Hang on, that can’t be right.

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

Help me out here. One ISP publicly washes its’ hands of monitoring their networks for naughty people stealing music. In a move reminiscent of Pontius Pilot, TalkTalk are playing the “we’re just the conduit card and the security of your digital property is nothing to do with us” card. Okay, well I can sort of accept that especially since the music industry doesn’t seem to be coughing up the requisite greenbacks to fund an army of net-watches.

And yet here we have BT spying on all of our browsing habits in order to target us with specific advertising. That’s the same bloody thing isn’t it? Oh now I see what i missed – one of them costs money and the other one makes it. So it is fuck all to do with ethics, corporate responsibility or even the protection of people’s livelihoods. It’s about making more cash, abusing the privilege of net privacy and applying a moral code forged in the crucible of capitalism.

I would respect TalkTalk’s position more if they’d just ponyed up with “look there is no money in this for us, link it with some advertising revenue and maybe we can do a deal”. As for BT, well they’ve been fucking people over since Mercury had the temerity to target a tiny percentage of their market share. I’d trust Max Mosely over those slippery wankers*.

Loosely related is the Government’s headline splash on a technological solution to pedophiles stalking children on social networking sites. What a masterstroke because anyone who has spent five seconds in the digital age cannot, of course, create a disposable email address. It’s worse than doing nothing because it creates a false sense of security for anyone dumb enough to believe anything these attention seeking worthies put out.

And if we’re talking useless organisations today – after constant chasing – we received “We are not returning your call. The person you need is on holiday. We hope to be able to provide an update next week” from the seller’s solicitors. This is an except copy of the last time they could be bothered to reply, except the date has moved on two weeks. Fax all use frankly, so sadly it looks like Cabbage-Land will not be for us.

Frustrating is not the word. Well it is because I cannot easily convey a digital copy of the noise a head makes repeatedly smacking a keyboard. Let’s try “gfljklsgjklsfhnklhdsjihdsjhjisioas”. That’s what is tattooed on my forehead 🙁

* possibly not an ideal choice of phrase. If what is alleged turns out to be true 😉

Weather worries.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff3 Comments

I accept that my minute examination of the weather forecast is symptomatic of an accelerating slide into OCD. It is – along with Government policy, Public service organisations and Solicitor’s lunch hours – something which ratchets up my ire almost every day. And almost worse that that is my utter impotence to do anything about it.

Other than whinge. And, usefully, I am good at that.

Yesterday three forecasts united on an early Spring vision of clear skies and mid teen temperatures. Based on the divination of tea leaves that only the most expensive computer systems can get so terribly wrong, I was unsurprised* to set out on a night ride under a misty murk punctuated by a depressing drizzle.

As the clock struck seven, the little known ‘evening bridleway’ rule kicks in and trail poaching becomes the norm. Take away the horses hooves and the mud magically disappears leaving deep brown scars** through leafless trees. And exposed roots slick with rain which I confidently dispatched with less skill than bravado. Right up to the point when the abstract equation off camber + root + gravity – MTB tyre <> Grip switched to being alarmingly physical.

I tried to blame my tyres until it was pointed out that my friend Nige had blasted down the trail – accident free – on exactly the same make and model of rubber. I believe the correct terminology for my stack was “insufficiently skilled at the point of impact”

The rain stopped about exactly when we did. Roll on twelve hours and the veritable Beeb is calling for dirty clouds and incessant drizzle to welcome your Thursday morning commute. Ignoring the fact that history shows these besuited doom harbingers are nothing more than meteorological charlatans, I rain-jacketed up and headed out fully waterproofed.

Which, considering the glorious sunshine outside and my boiled in the bag persona inside the office, is a trifle galling. Allegedly this weekend will return us to the depths of winter, driving snow and gale force winds freezing the entire country in its’ icy grip. Well the wolf has cried once too many and I shall be resplendent in shorts and suncream.

And even if they are right and I am wrong, morally the victory shall me mine.

* but still grumpy.

** Soon to be red and bloody scars

You can’t please all the people, all of the time.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff3 Comments

Clearly, as from a response to this post I wrote haranguing Chiltern Railways on their rubbish cycle facilities and slightly poorer rail service.

“You really are a sanctomonious prat and reflects the current state of he world today. Cant get what you want so make everyone out to be a jobsworth. You are not saving the planet you are helping to achieve in its destruction. Grow up and get a grip stick your bike and yourself somewhere else is anyone really interested in your abusive jibes and personal attacks on the service industry.”

From a disgruntled employee or man not entirely sure how to spell sanctimonious?

I was delighted to find my words can annoy people I have never met. And nutters as well because – childish, grip-less and prattish as I apparently am – how the hell can riding a bike be a weapon of mass destruction? Still full marks for spelling achieve correctly. And although the last sentence makes no sense whatsoever – some punctuation may have given me a clue – I’m pretty clear on the general sentiment.

A while ago, a post summarised all the groups I had so far upset in two years of writing this rubbish. It appears I can now add – and I’m guessing here – ‘Chiltern Railway Employees” 🙂

Is anybody listening?

On By AlexIn Other stuff7 Comments

Do you remember that homely truism that used to do the rounds on novelty mugs*. You know the one: something needs doing, someone will do it ….. lots of less than humorous play on words …. gets you to nobody doing it**

You don’t? Well let me recount a modern parable that neatly encompasses everything that is wrong with trying to buy a house. Someone wants to buy your house. You want to buy someone else’s house. This other person – allegedly – wants to sell their house. The estate agents want their money. The solicitors want to move at the speed of glacial erosion. The somebody buying your house would like to move in. The somebody selling to you is a useless knucklehead who moves at a pace that makes the solicitors look positively sprightly.

The house you want to buy has covenants, trusts, tax dodges and – for all I know – mortgage capital leveraged on little know moon-rock aggregate market. This is more of a problem because the seller could not find his arse with both hands and a copy of Gray’s anatomy. The solicitors promise little and deliver even less. No one knows what a deadline is. If they looked under an entry for “returning their clients call“, maybe they could work it out.

One person gets angry. Very, very angry. Begins laying about himself with the modern day equivalent of a bloodied spear. I speak of the weapon of mass distraction that is the humble home computer. Most people receive a shrift so short, it could apply for a vertically compromised grant. Words such as ‘useless‘, ‘incompetent‘ and ‘unprofessional’ are oft repeated, honest phrases such as ‘total fuckwits‘ narrowly miss the final edit.

Some people promise action this week. All people lie like a cheap rug. One person draws big bloody line in the sand and declares himself and his family soon to be homeless.

Nobody cares.

We are trying to give someone with something they want to sell a vast amount of money. How sodding hard can it be? We have to sell our house because the last thing we need right now, are our buyers to withdraw their offer through boredom or frustration.

And because we are not some kind of raving bloody nutters, we are making it nice and easy to buy our house. The plethora of solicitors, estate agents and general hangers on add nothing but delay and stupidity. Why can’t I just turn up with a bagful of money and a determined expression?

Apparently every other country does it better. Although, that’s not the boldest of claims when I would consider burglary and squatting a far more reasonable approach that what we’ve been through.

* Come the revolution, the mugs who do novelty shall seamlessly morph into into the screaming humans that do scorpion pits.

** I googled without success for the full text. Clearly I don’t have the mind of the kind of person who would happily hand over real money for a hand crafted RoundTuit.

Same Shit, different day

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

After five weeks of flatlining in stark relief of the big city biorhythms, my re-insertion into the matrix was about as blackly amusing as a coach crash of estate agents*. And my play at infusing each commute with a Buddha like sanguine ‘bring it down brother’ lasted all of about ten seconds. You see, I was completely up for finding my inner child until a BMW attempted to remove my inner spleen.

By the time realisation has dawned that bikes are nothing more than urban grouse to these chinless fuckwits, any semblance of remaining calm was swept away as a knee socked, short jeaned, surely ironic messenger type whistled past with his one fixed gear and look of benign constipation. I chased him down, marked my victory with an underarm spit, barnstormed  a dithering taxi before heading into the mean streets of central London.

A bendy-bus attempted decapitation, a motorbike introduced a new nano-measurement as he swept past my front wheel, a multitude of dumbfuck cyclists broke ever rule in the book and every second motorist attempted a citizen’s cull to effect swift justice. I chased a second fakinger-clone – my pursuit stalled by two red lights he ignored and a one sided argument with a white van who was mainlining traffic cockage. So knackered was I when finally straining past his sartorial stupidly, I was aerobically incapable of unleashing the carefully concocted vitriol.

Arriving at work, I was cynically unmoved by the carnage in the bike cage and the theft of my shower gel. But the firm never fails to surprise and disappoint when attempting to deliver marketing by the lowest cost bidder. Our new cycle facilities involve carrying the bike down two floors of metal steps, before collecting our clothing from a locker separated from the shower facilities by a sweaty trudge across the atrium of a spanking new building designed to impress our clients.

And then tramp back in work clothes but carrying grungy ride kit to be dispatched back to the lower floor locker. Sounds complicated? It’s even worse in operation – I asked for a map and some written instructions. And while the provision of a daily fresh towel, a shower in an environment entirely free from water borne diseases and a choice of complementary grooming products are to be applauded, such platitudes would have be delivered from a hospital bed.

Because the stairs leading from the loading dock down to the bike area are made of smooth, shiny metal. There is only a single possible result from an interface of damp shoe cleats and frictionless metal. And that is a fast, arse based descent with optional windmilling arms, finishing brokenly slammed against the back wall with a bike on your head.

Unless you ride down them which the preppy gym wrangler reckoned wasn’t possible, And for a few anxious moments – half way down – I was becoming persuaded to his viewpoint. It was all a bit eyeballs on stalks, fillings on edge and sphincter on full recoil during an unhappy period when flinging myself headlong into the rail was the only ‘innovative life saving move’ being offered up.

Still I am pretty sure it was with some aplomb that I shakingly unclipped and nonchalantly declared “Fucking hell, that nearly killed me – you want someone to have a look at those“

A little belatedly the security guard de-hutted himself and was angrily, adamant that no employee was allowed to ride down the stairs. How wrong he was. I think with careful planning an illegal plunge down the stairs, followed by a naked stroll across the atrium could end my career in two single steps.

Tempting.

* If a bevy of solicitors were journeying with them, all the better. Not that I am bitter or anything.

Karmic storms

On By PhotoIn Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuffLeave a comment
Muddy Cove, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Grab yourself a lentil and relax, as grassmud-hopper here enlightens you to the ways of karma. If one wishes to achieve meteorological karmic balance, one must first seek out the sub zero land of trench-knob, journey through the muddy foothills of component destruction and genuflect to the great God chain suck. Only then shall the trails of the righteous be paved with sun, dust and occasional sprinklings of cold beer.

And because the world is nothing more than an infinite flange of laziness, many of these footsteps of the cold, wet and un-initiated are being trod by yours bloody truly. You can keep your sheep-swool base layers – I have everything I need here with my hair shirt.

The most positive spin I can place upon yesterday’s ride was it was a small improvement on the week before. Not much, because the weather Gods have failed to flick the ‘Spring‘ lever leaving us with snow, hail, rain and freezing drizzle*. The car park was strewn with mud splats of portent, every car was brown as was every returning mountain biker. Except for a few which were blue and – apparently – unbreathing.

Three hours later I was a broken man but still alive. Those following the narrative may remember me citing a positive in a previous paragraph. That’s it. Both my riding chums – Nick and Dean – had apparently broken nothing, not even a light sweat. It is fair to say they are both fitter than me but, if one were being scrupulous in the use of ‘Fair’, so are almost all of my friends. Even those who have passed on to a better place.

Not the greatest accolade ever presented is it? ‘Cheers for the ride fellas, thanks for not leaving me to die, oh, and you’re both far healthier than some dead people I once knew’. A week ago Sunday, 90 minutes dispatched me to the same dark and hollow place, this time I managed twice that although not without some physical and mental consternation.

But I am going to keep at it; commuting through winterspring(tm), tossing myself recklessly** into pools of deep mud and spending a long weekend trudging up alpine climbs with only thin air for company***

But soon, I shall emerge from winters’ chrysalis and flaunt my faux fitness on trails which aren’t trying to consume you from the wheels up. Although looking at the long range weather forecast, what I am actually doing – right now – is practising for much, much more of the same.

I like to whinge about the weather. It makes me feel all patriotic and English.

* This is not the same as hail. As cold but lacking the viscosity to keep it from running into your previously warmed crevices.

** Which doesn’t bode well for the eyesight.

*** I may be underselling our Pyrenees trip in April. However, any fitness gained will be lost to the power of my willpower once the bar opens.

That’ll learn me

On By AlexIn Clic-24, Road Riding2 Comments

Sitting on an 500mph aeroplane going nowhere, I found myself idly musing if a man, still within binocular distance of not that old, should be growing breasts. Fantastically innovative as the human body is, the DNA chronology is clearly wrong in this case. Boys should grow breasts at the age of fourteen – such was our fascination as puberty took hold – and then we’d never have to leave the house. Bad for the bedsheets, good for millions of innocent women who don’t include teenage groping in their list of wants.

Whereas at 40, we have a spouse and the Internet for that kind of thing. And, because I was sandwiched between a family with about 50 kids, half of whom were screaming and the other half who were being noisily sick, I decided to extend my pondering to consequences. Of breasts, not children, I don’t like to think about the latter without a large drink in my hand.

With the CLIC-24 less than two months away – and I may need to start sponsoring myself to pretend I have more friends – I am determined not to put in a totally piss-poor performance. Considering my entire racing career consists of seven starts and two finishes, this is possibly an unrealistic aspiration.

So four days of Easter would be the ideal way to kick start my training regime. Although, ‘training’ to me is not based on any science; for example when I dismount – jelly legged from the bike – if I still retain the power of speech, then I clearly am not trying hard enough. And while I have a heart rate monitor I don’t understand and a training book I’ve never read, my total lack of mental discipline means training is just riding a lot and hurting.

Sadly plan A was scuppered by the kind of rain and sleet which so characterises British Bank Holidays. But a lack of Plan ‘B’ meant going out during a brief period of cold blue, clad only in thin shoes, roadie shorts and a late snatched waterproof. The first half of the ride was into a freezing headwind that rapidly escalated into a toe, body and hand-wind – all of which began to shiver.

My mind was elsewhere though, trying to judge whether the banks of threatening dark clouds were far enough away to allow a sneaky five mile extension. My decision to go for it was mocked by immediate rain upgrading soon to sizzling hail. Blue sky still lit the Chiltern hills a few miles away, but my personal hailstorm followed me all the way home.

Removing the lights and courier bag to gain speed still rated as a fine plan, ditching mudguards and waterproofs less so. Within two minutes, my arse was soaked, I had contracted “Trench-Willy“, my face was stung by shotgun pellets from the sky, and my feet had lost all form of motor control.

This went on for a very, very long time without any respite. It was sort of fun in a it’ll soon be over kind of way. I was significantly happier – standing naked in the barn – once I had stripped off the layers of soaking clothing. Sadly my feelings of warmth and worth were spiked by a caught reflection of white and floppy man boobs.

Still I can suck it in and, because I went out yesterday, I have every excuse not to go – Scott like – into the sleet and rain today. But I bet it’s not raining in New Zealand 🙁

Ready, Freddie*

On By PhotoIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments
Barcelona (36 of 83), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Barcelona is a fantastic city. So good, in fact, they don’t like to let you leave. Our Olympic standard lurking at the airport was finally terminated by the most surreal announcement I have ever heard. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to apologise for the delay to this flight from Barcelona to London Heathrow. This entirely due to the fact that it is snowing in Stockholm”

I kid you not.

Now while anyone with a beard and a serious expression can convince me that the flapping of a butterfly wing in remotest Chile ripples the space-time continuum such that it begins hailing buffalo in Croydon, BA are clearly talking nonsense.

Barcelona (50 of 83)Barcelona (52 of 83)

They weren’t alone. In a three day period, I was assured an evenings entertainment with my peers would be jolly fun (it really wasn’t), the trip back to the airport would take between seven and ten days (it didn’t) and the conference we were attending would be *edited for reasons of job security* (As my German friends would say “This is a joke, Ja?“

Barcelona (38 of 83)Barcelona (66 of 83)Barcelona (69 of 83)Barcelona (59 of 83)

It‘s been a while since I’ve thrown myself to the wolves of a technology conference. And it’ll be a while before I do so again. Hotel rooms too hot, dinners too long, willpower too short, people too dull, flying too shit, Alex too old and cynical.

Barcelona (57 of 83)Barcelona (49 of 83)Barcelona (52 of 83)Barcelona (53 of 83)

There were upsides. Grudgingly I learned a little, talked a lot and found many people who wanted to drag a difficult project from the abyss of possibly disciplinary action. I also managed to rush out -“ while others were snout down in the free bar -“ and take some pictures.

Like I said, it’s a great city. It would be great to come back swapping work for my wife, a big camera and a hotel room not superheated directly from the Earths core.

Yes I know I am an ungrateful bugger. No, I don’t really care.

* Remember the song? Okay that’s not an actual lyric (but a gold star to anyone who can tell me from which Queen track it was from) but close enough.

Breaking the rules

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

I have never been that bothered about breaking rules. This is not Internet bravado – merely, having calculated the chances of getting caught or measuring the consequences, stepping over someone else’s line is almost always worth the risk. Which makes speeding and under age drinking perfectly all right, while ensuring setting fire to Belgium probably isn’t*

But here we must draw a distinction when considering my own rules. For those of you immersed in the deep thinking philosophy of the hedgehog, these should be self-evident. For anyone still clinging to sanity, let me explain the guiding principles:

1: Life is too short to drink with arseholes

2: You can’t take it with you when you go**

And because the gravitational pull of these morality comets is inescapable for those of us who find life a little too confusing, it was a shock to find myself with a handful of beer and a face full of idiot. He had a silly name and a stupidly elevated view of his own importance – an impression I was unfortunately to cement during an indeterminable passage of time.

It was like the worse wedding you have ever been too, only with signifcantly more corporate cock. He grooved through the traditional gambit of birthplaces, work experiences and then – with a noticeable acceleration of enthusiasm – wouldn’t it be a great idea if we played a round of golf.

But I’ve been around this kind of nonsense for far too long, so was ready for it. I responded to his question with an expression – honed over twenty years of received bullshit – which best translates to “Do I look like a total FuckNugget? Actually, don’t answer that, just assume I am not”

He only bloody ignored it. He was too busy talking and not listening, gesticulating and not looking, trying to charm, never failing to annoy. And before I knew it the whole facade has been escalated to “Hey why not bring your boss – you know the important person I really want to talk to – and make sure he’s ready to sign some purchase orders”

I try and convey – through the little understood art of facial poetry – that if he doesn’t cease and desist RIGHT THIS SODDING INSTANT, I shall be forced to slam his forehead onto the table, remove his spleen with my soup spoon, before hunting down and exterminating his immediate family to ensure they cannot breed.

Like the pro he knew he was he ignored that as well, instead asking how long I’d had that difficult squint. I resorted to explaining my only hobbies were Herring Throwing and – when they were out of season – Moon Drilling. He still didn’t get it, but that’s what happens if you’re unaware why the human design calls for one mouth and two ears.

Desperately searching for violence displacement activity, I struck on an idea as simple as it was brilliant. I held up a finger for silence, rested my elbows in a threatening manner and – in a tone so flat it could have been laser cut – said: “Let me stop you there. You need to understand my life rules”

The evening improved immeasurably after that.

* Because the reward of being awarded a Nobel prize for inspiring urban planning is mitigated by the risk of spending a hundred years in prison.

** Although the financially prudent amongst you may archly observe that “You still need some money while you’re still here“

Well there goes the planet.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

The last thing we did before leaving for New Zealand – aside from tranquillising the children and undertaking a desperate search for passports – was to sell Carol’s old car. And today, in a moment of breathtaking fiscal recklessness, we’ve bought a new one.

Not a second hand one as planned, not spending a responsible sum that we actually had hidden in the banking sock, instead we’ve plumped for a pay half now and pretend something financially magical will occur before the remainder of the bill is due in twelve months time. We’ve also spunked this non existent cash on a car due for a bit of mid term botox and face lift in two months time. So forget all the first owner taxes, we’ve also plumped for something with built in obsolescence.

Now those of you who have observed my frantic attempts at stability during regular economics earthquakes, are probably nodding sagely and wondering why this latest financial fault line even merits a mention. Well, this time, it was almost nothing to do with me, or at least I’m only partly responsible*. It all started so well – we wandered into the Honda dealer clutching a virtual quote, and loudly wondering why anyone would pay list price.

The reason – apparently – is that these shady characters on the Internet are either importing them from space or building cars out of lego. We gently reminded the sales fella that the big grey Honda outside had been sourced from the very same Internet broker. From a dealer up the road and for 15{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} less than the advertised price.

Haggling commenced. I am rubbish at this – either losing my temper or agreeing that a set of mats is materially equivalent to about a £1000. Carol is better so I left her to it, instead heroically attempting to prevent the kids from breaking everything in the showroom. So slightly distracted was I when a haggled number was presented for approval. Franky, I just wanted to get out before we spent about that much on repairs, since the kids had just gleefully declared “hey Dad we can get from the boot to the back seat using the Honda ride-on mower as a drill”

We should never have even got this far, but when a second hand car, which has been registered, driven for twelve months and then sold on, costs more than a new one, it’s clear that you may as well just give in and hand over some cash for a new one. It’s stupid, badly thought through and about as cost effective as running a fleet of mountain bikes, but in our defence we have quite alot going on right now and one more car showroom may have pushed me over the edge.

I don’t like Salesmen much. Unless they are in the cross hairs.

We did consider a one car, four people scenario but even with public transport, it’s difficult and – to be honest – we really can’t be arsed with it. It’ll be even worse when we move as the kids’ll need driving to school, and the only mass transit in Herefordshire appears to be a ancient donkey pulling a cart.

So here we are in mid March, and so far in 2008 we have bought** a house, spent three weeks on a once in a lifetime holiday, and now bought a brand new car***. On the credit side, £300 saw Carol’s old car shipped out and I’ve sold some forks.

At this rate, I fully expect to have purchased a small Pacific Island and a charter airline by the end of the year. Our levels of altruism to family-handedly spend the country out of recession are matched only by the precarious fiscal arrangements to do so. Still as a wise man once said to me “When you owe the bank £1000, you are in debt to them, borrow a Million and they are in debt to you”

Failing that, anyone want to buy some pre-loved children?

* not a term generally used in the same universe as “Alex” and “Money”

** for a given value of bought. So far we have bought nothing more than expensive hours from solicitors.

*** There has been some expenditure generically labelled “bikeage” but this is merely business as usual.