…Crush Crush Lie and Die*. If I’d spent any time whatsoever in casual analysis during a vigorous hour of Spider rehoming, the sheer volume of gossamer webs could be simply explained by enumorous prey stupid enough to be caught.

These winged spitters and shitters are noticeably more prevalent out here in the boondocks. And after much fencing with the furry loofer of doom – “Ha, take that you bounder” Swish/Swipe/Twirl “I am Zorro and this is my sword“- the border guards were evicted and the flybarians were at the gate.

And soon through it, but only hunting in packs of two. And not the same two as testified by the fly graveyard under my monitor. There must be hundreds waiting desperately outside, “Hey Bill, you gotta get in there, flashing lights, crumbs, whole acres of stuff to shit on, it’s ace” but something is preventing them from entering in a back swarm.

Maybe there’s a Tower Fly directing traffic “Permission to fly in and poo?” / “Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full“**. Still in the meantime, is there a departure lounge where “Flies like us” or “The Fly that loved me” are playing?

And every time a brace buzz in to visit dead relatives, they come into the orbit of THE DESTROYER OF FLIES, THE SCOURGE OF INSECTS, THE SPLATTERER OF WINGS or – to demyth the object a bit – a rolled up jiffy bag. No not that sort.

I’m confident that through the wonder of natural selection, a few fly generations downstream of those flat-plastered onto my monitor will instinctively know that to enter the kingdom of the splatter is to miss out on all the other buzzing, shitting, spitting and being generally annoying opportunities on offer elsewhere.

And if not, well it’s a quick dance of death as they desperately try to evade the swinging reaper, before the inevitable end as their tiny brain is squeezed out of their arse at high pressure.

Lord of the Flies, That’s me.

* 80’s hit. Lead singer had “Prongy Bow Wave” Haircut second in silliness only to that Gel Advert from a Flock of Seaguls.

** It’s a multi media eighties homage in here today.

A few years ago, the pony tail and red braces tribe spent time I’ll never get back “strategising“* that all companies would only be successful if they exposed their IT systems, process and – if my notes are correct – arses to their customers.

Their smugness that Clicks’n’Morter** organisations would founder as their traditional qualities of customer service, owning stock and not wearing clothes heading for the new emperor smashed against the cyber-rock bullshit hidden by hideous flash web sites.

And what actually happened? 1999 internet stock crash, crappy outsourced customer service, multi tiered non delivery systems and the ability to track your deliveries on line. Thanks fellas, it’s been emotional.

But let’s not demean all their efforts – surely being able to divine the exact location of some web purchase is a mile marker in the glorious marathon of forgetting what shops are for. Because it is important to understand exactly at what time the desperately important package you’ve spent two hours saving twenty pence surfing for will finally arrive.

One small issue. They are really quite shit. Our Freesat receiver is made by a company that sounds like an advertisement for some extreme porn. HUMMAX are sold by Dixons, dispatched from a warehouse owned by someone else, and not really delivered by DHL. Really, what could possibly go wrong with that supply chain?

Well someone’s pulling mine. DHL dispensed with hard facts and instead offered a couple of quite creative fantasies. Firstly the response to my tracking code was “fatal error, database has exploded, fat IT contractor on the shitter, try again later” before the fabrication increased a notch to “Delivery not possible. Recipient business on holiday”

Couple of points here, we’re neither a business nor on holiday. Since the non delivery didn’t even include a scrawled card tossed in the general area of the front door, a more accurate message would be “Lazy Driver has feet up in cab, reading sports pages and mooning at cows“. Twice I emailed them (because ringing them would undoubtedly unleash a call centre in which, after ten minutes, two people would feel the urge to eat the phone) and twice they ignored me.

So I emailed Dixons who, in a pact with their delivery agents, ignored me as well. I became mildly irritated and resorted to BLOCK CAPS. This generated some activity at the far end assuring me that my package would be delivered as soon as we had finished our holiday. I made the bold claim we were not on holiday and – only a couple of days later – was offered up the worthless promise that delivery was scheduled for today.

If we weren’t on holiday. So I cannot tell you how surprised we were when the driver – fresh from 4 days of sleeping in his cab – bowled up and nearly bowled over the total innocent represented by the aerial fella. We fell upon him as a man dying from thirst would on encountering an oasis, and wrenched from his sweaty hand the magic box that would deliver Channel 5.

Fortified by a strong cup of tea, Sam the aerial man laddered back up onto the roof, waved the Satellite Dish around, performed complex stuff with expensive electronics, and finally delivered a televisual solution that runs to two TVs, four freeview receivers, six SCART cables, one HDMI thingymagic, six remote controls, and about a hundred channels. 93 of which appear to be selling me crap products via the Internet, which is about where we came in.

Of course you could consider the alternative of buying stuff from a shop that has both stock and people. It may cost you an extra tenner, but it’s unlikely to invoke a phone bill running into millions as you wait for someone, anyone to prove “your call is important to them“.

And the real reason I am writing this junk? There is bugger all on the TV.

* that alone is a sufficient crime against the semantic truth to sentence each and every one of them to suffer death by extreme haircutting.

** On second thoughts, death is probably too good for them.

Normally a demeaning term reserved for pseudo-cosmopolitan coffee geeks and anyone roaming the city asylum known as London. But today – in a final card burning rejection of my birth county – I have assumed the mantle of poncy beverage bore.

Previously on the hedgehog, we’ve covered off the extensive customer experiences available at Ledbury station. Basically, it’s Bob scowling at you from within his hermit hut, and the fat controller blithering on about nearline, crossover point switching at Abergavenny. The nearest one can get to a milky drink is to accost a passing cow. And as for a newspaper – well a lucky find would be a wind-flecked Herefordshire Observer (incorporating ‘Potato Harvesters Monthly‘)* from 1992.

Rather than use an hours train time for something useful, I’ve cast my net wider in search of yesterdays news. And that takes me half a mile in the wrong direction, with a further few minutes desperately checking my watch as the crusty old proprietor regales me with endless stories of tomato propagation from the inter-war years.

Java though, has been conspicuous by my grumpiness. Ever since acquiring the espresso machine of much faffage, many a happy hour has passed through selection of bean, multi-grain blending experimentation, significant waffling of the frothy fluffer, and occasional drinking. On the downside, instant coffee induces a hurl reflex, which is something I’d happily dispatch on those marketing morons who sell the big lie that dead, frozen beans can somehow taste like real coffee.

Methadone and Heroin. Stella and Kaliber**, Espresso and Instant. See where I’m going with this? Metro-Bloody-Sexual goes without. Until this morning, when a hopeful side street sidle dropped me dead centre at an early opening cafe properly equipped with an espresso barista. Took a while for him to notice me tho, as I’d dropped to my knees whispering “I TAKE IT ALL BACK, THERE IS A GOD AND I AM SAVED”

Once we’d established that my nutter-nuss was merely a mental release valve for a man in clinical need of fresh coffee, he served up a two shot stonker for the miserly sum of£1.50. Missed a trick there, bit of a sellers market, I was ready with the house deeds. And because Heaven had descended to this little plot of Earth, the smell of frying bacon introduced the very welcome prospect of a crunchy pig sanger for accompaniment.

Sadly it was not to be due to a non bread delivery. And in my unrequited gluttony, the clock had been ticking and I was running out of time to pedal. What to do? My only real storage solution was to quickly internalise the problem but the double fat latte was still far too hot for that option,

Thankfully my laziness in not removing a second bottle cage was rewarded in a makeshift beverage transportation system. It’s flexible too – this evening it was to be found gently – but briefly -with a Steak and Cheese Pasty nestled in its’ midst. But the only way I’d be able to offer photographic evidence of that is with a chest x-ray.

* Sponsored by the Potato Marketing Board. All six floors of it apparently. How exactly can the humble tuba need over a hundred people to find creative ways to sell it? “MORNING TEAM, who wants to be the guardian of the idea pool while we brainstorm new ways to pitch the Maris Piper as the Versatile Vegetable?”

** Any confused younger readers may like to follow the link above. But on no account ever extend their research into actually drinking it.

A term describing a risky cricketing shot attempting to loft the ball over the fielders to score a boundary. Every time I tried it, it was always well received – normally by the bloke standing at mid-on. That reminds me that I once spent a happy hour describing fielding positions to an American girlfriend assuming she might be even slight interested.

Only once I’d expanded – at some length – on the nuances between Silly Mid On and Cover Point, did I realise she was slumped asleep having knocked herself unconscious with mirth at the stupidity of any game that breaks for lunch. We were at a proper cricket match as well, with the mighty Hampshire about 19-8 against a touring West Indies team. Back in the day, I knew how to show a girl a good time.

Anyway enough of a ramble through my sexually charged twenties, and more of an argument I tried to have with a man to whom the term “Rampant Profiteering” was entirely analogous to “Normal Business Practice”

Me: “Because I am merely a vassal for my children, can you please sort me out an aerial before social services find “In the Night Garden” has not been digitally available for 4 days”

Him:”Certainly Sir, that’ll be£212 plus the VAT of course”

Me: “No sorry, you’ve misunderstood me, I merely require someone to climb a ladder, install a length of wet string and drill a single hole in a wall”

Him: “Ah, well sir if only it were that simple. There’s alignment, gain, positioning and configuration of the cosmic interface and that’s before we start on all that digital malarky”

Me: “See that ridge up there”

Him “Yes”

Me: “See that huge bloody transmitter on top of it, which you must agree is quite significantly within line of sight as we can both see it”

Him [testily] “Yes, of course”

Me: “I can’t point my finger at that and receive Radio 3 in perfect stereo. The only alignment you could possibly need would be ‘Oi Bob, nudge it over a bit to the left.’ That can not possibly cost the thick end of£300″

Him: “Well it does”

Me: “Well it bloody doesn’t”

Can’t be hard can it? Ladder, Aerial, Drill. Get them in the right order and it’s a ten minute job. Probably.

Since I’m at one with technical stuff, serious consideration is being given to dragging the hedgehog into prickling distance of the latest WordPress release. I am only six versions behind, have no backup other than the back of a few envelopes, and understand not a single instruction from the 47 point upgrade plan.

Assuming the disaster waits for me to happen upon it, there may be some unscheduled downtime. A month should cover it.

Shh.. Can you hear that noise? It’s the sound of Friday afternoon in offices up and down the country. The silence one associates with absolutely nothing happening. This is the trigger for me to declare open season on the legal profession as yet another house completion deadline passes.

The last email we received had nothing to do with any work actually being done, no it was an airy missive explaining how his charges were likely to be inversely proportional to my future bike spending budget. Apparently he’ll be working on the full financial horror this weekend which does bring the charge “surely you should be working on getting our house bought instead?” squarely into play.

Still if I’m not allowed to go mad with the harpcat(tm), then I’ll just spend the next six months finding reasons not to pay the cheeky bugger. That way he can too share in the joy of apathy – a gift that just keeps on giving. When we receive his bill, I shall ensure it must be counter-signed by random individuals who have no interest in notorising it whatsoever. Further, I will communicate only by writing on the side of a cow using an ancient dialect that nobody other than legal vultures can understand.

Then after dragging the whole process out for as long as possible – even if this means purchasing a fax machine and spare cow – I shall grudgingly settle our account by dispatching a truck full of pennies to be deposited outside his office door. And then, just when he thinks it is over, I shall unleash Harpcat and his nutter posse of ninja voles.

We do really want to start working on the new house, although my motivation may wane once I have reviewed the To-Do list. On the upside, it has only a single entry, on the downside, that entry reads “Everything”. The first order of business is a bonfire of pine, anything we own in this ubiquitous softwood need to feed the flames of my aversion therapy. It really is like living in a sauna here – except for the heat of course because that would imply some kind of summary weather.

It’s nearly the weekend, yet my internal radar is picking up grumpy targets from all quadrants. My attempt to repel scowly borders may be aided by the Much Marcle Steam Rally. I have no idea what happens here unless you really can rally steam. But I don’t care either as a) it’s being held right next door to the pub and b) I can amuse myself by identifying locals using the following formula: Divide Number of fingers by Six and set “local” to true if non fractional number returned.

There may also be some riding of new bicycles but one half of my braking system is in the hands of the Royal Mail. An organisation that prides itself on being late and offering almost no value for money. Kindred spirits with solicitors in my book.

You may have noticed we live in the Digital Age. Except ‘we‘ don’t, but our kids do. Anyone surfing onto the planet since about 1990 has never interacted in a world stripped of the immediacy of mobile phones or the lies of the Internet. And that’s scary.

They’ve grown up surrounded by the power of now – digital cameras, Google and YouTube. Watch a ten year old learn a new computer game “ for them instructions aren’t written down, they are on line. Load up, get fragged a few times, parallel process a solution through video walk thru’s and on-line friends.

Now factor in Facebook and MySpace – the kind of social networking representing the default state of the generation who will be taxed to fund our pensions. It will blow apart just apart every working practice and start a revolution that’ll leave us wondering why the hell we spent all that time in the office. Still that’s a subject for serious discussion and this is the hedgehog so let’s get silly.

After working with technology for over twenty years, it is only with great grudgement that I’ll attempt to operate anything with a manual bigger than the actual product. Which in this ever escalating miniaturisation arms race is just about everything.

Take my Bluetooth earpiece which sports a multitude of tiny buttons which issue a R2-D2 parody of beeps and squawks without actually performing any obvious function. It’d randomly pair with the phone at the exact time the “ tiny “ battery expired. But this at least saves me from the get over yourself tele-conferences where a worried looking bloke appears to be addressing the condiments isle.*

Such is my suspicion over the maturity of technology not yet ten years old, my approach was to either ignore the bloody thing or to swap seats with Carol and letting her drive. This was slightly more difficult on the motorway in a Chuckle Brothers to me to you seat swap, but it keeps the kids amused. In our car, this practice is known as Human Bluetooth

So my surprise was somewhere off the scale “ where the maximum is you have received a tax credit “ when my sodding GPS ran while the PHONE WAS IN THE BOOT. Crashing seemed to be inevitable while I frantically scanned the sky for the alien craft which was telepathically mind-beaming the interplanetary favourite what time will you be home?

I’m not sure how my wife interpreted Woooah, what the fuck is going on, the map is talking to me, it’s the fucking map I’m talking about, I am not shitting you, THE GPS has demons inside, get a bloody Priest lined up. Calmness personified, Carol reminded me I’d foolishly paired the dumb-phone to the electronic lazy-map months ago, and insidious technology had taken over.

I’m not so sure. I fully expect to open the fridge and a government talking head to chide me for reaching beerwards, and demand I divert to the salad tray. And it’s going to get worse before I get better “ but like cheese and marmite, government and honesty, cider and dangerous machinery, Al and technology clearly cannot coexist on a planet still lightly bolted to reality.

So sod these bloody digital natives, I’m opting out, unplugging myself from the matrix, getting reacquainted with maps, u-turns and hand written letters. The time of the digital native is over, it is time for the digital hermit.

* If you ever are unfortunate to hear “hello dear shall I get the foie gras or the shop pate“, the correct response is Neither Get meat paste you pretentious knobber.