britain would be a much better place if everyone were a little bit more like them. Indeed, the fact that we have never enjoyed such easy and widespread access to history (through an explosion in the number of popular history texts being published, television and radio documentaries, and public lectures at universities) suggests that the market is healthy enough without meddling would-be mandarins hassling people.

Speaking of which, there he is, Stephen Fry, BA FFJ, Crown Prince of Dilettantia, Dark Lord of Everything that is Smug, Undeservedly Acclaimed and Self-Important, Knight Commander of the Order of the Irrelevant Pompous Windbag, and Wilde Professor of Superficial Studies at the QI University. As if there weren't already enough reasons to shun this campaign with every last ounce of strength, his position as a founder is enough alone to cast doubt upon it, in addition to making my skin crawl.

2006-07-06T14:50:00.000+01:00

I'm beginning to wonder if my garden exerts some mysterious power of attraction over the rest of humanity. The door to the side passage was open not five minutes this time before two people had barged through it into our garden. "We're just looking at the garden" say they, so I says "Er, right. You know it's not a communal garden", so they says "Yeah, we know", at which point I fall silent, the logic of their motives so twisted that I just kind of blank out for a while trying to scrutinize it.

Why would anyone want to have a look at a garden that they know they're not going to be using? If they've moved into a flat that over looks the garden they can easily have a look at it from their windows, and what's the point in having a look at it now if they don't overlook it?

It's worth keeping in mind that the garden in question is right outside of our flat, both the bedroom and living room being clearly visible through eight foot high windows, so I don't think it unreasonable of me not to want a bunch of Kaiser Chief look-a-likes running around in my garden. Nevertheless, I suspect that I'm already winning a reputation for myself as the bastard downstairs who wont let anyone use his garden. Not that I'm too bothered by that, I can be far, far more of a bastard than that if I want to be.

2006-07-04T08:43:00.000+01:00

We found a massive toad in the garden last night, a big light brown/pale yellow lady toad. In between wondering how she got there and worrying about how she'll get out again, we managed to compose ourselves long enough to name her, almost inevitably, as Sandy Toadsvig.

2006-07-03T18:01:00.000+01:00

I suffer from an intense nostalgia for 80's film promotion artwork.

Michael J. Fox, and some Suggestive Symbolism.

2006-07-03T14:08:00.000+01:00

I have noticed that, in certain circles, much is made of the threat religious extremist movements pose to the British way of life and Western Democracy. From right wing Christian sects attempting to gain political influence and raise a generation of high achieving Christian fundamentalists to rule the world, to 'Islamofascists' hoping to establish a new caliphate, everyone's nervous when it comes to the shadowy world of extreme religious thought. This, I believe, distracts us from our true enemy: Wishy washy Pseudo-Religious banality.

Comrades, our nation is already stuck in the grip of this most insidious menace! They even have their own television programmes, such as Looking Good, Feeling Great, luring the potential acolyte in with promises to absolve them of any guilt or personal responsibility. Even as we speak, legions of middle aged divorcees are gathering, ready to assault the very foundations of our great civilization and turn us into a bunch of simpering luddites. If we do not act soon, there will be no hope for us, and all that we have worked so hard for will lie in ruins. Instead we'll be a nation of idiots who make a virtue out of ignorance and equate knowing nothing and not even being bothered to make the effort with 'having an open mind'! Sympathy will be demanded by total losers on the basis that they're not actually losers, they're just in conflict with their inner child/chi/not-being-a-fucking-loserness! No argument will ever be resolved! All parties instead being forced at incense stick point to admit the validity of whatever hare brained twaddle that some sanctimonious mong might come out with.

Is this the Britain we want? I say no! Man the ramparts, order a case of assault rifles, and let's drive them onto anglesea, Roman style, honey! Let not a single healing crystal or drop of essential oil ever sully the earth of this once proud nation again.

2006-07-03T00:10:00.000+01:00

I think my favourite song ever might just be Opus III, It's a Fine Day.

If there is ever to be a film all about me, and there should be many (especially one where I'm a 19th Century cowboy transported to late 20th Century Britain), this should be the soundtrack.

It wouldn't be, of course. For I was born in the North, so I'd probably be lumbered with some trite reference to madchester, and there'd have to be a scene where my fifth eldest black sheep brother billy dies from injecting domestos into his eyes as a reaction to growing up in Thatcher's 80's Britain.

That's all anyone did in those days. I remember competitions being held in the schoolyard to see who could be the most poignant symbol of disenchantment and desparation. Whereas other kids dreamed of being astronauts, footballers, and sometimes Rambo, we used to dream of featuring in channel four docudramas and tedious human interest stories. "I want to be Scabbo! A wife beating junky transvestite, and die with a heroin needle stuck right through my balls!" one child would cry, "Well, I'm going to get pregnant at thirteen and star in dutch porn films, getting addicted to crack and having my kids taken away before I find god and turn my life around!" another would counter. Endless arguments would be had over whether it was better to be a cautionary tale of self destruction, an inspirational example of human resiliance, or a tragic example of state neglect fit to shame the nation! It was all in good fun though, and it would soon pass and we'd all go back to arguing over whether Karate Kid would beat the Fall Guy in a fight, and who had the most up to date Reeboks.

Actually, given where in the North I was born, this might be a bit much. Any film of my childhood would probably look a bit like Last of the Summer Wine, only not quite as subversive.

2006-07-02T22:45:00.000+01:00

Tonight's Panorama is banging on about evil banks driving people to suicide. Credit cards seem to be the most common catalyst to spiralling debt - each one is imprinted with special toxins that are absorbed on contact and cause people to mental out and think they have more money than they earn.

Thankfully I have never once been offered a credit card, or any other banking product designed to break my will and bind me in chains of debt. The secret, which Panorama seems to have overlooked, has two steps :

1. Do not have a job.

2. Have plenty of council tax related court summons gumming up that credit rating.

Welcome to the answer, but save your gratitude. I need no thanks, for I am Captain Broadchurch, Independent Financial Advisor!

2006-07-02T13:15:00.000+01:00

This is the conversation I have with Complete Stranger at some point in time during every world cup.

Mr C. Stranger: "Did you see the game?"

Me: "No"

Mr C. Stranger: "We should have won that, terrible isn't it?"

Me: "Oh! *polite laugh whilst thinking "I don't fucking know, leave me alone!" to myself*"

Mr C. Stranger: "Yeah"

Me: "Yeah *polite laugh, continue walking*"

I don't mind so much being stopped, as I do having to feel slightly embarrassed for the both of us. I have to mumble some response that's polite, but not so congenial that I risk Mr C. Stranger thinking I want to be his friend in his dark hour of need, whilst he has to deal with the near immediate realisation that, in addition to his fave team being the shite, he's made a grave error in selecting me, of all people, to talk to about football.

Now, as indicated in this post, I know fuck all about football, but, from what I can gather of my indirect experience of it, I get the impression that our team should really stop trying so hard. We are, after all, the Tim Henman of the game.

Every world cup it's the same, with England's progress following the same three steps to disappointment:

1. Our team, just like Henman, has usually performed well in other competitions, leading everyone to get all het up and excited about what this year's tournament holds in store.

2. Anticipation and nervous optimism then builds to near dangerous levels, encouraged all the more by commentators, team members, and the people who train them talking about determination, spirit, and modern trends in English kick score point accumulation. The team itself prepares the audience for a fall by advancing through the contest to the point where these hopes of triumph just about begin to seem realistic.

3. The English team then get on the pitch, trip over their shoelaces and run about in all directions like the keystone cops in an attempt to pass the time until they lose. Also, whoever in the team has been selected by the media to be portrayed as the new genius of English football must make some elementary bungle or otherwise fuck up, just to underline how disappointed everyone should feel.

These are the three Henman stages of utter faliure, and seem to be a cornerstone of the English sporting philosophy. Now, we don't all hate Henman because he's shit and loses all the time. We hate him because he tries too hard, with that stupid look of determination and concentration on his face, rows and rows of tiny piranah teeth grinding together in a pitiful attempt to act how he thinks a decent sportsman does. It's lame, and just upsets people when the inevitable happens.

As such, I believe that British sport should stop taking itself so seriously and begin to enjoy the many advantages of mediocrity, such as being able to put on a show for the audience without having the pressure of having to win raking a cheesegrater along everyone's nerves. Clearly, the only decent "sport" is the theatrical display of the World Wrestling Federation, from which Britain could learn much in how it conducts itself in international sporting competitions.

Less eager beaver spud faced sportos and more people in costumes doing a fonny please.

2006-07-01T16:58:00.000+01:00

Bah! After watching the building you live in empty out for the summer, there's little more frustrating or disappointing than watching it fill back up. This is especially when the people in question barge through the door to the side passage and try to assert that your garden is for communal use. Yeah, the reason I have a key to it and you don't is because I'm wilf, the kindly live-in gardener. Nice try, now fuck off!

I know I shouldn't be so belligerant, but it is a massive disappointment having people move into the surrounding flats. Now, for fear of these burdensome fellow tenants lodging a complaint with the letting agency, I can't enjoy singing Cornflake Girl at the top of my lungs at four in the morning, or bellow insults at the television in a zippy voice , or retrieve the post in the nip, and that's pretty much all I had planned for the summer.

Still, there is a silver lining. My new neighbours have thrown out two sofas, seemingly unaware that you can't really do that in a furnished flat, and left them outside the building. Of course I'm tempted to get one and drag it through to my garden. If they throw out a standing lamp and a rug I'll have the plushest garden in all the country.

2006-07-01T11:08:00.000+01:00

At last! I have a genuine ambition. Until now, I've been steering myself towards the best of a bad bunch, but now...

I want, more than anything, to own my own Island, preferably with a castle, ideally this one!

2006-06-30T23:19:00.000+01:00

By popular demand, being that of Jah Jah, who is pretty popular, here's

Broadchurch Fact Revisited!

Fingerprints. Where to start with me and fingerprints? The previous discussion may have led some of you to think that my issue is with any texture that isn't smooth. Indeed, until now I would have aggreed with you, but it's not that. Looking at my hands right now, I realise that I'd be quite happy were they covered in thousands of minute dimples, like a golfball. It's the notion of hundreds of tiny frills of flesh protruding from the ends of my fingers that fucks with my chi. Indeed, those textures that have the most dramatic effect on my senses have one thing in common: That their texture is comprised of many tiny curved or linear ridges. Coarse grained wood, cordurouy, particularly coarse woven jeans, string, the edges of coins, and, the bane of my senses, fingerprints (some say dermal ridges, particularly if they're insufferable). All have the power to reduce me to a wild eyed maniac, paralysed with a combination of senseless, undirected rage and incomprehensible horror.

Speaking of which, back to the main theme of this post. The mere idea of them makes my stomach churn. Miniscule fleshy ridges covering my fingertips, flapping this way and that as they're dragged across a surface, rippling like a pack of playing cards made out of ham being shuffled - surely no sane person could fail to find such an idea inherently repulsive! As if the endless rasping sensation of one's meaty finger ridges coming into contact with, well, everything, wasn't bad enough, there's the fact that, from time to time, they rub together! Imagine what that looks like to a fly perched on your hand - like thousands of fatty rinds of bacon all rubbing together. To me, this is exactly what it feels like. Even worse is the knowledge that they're always there. Always! The threat of being unwittingly plunged into such textural hell is ever present, a constant menace from dawn to dusk. The cold war and threat of nuclear warfare had nothing on waking up every morning, looking down at one's hands, and seeing those intolerable ruffles just waiting to be caught on something.

Thimbles, thimbles are the only answer!

I also hate the roof of my mouth when it goes all ridged like a gothic arched ceiling, for no good reason. Not even thimbles can help with that,

You have been reading Broadchurch Facts Revisited!

2006-06-30T22:30:00.000+01:00

Why must I be allergic to pollen? Pollen, for the love of god! That's one step away from being the boy in the bubble, it's so damn prevalent. Why can't I be allergic to less common things, like Promethium, or Hitler?

Then, when kids tried to use peer pressure to make me sign up to the Nazi party, I could flounce off with an airy "Sorry, but I'm allergic to Hitler". Then I'd be cool.

I suppose those two things are so rare that I could be allergic to them, without having realised it.

2006-06-30T12:43:00.000+01:00

You all love hearing about me, so why should I deny you?

Broadchurch Fact! I have a strange obsession with textures, touch being perhaps being the keenest of my senses (Especially since I'm quite short sighted, my ears are a bit fucked thanks to being in a band and listening to music too loud on headphones for years, and smell and taste are a bit wonky thanks to the smoking).

I detest coarse grained wood, for instance. I cannot bring myself to touch a wooden spoon, I go mental if I somehow accidentally come into contact with one - my mind clouds over, and all I can focus on is the grain rubbing against my fingers, an overwhealming and nameless sense of horror building deep within me until either the spoon is taken away and burnt, or I black out. This, however, is nothing compared to my feelings about wooden lollipop sticks. Eating a lollipop off a stick as a child would make me feel like I was dying inside, my senses screaming so loud at the abominable texture that parts of my brain felt like they were withering under the strain.

The binding on books published by pimlico, however, used to be magnificent from a textural point of view. Their paperbacks generally had a smooth surface, with an element of give under the touch, and an ever so slightly chalky texture that was pleasingly distracting without being overwhealming. I wouldn't be surprised to find that my entire enthusiasm for history can be traced back to pimlico bindings (today's equivalent, though far inferior and slightly too reminiscent of cardboard, would be Routledge bindings).

Of course, it goes deeper than this. My relationship with textures goes deeper and is more interesting and exciting than these two examples suggest. I haven't even broached the subject of how my own fingerprints torment me to the point where I want to wear thimbles all the time, but there'll be plenty of opportunities for that kind of thing in the future, I'm sure.

Suffice to say that, were I in charge, the entire world would be made out of metal, bakerlite, rubber, clay, and polished flagstones.

Enjoy your Broadchurch fact!

2006-06-30T12:07:00.000+01:00

Thinking about the last post, the world needs more violence. Not so much the kind of violence that characterises war or it's second cousin, a friday night out in the city centre, but a more limited, regulated form that can be used to solve disputes where honour is involved. I speak of course, of duelling.

Now, of course we can't have people killing each other in the streets over perceived slights, but that shouldn't rule out non-lethal single combat as a means of resolving disputes. As an alternative, I propose we have a system whereby, if deemed resonable, a person's demand to settle an issue by arms can be granted by a magistrate, even if the issue itself isn't strictly a matter for the courts. Both parties spend a day being trained in the rudiments of hand to hand combat, before being led into an enclosure in a wooded glen and left to fight it out, armed with a stun gun and a big stick each.

All this has put me in mind of my old history teacher. I'd drop his fat ass in the blink of an eye.

Who would you like to hunt down in a deserted patch of woodland by the moonlight?

2006-06-30T10:53:00.000+01:00

I was reading about bullying in academia a while back or so. By all accounts it doesn't seem entirely uncommon for new academics to find their more established colleagues making them object of a sustained campaign designed to isolate, intimidate and ultimately force them out of their new job. The methods departmental bullies employ consist of ostricising their victim, making their intention clear through silent hostility and various petty acts, constantly undermining them, and making a series of small complaints which, over a long period of time, have the cumulative effect of making the newcomer appear totally incompetant.

Now, all this is certainly a terrible, if predictable consequence of the insular, collegiate mentality that often pervades university departments. What I have difficulty with is the idea of academics being capable of intimidating someone. I don't mean that they should be above that kind of behaviour - the whole idea of some noble 'academic community' that's 'above it all' is romantic hogwash - I mean that it's difficult to imagine actually being intimidated by most academics. Being so obviously ignored or made the outcast would be as annoying as it is pathetic, of course, and the regular complaints and criticisms made against you potentially damaging and upsetting, but intimidating?

Can anyone imagine being bullied in the truest sense by, say, David Starkey?

As an illustration, here's a choose your own ending adventure.

David Starkey and his friends are menacing you. You have no evidence to prove it, but you're sure he's the one who pinned that drawing of you eating a poo sandwich on your office door. You also suspect him of having made a complaint about you to the departmental head. Even if he's innocent of all of these charges, he's still guilty of being a monumental prick. Do you:

a. Resign and run home crying after your own complaints of bullying go unheeded, forcing you to leave academia and apply for a job licking pigs clean on a remote scottish farm?

b. Put up with it, quietly suffering because you know that no one will pay attention to you if you make a complaint, until you're eventually forced out of your job?

c. Find a job at a different university, living forever with the shame that you actually got bullied by, and effectively ran away from, a preposterous windbag with all the presence and charcter of Mister Toad of Toad Hall.

c. Track him down when he's on his own, throw him against a wall and hiss "listen here, you arrogant little prick, if this doesn't end this fucking instant, I'm going to come for you and pulp your ugly fucking head against the ground with my boot" in his ear, then walk off, leaving him sobbing in the corner as he wrings the urine out of his trousers?

If you answerd a, b, or c, leave this blog immediately, you have no business being here. If you answered d, I salute you! I don't even want to know if there's a more reasonable solution or compromise. Better to go down fighting than implicitly acknowledging that such a person has some kind of power over you. Also, there's a free pizza and a place in my heart forever for anyone who's actually done d, regardless of the outcome.

Is there anything violence can't do?

2006-06-30T07:43:00.001+01:00

It was with considerable glee that I read Charlie Brooker's article on myspace. Not because of its focus on myspace, but on the last few paragraphs railing against the term 'blogosphere' and all that it entails.

The essence of the Euston Manifesto's main faults (apart from the fact that it's a bit crap), for instance, can be found in its use of the term blogosphere. I'd explain further, but I'm too distracted by the thought of shaking Norm Geras by the shoulders and exclaiming "pull yourself together, man!".

Had the Declaration of Independence been formulated online, and started off with "We, a significant constituency of the blogosphere believe these truths to be axiomatic and independent of cultural contexts...", would it still have the same power to inspire or even be taken seriously? No. No it would not. Revolution would have instantly dissolved in a wave of embarrassed shuffling of feet as people thought "Christ, even monarchy's less absurd and irksome than this toss" and started to hurl rotten vegetables at the founding fathers. Even the most mental of dictators, with all their customary delusions of grandeur and rampant egomania, are usually still in touch with the world enough to at least give both the term and the concept of the blogosphere the wide berth it deserves.

This is why the otherwise reasonable idea of liberal democracy finds itself in so much trouble these days, it's rhetoric is crap. Don't get me wrong, I happily believe that arguments and proposals should be judged on their merit, but if you're going to use rhetoric at all, at least put a bit of oomph into it, instead of undermining your entire cause by using language that more properly belongs in a conversation between particularly pretentious and unworldly teenagers.

2006-06-29T22:28:00.000+01:00

The best thing about summer is when other students move out of the city. This isn't because I particularly dislike their presence, but because a walk through the streets suddenly turns into a voyage of discovery through discarded objects that are too big to be stuffed into the back of a range rover, or have been deemed surplus to requirements.

Today a mattress has appeared in front of the building I live in, and, try as I might, I can't resist jumping on it like it's a trampoline every chance I get. Ridiculous I know, as I already have a perfectly good mattress on my bed that I can jump up and down on any time I like, but it's not the same.

Last week saw a discarded desk chair migrating all over the area I live in. My dreams of riding it down a big hill were shattered when it was pointed out that a number of its wheels were missing, and that I would have probably been killed to bits by a car. Life is full of disappointments.

2006-06-29T18:21:00.000+01:00

Is it too late for me to contrive a love for Happy Hardcore, based entirely on the advert for Helter Skelter's United in Hardcore?

No. It's never too late.

2006-06-29T15:10:00.000+01:00

Like Monk, Cash Cab is one of those TV shows that makes me inexplicably happy just to know it exists.

2006-06-28T11:30:00.000+01:00

Is, as Simon Jenkins puts forward, the 21st Century The Age of Charity? Was this age ushered in by the generations and values of 1960's?

It could very well be seen as such, if you fail take into account the significant wave of philanthropism that was a feature of both the late 18th and and early 19th centuries. No matter, writing a decent article would make finding a pleasing hook like 'The Age of Capitalism/Socialism/Charity' far more difficult, what with having to deal with facts and everything.

Having said that, I am sympathetic in that I recognise that the limitations of time and the written word sometimes make it difficult to accurately portray your feelings and thoughts about a given subject. This entire post, for instance, is a pale imitation of what could be so better expressed were I able to stick my tongue into the back of my bottom lip and wail "maaah I a jernlist, by nabe's Siiiimon!" on here.

2006-06-28T00:28:00.000+01:00

Should anyone my age be in any doubt that, yes, you and I are rapidly approaching old, they need only look at the latest Best 100 Greatestmost Albums... Ever! list to appear in Q magazine.

The first few entries in the list initially look worse than they actually are. Dads can like Radiohead - After all, Radiohead always were pretty much Dad Music, their purpose on Earth being to make music that helps ease the transition from being an awkward, unpopular kid to an awkward, bitter dad who likes crap music that annoys his kids, whilst still allowing them to delude themselves into thinking they were somehow hip for a brief moment in time. That they even went so far as to put Radiohead ahead of The Beatles' Revolver isn't even that great a reason for concern - Dads love to be with it, and such a lame, misconceived gesture fits in perfectly with the clumsy dad psyche. So that's fine. That the same can be applied to Q favourites U2 and Jeff Buckley goes without saying, especially in the case of the latter (Jeff Buckley's music being little but a marching tune for the legions of tomorrow's disappointed, middle aged middle managers to advance to).

No, the real kick in the teeth is number 22. There it is, glaring at us like a bald patch: Nirvana's In Utero, nestled between Led Zeppelin and Bob Dylan no less. You can't rationalise that away. The only explanation is that we have finally drifted into Q's target demographic, that we are now the same kind of people as those who, when we were young, wanted nothing more than to read an irreverent interview with Level 42, Chris Rea, or, god forbid, Mark Knopfler. Some of us may have read the occassional issue when we were young, it is true, but the point is that now we are supposed to be reading it.

A more urgent concern, however, is that this entire post is wank: the kind of twatty and shallow self reflection that more properly springs from the pen of some underworked, self-styled humorous hack at the Guardian every time he or she wants to buy a new lampshade, or something.

Ha, and indeed/furthermore, ha.

I'm going to bed.

2006-06-27T11:30:00.000+01:00

Why must nature despise me so? Why the crippling hayfever? Why the spiders (especially the ones who walk across my ceiling at night, feigning clumsiness and pretending they're going to fall on me, just to see the look on my face)?

I appreciate that nature, not understanding human hierarchy and society, may observe my outstanding quality as a person and infer that I must be some kind of high representative for my species, and thus feel compelled to vent its anger on me, but this has been going on for twenty years or more now.

Every summer it's the same story. Nature marches legions of spiders into my house or flat in an attempt to flush me out, hoping to see me run out into the particularly dense cloud of especially potent pollen and other allergens that envelops my home every single year.

Well, tough luck nature! Time to face facts: We win. We can concrete over you and turn your lush jungles into bland, faux-scandinavian wood clad housing any time we like. Who's going to stop us? That twatty old paternalist toffer and full time jabbercock, Monbiot? We'll cook him and serve him up to developers and oil magnates at your wake.

Nature: Toe the line or perish!

2006-06-27T00:05:00.000+01:00

Every world cup the same worries, justified or not, about violence and hooliganism are voiced. Every time Football United find themselves playing Foreign F.C. we sit glued to our seats and watch with baited breath as chairs are hurled hither and thither, comparing the harshness of different countries' riot police. Afterwards we are treated to scenes of innocent fans who got caught up in the violence, and exasperated rozzers both reassuring and cautioning us that it's only a minority who spoil it for everyone else.

The most obvious solution would be to televise the violence, perhaps even provoking it in a controlled environment that allows innocent football fans avoid or even act as spectators. After all, if grown men want to bash each others' skulls in, who are we to stop them? As long as the violence is mutually concensual, I see no reason why we can't revive the spirit of gladiatorial combat as a spectator sport at the same time as giving the world's fightiest football fans the opportunity (empowering them, if you're that way inclined) to indulge in their hobby in a safe, understanding environment, such as a massive colloseum.

The plan writes itself:

1. The fans of local teams in each country nominate their rootinest, tootiness, punchiest peers to compete at a regional level.

2. The best 'players' are identified (usually by picking out those still in possession of both eyes, a full compliment of limbs, and an intact spine) and selected for the national team.

3. For each country, these teams are then promised an unlimited amount of booze and free passes to all matches, in return for them doing what they do best - knocking hell out of each other - in a series of prearranged, televised brawls designed to determine which country can boast the nastiest bastards in the world.

My idea, however, is to go further and hold a parallel competition open to riot police around the globe. The grand final would feature the most psychopathic football fans squaring off against the most hard bitten of the world's riot police (complete with batons and the like), and not even a sniff of law or professional regulation spoiling the fun.

2006-06-25T01:08:00.000+01:00

The Culture Show recently asked its viewers to write in with aspects of British culture that they dislike. That the list was topped by football, Big Brother, and celebrity magazines is no surprise, more so is that they had the nerve to call the feature discussing this 'Unpopular Culture'.

I know, the term 'unpopular' is legitimate when we restrict the base of opinion surveyed to that of the dreary kind of circle of artfuckers who are so insular that they have almost resorted to using shite fanzines and exhibition programmes as an alternative form of currency, but even the hilarious pun in the title is a bit telling - the whole piece affected mock astonishment and quietly sneered "ah, see? Your so-called 'popular culture' isn't quite so popular after all" through the smug grin of a once unpopular child who has long since found a way to rationalise it's friendless existence into a testament to their own moral and intellectual superiority.

I'm no fan of football, Big Brother, or celebrity magazines, but I can still resist the temptation to criticise them solely in order to shamelessly emphasise my own superiority*. It's at times like these that I can empathise with whoever destroyed the Library of Alexandria. I doubt the library was the intended target, but rather the coffee shop next door filled with insufferable citizens braying to one another with practiced enthusiasm about how this or that manuscript or papyrus roll changed their life/outlook.

*Of course, this is because my brilliance compared with the rest of creation is a simple fact of nature, independent of context, popularity or a lack of it, or even achievement.

2006-06-23T23:20:00.000+01:00

Harold Pinter can, and should, fuck off.

So can Kirsty Wark, who's currently engaged in fawning over the billious old tosser, as can be seen in this selection:

Pinter: errrrghhhahh how errrachachach can errr children... born... ahhhh children with teddy bears... hmmmerrragharrrrrr grow up to... ah... be... oh... grow up to be monsters?

Kirsty nods enthusiastically, smiles, nods some more with a look of grateful enlightenment

Pinter: Uhhhhh There's no... grahhhhhhhh no answer to it.... rarrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhh. No... um... answer is there?*

Kirsty's enthusiastic nodding begins to tune in to the resonant frequency of the studio's structure, causing it to cave in as she tries to ask "Where do you get your ideas from" in as many different ways as is possible (at one point going as far as to ask it in binary).

*Answer: Yes there is. Harold's just idealising children, specifically in tacitly regarding 'innocence' as a definite quality that can somehow be 'lost', rather than the consequence of an absence of quality, and the whatnot.

Now he's taking about mobile phones (They are a modern plague, apparently).

Also, Steve Coogan should really call it a day. Alan Partridge with a beard is just as tired as he is without one.

2006-06-23T00:44:00.000+01:00

No. Still can't think of a decent post, so here's a shower of lists of bestestmosts and the such and such.

Best European Countries.

1. United Kingdom of Great Britain.

Best name, best flag, and partly founded by those chancers of history known as the Vikings and their cousins the Normans - The United Kingdom is obviously the best. Who needs high culture and philosophy when you're a nation that's content to raid and pillage it's neighbour on and off for an entire century or more, just to make a point? According to the statistics available on Nationmaster.com, the United Kingdom is a nation of tea drinking (1st in the world), amphetamine addicted nobel laureates and car thieves (all 2nd place).

2. Austria.

All the grandeur and former glory of Paris without the great power pretentions, all the little nation charm sprinkled with stately monuments to a much larger, imperial past, Austria would have won my heart even without such influences, simply because their pre-Euro currency was the Shilling/Schilling. Vienna looks so much more important than it actually is, and the inhabitants of Austria have thankfully adopted a more reserved (some say haughty) demeanour than the affected meekness of other small nation former world powers.

3. Portugal

To be honest, I hadn't thought that much further than Austria. All I know about Portugal is that the military alliance between her and the United Kingdom is the oldest in the world that's still in existence (over seven hundred years old), but I'm sure that it's all good.

4. Poland

The great power that never was. I enjoyed my brief visit to Poland, and not just because the cigarettes were cheap and seemed to be made out of petrol, firelighters, and little else. Thankfully, Poland has long since ceased to be so fashionable a destination for the kind of people who don't even bat an eye whilst moaning about materialism at the same time as forking out £200 on some twatty lampshade posing as object d'art, so it's safe to like it again.

5. Meh! I don't know. Now we're into 'best of the rest' territory. The baltics seem too obvious a choice, the balkans too unlikely. Big nations are too much like Britain, only not as good, whereas the other small nations can't really hold a candle to Portugal or Austria. Scandinavia? How do you decide between them? Only Finland really stands apart, but would you put Finland in at number five? I didn't think so. As such, by default - Hungary.

2006-06-23T00:23:00.000+01:00

Now that I'm finished with study (or at least trying to avoid it) until I manage to dupe some unwitting academic into letting me onto a postgraduate course, perhaps I can stop watching so much television and start writing proper posts on here.

Either that or I'll spend all summer playing Glory of the Roman Empire on my PC. Yes, yes, I know: Hang my head, and all that, but I haven't yet told you the best bit of this Sim City set in antiquity! One of the selling points listed on the back of the packaging is "Improve your Latin as you play". That's right, buster! It can be played with the commentary, etc. entirely in Latin.

Today is a good day.

2006-06-22T15:08:00.000+01:00

I've been avoiding talking about maths recently thanks largely to a dread of exams and results, my natural reaction to anything inevitable being to look the other way and hum a merry little tune until it smacks me right in the back of my head. Results day is, however, today, and let it be known that there will be many votive gifts offered to Fortuna on this day, for I managed to pull the iron out of the fire and score a 2:1, with firsts in some of the trickier subjects, and a kick ass 82 on my project (which, I don't mind saying, bore the comment "of a level closer to postgraduate work than undergraduate). Not bad for an old chancer who, unlike most who claim never to have attended lectures, actually didn't, and who managed to fail the entirity of his second year.

And how better to celebrate than with maths?

Stefan from London says "I want to say that "0.9 recurring" isn't a number but I can't think of a way of doing it that doesn't lead to the conclusion that "one third", or Pi aren't numbers either."

With a view to rigour, I'd say that you're right and that the school referenced in the article is wrong (but not seriously so), since technically 0.9 recurring isn't in itself a number but the formula for an infinite decimal expansion, the limit of which is 1 (which is a number). However, for everyday purposes it's fine to use 0.9 recurring as a kind of shorthand for this limit (after all, it can't mean much else: 'a + b', for instance, means nothing on its own. It's not even a formula in the first order logic of arithmetic, but merely a legitimate term).

Confusion arises not so much because of this, but because of the treatment given to one third and Pi in your statement. Pi and one third are indeed both numbers, but can again are to be treated as the limits of infinite decimal expansions (0.3 recurring and 3.14159... ) and not the expansions themselves, where again the expansions themselves aren't numbers, but tend to a number (its limit) at infinity .

The problem with the article is that it regularly confuses limits with expansions, and some of the proofs actually 'hide' some of the detail. 3 times 1/3 for instance is indeed 1, but the statement "3 times 1/3 = 1 = 3 times 0.3 recurring = 0.9 recurring" is, in my point of view meaningless (but harmlessly so if we treat it as short hand). A more accurate statement requires a little bit of notation and a fact or two about the algebra of limits:

Let lim (function) mean the limit at infinity of the function in the parenthesis, and let it be assumed (it is in fact true) that a times lim (function) = lim (a times function), where a is a given number.

Then, a more accurate statement would be:

1 = 3 times 1/3 = 3 times lim (0.3 recurring) = lim (3 times 0.3 recurring) = lim (0.9 recurring).

2006-06-19T21:29:00.000+01:00

Pity poor Niall Ferguson, for his worries must be twofold at the moment:

1. He's the most current object of The Penitent Hari's ostentatious bid to win back the hearts, and readership, of the anti-war left-wing (consisting in the main of ripping a couple of pages straight out of Mike Davis' Late Victorian Holocausts and adopting a suitably repentant tone when, inevitably, he brings up Iraq for no apparent reason other than to dismiss all his prior opinions and beliefs as mere folly) .

2. It turns out that his new show is a bit rubbish.

If you didn't catch it, you can probably imagine it. First there's the visual format: It is a problem common to all documentaries on History that there's not much you can show once all the stock footage has been used up, and so they solve the problem by projecting it onto bridges and tombstones, interspersed with footage of Niall travelling all over the world like Simon Schama with more air miles. Here's Niall "Home Counties' Choice" Ferguson on the Russian underground (he's talking about trains, you see), there he is peeping round a corner in Bosnia (the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand), now he's on a boat, etc.

Then there's the fact that it all seems a bit old hat. He promises to tell us something we didn't know, but only succeeds in telling us stuff that, based on his own thirty year old experiences with secondary education, he's assumed we don't already know. Essentially, his supposed revelations sound more like an answer to old marxist historians that is at least twelve years too late, than it does a fresh commentary. There's already a wealth of books out there on the racial focus of conflict in the twentieth century, as well as the prominant place in the history of those conflicts that minorities find themselves in (two of the big themes of the first episode).

Lastly, there's his irritating habit of stating the obvious with an air and tone that suggests whoever's watching should immediately gasp "Never!" in response before clapping their hands red raw. Take for example his narration on the British and German forces in the First World War: Niall first startles us with the knowledge that German and British society wasn't that dissimilar; Once we're reeling from that sucker punch, we find our heads spinning as he recites a list of similarities (such as aristocratic officers); Finally, he reveals to us that despite all this both sides demonised one another using slurs that were largely racially based, all with an expression on his face that suggests he's imagining that we're all trembling on the floor, urinating into our trousers uncontrollably and sobbing with astonishment. In reality, most of us are crying "So the fuck what?". After all, the Napoleonic wars saw both France and Britain portraying each other in a detrimental and sinister light along largely racial lines, indeed it is a feature of most wars between nations that the enemy is characterised as wicked and racially inferior (morally, as well as an opponent).

In fact, in my thoroughly uneducated view, much of Ferguson's narrative and what he concludes as fundamental to our understanding of 'The World War', focusing as it does on genocide, ethnic cleansing, the suspicion and persecution of minorities and attitudes towards the enemy could just as easily have come from a documentary on the Crusades as it could 'The World War'. Quite what, if anything, made the twentieth century's conflicts so different in this respect goes unremarked. Taking all this into account, what we're left with is little more than a standard argument wrapped up in a snazzy wrapper (the drum and bass over scenes of battle ships shelling fortifications is a bit much). If it had been marketed as such it would be pretty good, but it wasn't, so it's not.

2006-06-18T23:44:00.000+01:00

Ever wondered how Ofcom grade the offensiveness of certain words? Yes, that's right, they do go out onto the streets and abduct 'representatives' of every gender, sexuality, colour, and religion and force them at knife point to take part in a focus group.

Anyway, as you can see, I really didn't know how to start this post, and it seems to have all gone to hell, so let's cut to the chase.

According to those in the know, 'Shag' is more offensive than 'twat'. 'Wanker' is the 4th most offensive swearword! Worse, in the eyes of Ofcom's victims than even racial slurs! 'Spastic', on the other hand, is less offensive than 'Piss Off', but more offensive than 'Shit', which itself just pips 'Dickhead' to the position of 17th most offensive word in the universe.

'Mong', however, does not appear on the list, which is why I'm going to write a screenplay for CBBC called 'Tommy Ming Mong and the Very Merry Flid'. It's going to be a bit like Jonny Briggs.

Here's the file: rude words!

NB: 'Tits' and 'Shit' were once said on Live and Kicking, hopefully by Andi Peters. Also, Gimme Gimme Gimme was singled out for the very specific phrase 'Mobile up your arse', suggesting that the offensiveness of an arse is largely dependent on what happens to be up it at the time - a mobile being the worst thing you can have up your arse. Ever.

2006-06-14T00:46:00.000+01:00

Here's a long boring article about hip and stylish Southwark.

You'll notice that it's very long, and very boring. So boring, in fact, that you may not initially notice this bit:

"Today, it will cost you £695,000 if you want to join the likes of Carol Thatcher and own one".

This place is apparently so hip and stylish as to make the cutting edge look like a rubber spoon, and yet the hippest, most stylish inhabitant that can be found is "the likes of Carol Thatcher"?

2006-06-13T00:57:00.000+01:00

Yes, I'm gangsta trippin' my way back into the routine of blogging.

So...

What's in the news today?

Well, John Cleese has retired from comedy because, y'know, ratings, studio executives, and a general decline in the moral fibre of today's youth. On the subject of having his latest sit-com cancelled, Cleese says "The second episode of Fawlty Towers got several negative reviews but the old BBC just ignored them - I doubt Monty Python would have survived these days".

He might be right, not least because Monty Python was a bit shit, for the most part deviating little from the following model:

1. X walks into everyday scene A and approaches Y, who may or may not be wearing a very funny false moustache.

2. X and Y manage to jabber at one another in excruciatingly funny voices for five minutes, during which both characters fixate on some minor misunderstanding or complaint.

3. Y temporarily breaks whatever agonizingly contrived conflict has been the focus of the dialogue by introducing a funny sounding word that sounds even funnier as the name of a product/person/place.

4. The conflict is eventually resolved after a further five minutes of funny sounding jibber jabber involving brief and repeated namechecks of one or more First Year's Choice brand authors or philosophers.

5. Finally, Y steps out from behind his desk to reveal he's wearing stockings/he has a fish sticking out of his arse/he's actually a police man/whatever.

Cue boring cartoon and an even more boring sketch featuring Terry Jones shrieking and/or prancing around in a dress.

Stop your griping, Cleese. That Monty Python survived for as long as five years is in itself an effective criticism of the cherished old glory days BBC.

2006-05-31T00:12:00.000+01:00

What happens when the oil runs out?

According to the BBC, we're all going to be replaced with really bad actors, and the world will have all the drama and interest of an extended crimewatch reconstruction.

2006-05-26T01:48:00.000+01:00

Watching the Bush-Blair press conferance on News24 made me cringe deeply inside.

On one hand of the room could be seen the American journalists: civil, sharp, asking detailed questions on specific issues whilst also demonstrating a nice line in subtle wit.

On the other, the British press corps: studiously airy, loud, fishing for cheap headline fodder with questions like "what's your biggest regret?", and pissing about asking "what will you miss about each other?", "are you sending in your CV? (to Tony Blair, on the position of secretary-general of the UN)".

Is this the fabled magic of British journalism, as embodied by a slightly dishevelled 'character' whose irreverence towards the powers that be is matched only by his capacity for dazzling insight? No. One look at the people who made up the press corp is enough to hammer the nails into the coffin of that particular myth; all of them were well turned out and looked like the sort of nervous, attention starved wannabe over-achiever who still hasn't realised that they are, and always will be the unlikable spods they always have been.

In short, it was like watching the chess club trying to act cool and stylishly indifferent in an effort to impress some grown ups.

2006-05-25T16:40:00.000+01:00

It's rumoured that the Big Brother production team select Pete "Tourette's" Something to pave the way for next year's Big Brother where Davina McCall is going to be hurling jars full of angry wasps into a special needs class and filming the results.

Anyway, before Pete there was another man who rose from obscurity to champion those like himself with Tourette's; one who also saw in TV an opportunity to portray to the nation a positive image of people with this condition. The result? Joy for thousands of schoolkids at witnessing such marvelous swearing, and this site.

2006-05-25T00:59:00.000+01:00

In a bid to become the internet's number one source for all things Lawson, here is More Lawson Wisdom:

"...in the late 1990s, a relaxation of film censorship in Britain coincided with a public health drive, movie directors liked to joke that it would soon be possible to show a close-up of anal sex on screen as long as the participants didn't smoke afterwards.

This exact scenario is currently being tested by Caroline Flint, a health minister, who was revealed this week to be suffering Hamlet-like agonies over whether the impending total ban on smoking in public places should apply to theatres and film and television sets."

The exact scenario is being tested? So Caroline Flint is personally going to try and get a film of eyeball poppingly close-up triple X bumhole befuckery on at the local Odeon?

Caroline Flint, promoting the film
'Bumholes Aplenty!' at Doncaster Multiplex.

A bumhole.

2006-05-24T01:10:00.000+01:00

It's always a tough contest, but is this the most deluded article Mark Lawson has yet written?

A blockbuster film raking in the cash despite the opinion of critics such as Lawson? Who could have everimagined such a thing until recently?

2006-05-22T22:38:00.000+01:00

The Summer of Love, 1967

Saturday 27 May

9 pm - 10:10 pm

BBC2

Armed only with a handful of stock responses and self-serving prefab banalities, everyone who grew up in the 60's collectively bemoan the world that they in fact helped to create, and mythologise their own youths to the point where an entire decade is reduced to their own personal morality play in which dead bodies rotting in the jungles of Vietnam magically spring to life and, like some ghoulish adaption of the Greek Chorus, sing the praises of those speaking.

The 1960's, a time when an entire generation found that there's no reflection more flattering than that which is to be found in a pool of blood.

2006-05-18T01:02:00.000+01:00

More AUT news for those who are interested.

I was interested to chance upon this page and read:

Bristol: Picketing all main buildings. Live interview on Radio Bristol with Bill Beaumont, Sue Moyers and a student representative. Bristol Students Union is supporting them.

On the day of the picket I was on the university precinct (some photos appear on this blog somewhere) and found no pickets at the Physics or the Maths building. The only sign I saw of any activity were a few abandoned placards laying outside the central computing facilities. Futher more, Bistol Students' Union has been opposed to the strike action from the start, urging students to send letters of protest to the AUT's representative for Bristol, as well as (along with Exeter and a number of other student unions) coming out publically against the AUT.

So, not content with being seen merely as a collection of belligerant oafs, the AUT is now happy to resort to outright lies.

The best comment I've seen so far on this whole mess appears here, and is worth quoting in full:

"The AUT are a bunch of gaylords. If my project work doesn't get marked then i'm going to mark it myself"

Amen.

2006-05-15T20:20:00.000+01:00

If there's one thing the Dispatches programme on the Animal Liberation movement can teach us is how embarrassed we should feel at our medical research being shaken by what appear to be a group of beligerant pensioners, pretentious teenagers, the kind of people who believe in UFO's and refer to their pets as their 'babies', naughty children in adult bodies, and egotistical wannabe agitators.

Should we be embarrassed to the point where the only reasonable course of action appears to be to place me at the head of a police state that allows medical research be conducted on the more militant members of Animal Rights groups? Yes.

2006-05-15T14:56:00.000+01:00

I sure wish that the BBC was a subscription only service. Of course I'd still subscribe, and would continue to grumble on about it, but at least I'd be living with my own decision to fund such a tossy, self-important relic.

2006-05-13T12:08:00.000+01:00

Thank the Heavens for the free copy of Cities Guide Essentials that came with this week's Economist, otherwise I'd have nothing to write about here. Its stated aim is a guide to business ettiquette around the world, although, with minor alterations, it could have taken on the infinitely more appealing incarnation of a guide to the most joyless places on Earth to do business.

New York is clearly occupies the top position on any list of the most po-faced places to have business meetings, coming across as positively up-tight with its 7 am meetings, mineral water, ban on asking potential employees' age (just in case you're planning to discriminate their wrinkled old backside back to the job centre) and tendency to see "smoking... as a sign of weakness". No wonder American money tends to look a bit drab, since so much of it has had to pass through New York. At least they don't fucking hug each other though, unlike, apparently, the current fashion in Los Angeles, where it will soon be the norm to end each business meeting with a five minute session of making daisy chains and weeping over all the terrible things that happen in the world. The one exception to the general North American rule in the guide seems to be Altanta where, according to the Economist, it's all pressed suits, sweet tea, and bottles of wine.

The best place is Moscow: Dealings have to take into account superstitions, a tendency to employ rudeness as a test of the visitor's resolve, regular toasts, vast amounts of food, and it being advisable to claim you're on antibiotics if you don't want to booze it up old style (which makes me wonder whether Russian businessmen are bemused by the numbers of their western counterparts who are all so sickly that they're apparently all on a permanent supply of medicines).

2006-05-12T09:07:00.000+01:00

First an assessment boycott, and now a new boycott aimed at Israeli Academics. I think the only reasonable explanation for all this rather limp aggro is that the entire higher education system is going through an embarassing mid-life crisis.

I look forward to seeing aging lecturers self-consciously milling around the dancefloor of a provincial trance night, performing some bastard version of the timewarp for an hour before running home sobbing.