The project I’ve been working on for the last few months has come to an end. At least the funding has, it’s not finished so there’s still more to do and I intend to do it. Not sure why, maybe because I want to see it working properly. Blimey, that almost sounds like professional integrity doesn’t it? In fact, the pressure from the last few days has clearly taken its toll. My concentration has been slipping. Last night, some debugging code got left inside the live version of the software which was published on the web. Today I received a panicked phone call from the project manager asking why all the tooltips (the little messages that appear when you hold the mouse over an icon) all said “ARSE!”. He thought I was having a dig at him! Little did he know it’s because I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for a while.
On the upside I’ve learned a great deal about Java, GUIs and the nature of development work. I’ve also spent a long time at home keeping Humph company. On the downside I’ve not needed to move more than a few metres from the sofa in the last few months and the lack of excercise is taking its toll on my body, which is slowly beginning to fall apart in accordance with the 2nd law of thermodynamics.
So it’s time for a new regime! Out goes much of the red wine and lethargy, in comes excercise and a load of pointless but possibly enjoyable walking. Out go fry-ups and red-meat, in come Bran Flakes and chicken salad…oh god…
Lots of thinking has gone-on inside my rotting brain recently. Sadly the mulling has not produced any fruits worth a mention. I’ll let you know if the situation changes.
The tunnel of U.S. immigration is still concealing any signs of light. No hidden skills have manifested in me, leading me to see the future looking like some Orwellian Microsoft-based nightmare. I’ll die first!
Worst of all, this link from popbitch puts me firmly in the LibDem’s catchment area… I reassure myself that this is merely indicative of how right-wing Labour have become, rather than how right-wing I’ve become. Please ?

One of the most important things you have to do when writing a blog, is to write a blog. If you stop writing a blog, you stop writing a blog, and your readers get bored and go down the pub. This is a major problem for depressive bloggers because depression really inhibits one’s confidence to write a load of objectively bland stuff for the sake of not-much. The less you write, the less frequently people bother to check it…until it rots away to buggery…

Anyway, while Humphrey pecks at the edge of the screen on this laptop, in a (successful) attempt to get some attention, I want to tell you about the City Inn in Birmingham. It’s where I stayed last night (courtesy of the British taxpayer) and it is my ideal hotel:

• FREE Internet access for all guests with ethernet AND wireless (and a bunch of exposed PCs, ripe for the hacking)!
• TV, DVD player (with DivX support), Corby trouser press (unused) in every room
• 24 hour room service, with good, cheap, food
• A bar that opens late
• A superb restaurant – haddock risotto with poached egg, followed by poached salmon with roased vegetables and salad 🙂
• Friendly staff
• Other things

We (a colleague and I) were in Birmingham for a two day event which could well be the most disgusting waste of taxpayers money ever. It does go on you know. Everyone there was very earnest, of course, and all felt it to be worthwhile, but I can honestly say that it would have been equally productive and far cheaper if the organizer had simply sat in his room at home and burnt £10 notes for a day. Such a pity. There are so many problems within education that need sorting out, and there is so much money to do it. It’s just a shame that the money ends up all getting poured down the khazi like this.
By day-two the tedium and pointlessness of it all had necessitated drastic action. Whilst I was psychologically prepared to sit through it all again, my colleague could bear it no longer and was so desperate to go back and start doing productive stuff again that we shunned the free lunch, coffee, tea and awkward conversations with tedious cretins in favour of going home.

But, it was a great night that involved eating gorgeous food, and then sitting reading some fluffy Tom Sharpe book in the hotel bar with a pint of Guiness or two. This is my idea of heaven.

Before this, there were load of noteworthy events that remain unblogged for various reasons. Just to help jog my memory, here are a few clues:

• Easter! Some nice wind-down events in various bars/pubs
• Visiting my parents and indulging in lovely food and company. In fact, last sunday we took Humph over there and sat in the garden…lovely. My sister called too – it was really lovely to speak to her! (Ok Frances ? 🙂
• A great night in Brockley with Dr J and Petra. After a few in the Brockley Barge we staggered off to the Wickham with Stuart H for some nice arguments. I may have consumed more Summer Lightning than that which could be considered polite…sorry
• Lucinda’s super-human catering event, where she managed to russle-up enough lasagne for 5,000 people in her house, from only 3 slices of pasta and 2 bits of beef. Great day that was, although I might have had a tad too much red wine than that which could be considered polite
• [Humph is currently talking to and dancing for my foot 🙂 ]
• Loads of other things that I can’t currently remember

Spot the difference.
Firstly, this from Monty Python and the Holy Grail:
MORTICIAN: Bring out your dead!
CUSTOMER: Here’s one — nine pence.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead!
MORTICIAN: What?
CUSTOMER: Nothing — here’s your nine pence.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead!
MORTICIAN: Here — he says he’s not dead!
CUSTOMER: Yes, he is.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not!
MORTICIAN: He isn’t.
CUSTOMER: Well, he will be soon, he’s very ill.
DEAD PERSON: I’m getting better!
CUSTOMER: No, you’re not — you’ll be stone dead in a moment.
MORTICIAN: Oh, I can’t take him like that — it’s against regulations.
DEAD PERSON: I don’t want to go in the cart!
CUSTOMER: Oh, don’t be such a baby.
MORTICIAN: I can’t take him…
DEAD PERSON: I feel fine!
CUSTOMER: Oh, do us a favor…
MORTICIAN: I can’t.
CUSTOMER: Well, can you hang around a couple of minutes? He won’t be long.
MORTICIAN: Naaah, I got to go on to Robinson’s — they’ve lost nine today.
CUSTOMER: Well, when is your next round?
MORTICIAN: Thursday.
DEAD PERSON: I think I’ll go for a walk.
CUSTOMER: You’re not fooling anyone y’know. Look, isn’t there something you can do?
DEAD PERSON: I feel happy… I feel happy.
[whop]
CUSTOMER: Ah, thanks very much.
MORTICIAN: Not at all. See you on Thursday.

Secondly, this from the BBC:
“I’m standing here, in the vatican, in the final few hours of the Pope’s life.”
N.B. This is nearly 24 hours since he was given the last rites.
With all the prayers that people are saying for him, through waterfalls of tears, I confidently expect him to live forever! Go Go The Pontiff!
Excuse me, an atheist, for asking such a “naive” question, but, why are people praying ?
To keep him alive ? Surely not! Whatever happens is God’s will! He’s God’s chosen chap, so what can prayer do at all ? Answers on a bogroll please.

Here’s a random anecdote that I’m including for posterity. A while ago, Nedene had a hen night. Being girls, they managed to get to the station late. In fact, just in time to see the train leave. Rather than put up with it and wait in the cold, Nedene stuck out her fishnet-stocking-clad leg…and the fucking train stopped and reversed, probably breaking several laws and Railtrack regulations! Really! The driver clearly felt their plight, or wanted to, and they got on!
It’s not fair; that wouldn’t work for me.

Easter’s coming up which means yet more paid leave! The public sector rocks! However, this bloody project is still eating up my free time. But, I’m going to go and see Brodie, wander down to Greenwich to check out a new hotel to assess its suitability for my father-in-law and try to relax before my heart and lungs give out. Random things:

• We might even get a chance to address the 14,000 sheets of paper sent to us by the U.S. immigration service about my visa to live in the U.S.
• It’s been a year since we temporarily moved in to halls. How depressing. At least they’ve been kind to us thus far.
• We didn’t pay a deposit
• I have a sleepy parrot on my leg and she’s lovely.
• Thanks to Ella, I have rekindled my love of Fairport Convention…ahh
• My broken laptop has returned from the menders after about 10 years…dear laptop. How I’ve missed you. Humph too.
• On saturday I went to a big “troops out” demo with Dave H’s family. God has clearly changed his mind about the left, because the sun stayed out.
• Probably other things…

All over the world, March 17th was a day to celebrate a great Brit who rid Ireland of Snakes (or Druids, depending on your beliefs): St Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. Don’t panic if you thought he was Irish; the patron saint of England, St George, was probably Iraqi and is also the patron saint of syphillis. Ho Hum.
Anyway, the traditional ritual used to celebrate St Paddy is heavy drinking, dancing, and singing, so what could we do ? We started off at the SU and enjoyed cheap red wine on the balcony as we watched the glorious sunset over New Cross (pictures to follow). Then, after one of our number had stumbled home to convince her boyfriend she was “shober ash a judge”, we headed off to The Walpole where the traditional, Guiness-sponsored, pastiche of Irishness was well under way. The landlord, Brendan, did everyone proud: an Irish themed Karaoke; Guinness merchandise; free boiled bacon and cabbage; two Jameson for two quid; loads of drunk people dancing about like fools etc.
When it became obvious that I had to leave before something regrettable occurred, I proudly and happily staggered off up the road.
Beck (a freid of Vic) thought it a good idea to send me an SMS consisting of the words “Nice Pants”, which related to an earlier converastion that I won’t go into.
Being in a state of tired emotionality she initially got the number wrong – luckily it was a land-line, and therfore incapable of receiving text messages. Pity, because that would have made a good anecdote.

BUT

there was one small thing she had neglected to take into account. A while ago she signed up for a very useful service that will relay text messages to land-lines using a computerised voice!

The next day, she dragged herself out of her hangover and into the school she works at as a teacher. On arrival, a worried secretary intercepted her to ask about a strange message left on the school answerphone by a strage computerised voice:
“A message has been received from Rebecca XXXXXXXX at 12:02. Message reads: Nice Pants”
Hearing that story instantly cured my hangover and caused an impromptu visit to the bog.

It’s been a struggle to avoid quoting from this superb book while I’ve been reading it. Every page deserves to be printed out, blown up and given out in the street. But I can’t take it any more. So here is the first quote…unfortunately there will be more to follow:

The new irrationalism is an expression of despair by people who feel impotent to improve their lives and suspect that they are at the mercy of secretive, impersonal forces, whether these be the Pentagon or invaders from Mars. Political leaders accept it as a safe outlet for dissent, fulfilling much the same function that Marx attributed to religion- the heart of a heartless world, the opium of the people. Far better for the powerless to seek solace in crystals, ley-lines and the myth of Abraham than in actually challenging the rulers, or the social and economic system over which they preside.

A lot of nice stuff went on this week:

• We managed to sort out the ongoing Aries load problems. Aries is one of our poor old servers that is still doing a sterling job. By his age he should really be in a bath chair, in the country, with loads of other aging servers and a tartan blanket over his power supplies. Good Aries!
• Me, Dave Harvey, Dave Harvey [not a typo] and Ian went down to see Brodie in his last week managing the lovely cricketers. Under the surface I think we all found the event a tad emotional; I did anyway. Nonetheless the overriding emotion was happiness. Such a good day. It’s odd when you find a truly friendly pub: when you are away for a long while and then come back, nothing appears to have changed and the locals all seem just as happy as they were the last time. Brodie’s pubs are always like that. We has some lovely bitter (Fullers – don’t knock it, it was the best bitter I’ve had since the last real ale festival). A lovely chinese meal and lots of laughing in the country. Should be on the NHS.
• Friday was typical, but all the better for it.
• Today I worked at Daydream. Again, it’s nice to work somewhere else from time to time, especially with Ralph. We managed to achieve a lot and when I left I went for a micro-explore: Ely place. Ever since I heard an excess baggage about it, I was obsessed with going there. Despite being located in central London, it is, or possibly ‘was’, part of Cambridgeshire. Apparently (although this is probably tourist bullshit) the city police still need permission from the Cambridge constabulary before they can enter it.
• Work managed to replace my aging phone with a 6230. 6230 – how bland does that sound ? If I were Nokia’s marketing manager I would start using cliches like “paradigm shift” in relation to this masterpiece. It looks bland too! but it’s a digital camera; digital video recorder; FM radio; MP3 player; diary; wap browser; bluetooth device; infrared devide; emailer and all round geek pacifier! Listening to Radio 4 on the way to work and some Carpetface MP3s on the way back on my phone really did it for me. How bloody annoying then that I have lost my bluetooth dongle. So annoying that I’m going to buy another one tomorrow. If it turns up, and it surely will, then I’ll sell it! Nyeh!
• Other nice stuff

Let’s not even begin talking about Michele’s parrotastic day 🙂

Good night.

So, the Vagina festival is still going on at the SU. Today I saw a leaflet advertising forthcoming events, one of which was a raffle. A list of predictable prizes (a copy of the Vagina Monologues; a sextoy from Sh! [sic] etc ad nausiam) included the following:
“Mooncup, the healthy and environmental solution.”

Solution to what I wonder ? Of course, the answer is periods. This is female emancipation: you can bang on about vaginas, write the word all over the street, stand on stage and talk about it….but just avoid the subject of periods…
Why are they scared to mention it ? As a 33 year old man who has lived with a few women, periods really don’t bother me any more than peeing.
So why are these radical feminists scared of the ‘p’ word ? Answers on a *ostcard *lease.

• The BBC asks Trevor Phillips, head of the Commission for Racial Equality, to examine and comment on an Americn report into “black only” classes.
• Mr Phillips examines the report and announces that whilst he doesn’t necessarily think it’s the answer, such radical proposals should not be overlooked.
• The BBC announce that Trevor Phillips is suggesting black only classes and call for comments from every gobby, Daily Mail reading, neo-nazi they can find.
• BBC News headline: Black boys ‘segregation’ rejected.

There you have it, a news story from absolutely nowhere, cooked up entirely by the BBC, with everything in it: race, political correctness, outspoken opinions and education.

Channel 4 is currently upholding its reputation of showing gratuitous sexual, violent, and generally crap telly in the name of objective journalism or, Benn help us, art. A brilliant excuse to show penises, vaginas, tits, sex (both gay and straight), swearing (including “cunt” and “nigger”), all in the name of art!
Personally, I like to make my own mind up about what I want to watch, and so far I haven’t been offended. But, given the warning they thoughtfully provided before every segment, if something did offend me, I wouldn’t hold C4 to blame. In fact, by tomorrow I’d probably have forgotten about it. Like most people.
My only complaint is that C4 are still attempting to wrap their tawdry crap up as anything other than, well, tawdry crap. In fact I can’t help thinking they are using the same techniques as “comedy” video/audio publishers: saying things like “WARNING! This video contains SEX and VIOLENCE that may accidentally TURN YOU ON”, or “DANGER! Watching this video may cause you to become very excited in a scary way and cause stains”.

Last Friday, like most other nights last week, I went up the Union. It just so happened that the upcoming “vagina” night was being rehersed. This VAGINA night is about womens awareness and, clearly, about VAGINAS. So, obviously, they were doing extracts from the VAGINA monologues.
Now, I’ve never seen the VAGINA monologues but so many people went on about how good it was, that I assumed it was probably quite interesting.
However, from what I saw on Friday, I can only assume that it was simply a bunch of female drama students practising their American accents and saying the word “vagina” every 30 seconds. The last stat is based on the fact that every time I, or any of my friends, walked out to the khazi via the hall, we always heard the word vagina spoken in an American accent. We estimated that the “VAGINAS per minute” rate was at least 2 for the whole performance.
“I realised it was my VAGINA!”
“Heh, my VAGINA!”
“my VAGINA! has flaps”
etc ad nausiam.
I would never go to see a load of blokes on stage talk about their COCKS or BELLENDs. Purely because it would be boring shit. Penises are not that interesting, and neither are vaginas. They don’t harbour some metaphysical answer or power-source! They are simply sexual organs. Now, you combine the two and things get interesting…but really…on their own, they are pretty dull.
I sincerely hope that the whole VAGINA monologue thing isn’t based on blinkered stupidity. Deep down I really want to go and see it so that I can see how intelligent and clever it is. If it turns out that it is simply a load of dim, boring, public-school-girl actresses who still find the word “vagina” dangerous and shocking, then I pity everyone who paid to see it. 50% of the population have a VAGINA! Get over it.
The other 50% can’t get over how great their genitals are (even without another partner) but even they don’t dare get on stage to go on about it.
As for swearing, me and Michele have been reading Viz since 1987 so you can’t offend us.

Good night 🙂