Tag: Lunacy

My First Smartphone

On By AlexIn Other stuff4 Comments

That’s what is written in bright, bold graphics on the box here. It suggests that once a precocious youngster has outgrown their first book, first games console and first teeth, they progress onto a device that places one in the middle of an informational tornado, while mysteriously beeping, flashing and generally showing off. But in a nice, trendy, friendly manner.

So what must a grizzled IT veteran of twenty plus years think of such a marketing ploy? A man who once single handedly disconnected the entire Hungarian International Phone System*, threatened the then boss of Direct Line with the sharp end of his screwdriver, and delivered an email solution to a country who’d previously communicated by the use of a racing goat**?

Before answering that, let’s examine what it replaces. A brick of technology that attained the dubious honour of having me crave the return of the first dumbphone. It too arrived in snazzy packaging declaring that it would solve every communication problem I’d ever had, and some I didn’t even understand. A proud boast instantly debunked when the mute button conspicuously failed to silence my children.

I could forgive it that since they’re resolutely impervious to any communication method not involving chocolate, club penguin or a ritual beating***. What I cannot condone however is its’ utter uselessness at everything else. The central plank of rubbishness is a richly engaging interface powered by scone crumbs. Let me furnish you with an example, the phone rings – well first it sort of shudders, random lights flash before a cheery chirp announces an incoming call – I press the “answer” button (not as easy as you may think with the oh-so-designed black on black symbols).

Does this simple action connect the call? Does it fuck. Nothing happens, nothing, the phone continues to trill, I start to tap desperately on the “tactile touch management input environment” which triggers an cessation of all noises, a vibrate-y death rattle and a dark, unresponsive phone. The call has long gone, but entertainment of sorts can be had watching this triumph of miniaturisation finally respond to my hundred key presses.

The best ever was adding a contact “Mr gsgjas;igdshah;shg;gs” with a voice tag of “OH FOR FUCKS SAKE“. Worse still is the iPod Wannabee graphics which apparently allow one to “move, spin and shuffle content.” But all I want to do is answer the sodding call. Anyway, SconeCrum(tm) technology is always about ten minutes behind whatever your last key-press was, so it’s instructive to take a piece of fresh paper, point the phone camera at it, then cut it into random pieces and shift them about with your hand to try and show it what you were hoping for.

Talking of the camera, that has a delay so comically long that your picture of a happy child standing outside a sweet shop will finally render into a picture of a world long since depopulated by humans. I could go on, no really I’ve not started on the STUPID half touch/half stylus/all insane control system that pre-assumes you have three hands, four hundred fingers and the dexterity of a concert pianist. Or the fact the random screen dimming that creates an impossible puzzle of how to unlock the phone in any type of sunlight.

Let me summarise instead. It’s tat, expensive shit for the technologically vain, violence inducingly slow and breathtakingly useless at absolutely everything. The GPS still thinks it’s in Southampton when you’re on the moon, the web browser is so ball-achingly turgid you yearn for the communications goat, and the switch between horizontal and vertical modes is measured in the kind of dying epochs that has you lying sideways on the floor rather that switch horizons on the screen.

When I returned it at the end of a similar rant to a young innocent who had hitherto been happily squeezing his spots and pretending to be some kind of mobility expert, he remarked it was ringing and did I want to answer it. I *may* have been slightly sarcastic in my reply stating “oh that’s from about three weeks ago, they’ve probably died by now”

So how do I like “my first smartphone” with it’s cheap plastics, absence of any type of “hybrid input ergonomics“, small screen and massively restricted functionality. Well I wasn’t so sure, until it allowed me to answer a call without any histrionics whatsoever. My caller was surprised to the point of apology “oh sorry, I was going to leave you a message, I didn’t think your phone worked“.

It didn’t work. As a phone, an email device, a lawn dart or anything remotely useful whatsoever. I’m regressing back to stupid technology, boycotting the new, steering well clear of marketing attempts to merge toasters and televisions. I’ve no face to book, not tweet to twat and no network that needs socialising. I don’t need the bastard love child of a laptop and a phone to make my life miserable, I have the building works for that.

And the weather forecast for the CLIC. There’s another thing, at least stone tablets would work underwater.

* 7 lines in total, if I remember correctly. It was quite a long time ago

** They’ve still never really forgiven me. Whether it’s for the curse of email, or what happened to the goat, I cannot be sure.

*** Okay that’s not true. Well not often, anyway.

Who said the Germans don’t have a sense of fun?

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography3 Comments

From Big-Col’s blogspot. Worth a look for some fantastic MTB images.

I do like the way he’s decided to ratchet up the danger by performing this nose wheelie right on the outside of the trail. A trail that clearly has breached the risk/reward barrier in the direction of certain death.

I wouldn’t even want to walk that trail. Never mind ride it. And the prospect of grabbing a whole handful of front brake with the likely result of pitching you headlong into space just makes me go “arrrrrghhhhhh”

Germans you see. Not the full pound. Or possibly Euro.

Waiting for the bus

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

You can keep your fancy GPS’s, chuck your heart rate monitors in the hedge and worry away at your statistics spreadsheet, because while you are working out where you lost that time, I am waiting for a bus. I know it was only last month my witterings on targets had me chasing virtual training partners all the way to work, and then spending the remainder of the day lying down.

But it became clear I must apply Al’s rule of achievement* to my heavy legged pursuit of stupidity. So now I’m measuring my progress by playing chicken with the “Bromsgrove Omnibus”. The first time I met this bus was nearly the last, as it aurally indicated a desire to pass on a road that I’d always assumed was adequately sized for only single file cows and possibly a MP3 driven bicycle.

He passed with inches to spare and a “I’ll get you butler” gesture expression which I deigned unworthy of a reply** and gave it scant thought until it became obvious this wasn’t just any bus, this was my PACE BUS. And if I could squeeze in front before a singletrack road some five miles from home, I could keep the miserable bugger behind me for a good couple of minutes. Now that’s sport right there.

So now I’m off the Hereford train at 18:37 clipped in and heading out via the squashy slalom of random pedestrianisation, immediately looking for ways to cheat the God of Time. First up is a cheeky trail through ledbury, much wooded, significantly dog walked and offering lippy roots to straight line difficult line choices.

Then out of the town and chasing nothing but my hedge painted shadow, gagging a bit on dusty clay vectored off busy tractor ploughs, loving the sunshine, feeling way stronger in my knee and lungs that three virtually bike free weeks could possibly allow.

But this is merely a pleasant aperitif before a meaty main course of Omnibus and tarmac that’s coming up in four miles if I can turn these pedals a bit harder. That’s the distilled and beautiful clarity of riding a bike – it’s the simple joy of smooth circles driving you on, the grin of sweeping bends, the whum of hard tyres on baking tarmac, the just-bloody-nobody-gets-why-bikes-are-so-fucking-fantastic that justifies an obsession.

And that bus that’s going to be hitting that junction at 19:01, so I need to be there first. By a quirk of geography, the cross in the road is visible from 45 seconds upstream, meaning if I’m not hitting that crest at seven o’clock or better, the bus ain’t waiting for me. So it’s back to standing up and clicking a gear combination that shoots staccato breath from an open mouth, burns muscles from ankles to hip and strains arms dumping sweat onto the bars.

6:58, big sodding river bridge coming up, can’t slow down, feel the tyre squirm into the tarmac, feel legs slowing down, feel lungs desperately screaming for more air, feel… feel… feel, this is the stuff of life isn’t it? This is why we do this, this is what makes us different to the bloke next door with his paintbrush and his paunch. This is what makes us a little smug, a little bonkers, a little more obsessed. Because this feeling needs bottling and selling.

I can see the junction, and I can see the bus lumbering up the hill heading for the turn and I can’t see anything else. Now it’s a straight run – slightly downhill – four clicks on the shifter, big gear, out of the saddle, ignore the cacophony of body complaint and charge down the tunnel of vision that displays just a short tarmac ribbon, an onrushing junction and a big red bus.

Briefly considering – and calculating it’s a reward that far outstrips the risk – that traffic may be steaming past the junction, I slow not even a little bit, swerve right as the bus turns left and give it a few final desperate pedal stamps to nip in front.

And then – pretty well spent – have a nice minute or two finding some breath for my lungs and oxygen for my legs while a frustrated man in a dodgy cap impotently guns his engine behind my serene form. There is a perfect symmetry there – people wait for a bus, and now the bus waits for me.

Look I know what you’re thinking. But honestly with my legendary limbo boredom threshold, I need something to keep me amused on the commute. It’s that or getting off the bike and jumping in with all those lovely lambs πŸ™‚

* If at first you don’t succeed, redefine exactly what you mean by the word “Success”

** Mainly because I was having a rather trying time extricating myself from a drainage ditch much inconvinienced by a bicycle.

Barbara Woodhouse

On By AlexIn Other stuff8 Comments

Now there was a women who took no shit at all when it came to training dogs. I remember watching, back in the eighties, with an uncomfortable feeling those supine hounds had been beaten with a big slipper before the cameras rolled.

Our dog would just eat that slipper. Last night he was reintroduced to both Puppy Training and half of his twelve siblings. I wonder if you are as unsurprised as I to hear that this combination augured ill for a set of technical exercises where the pack leader was expected to maintain absolute control over her dog.

Murphy spectacularly failed to sit, lie down, wait and heel. He did however hone his signature move of tearing off up after his brothers with Carol gamely hanging onto the lead. Sadly she was no longer standing at the time, rather ploughing a lonely full length furrow as the not-really-a-pup showed no obvious lessening of velocity even tugged down by a human anchor.

When commanded to “COME” he gave it the full “who me? you’re kidding right?” before disappearing in a twenty four legged Labrador scrum with an excitable whelp. The other dogs weren’t much better, but apparently Murf was a) extra specially bad and b) a bit of a ring leader in whipping up naughtiness in his brothers and sisters.

Carol returned with a look like thunder which she soon drowned in a very large glass of wine. The dog – obviously – just looked very pleased with himself. I’m not sure whether to try and train him properly or just attach a carriage and use him as a canine taxi.

Next week, my attendance has been mandated. Which consideirng my legendary low boredom threshold is unlikely to improve discipline. Still it’ll be nice for someone else to be in trouble for arsing about for a change.

And, on the upside, he’s not tried to eat any of the “Fat Four” chickens. On the downside, he doesn’t like raw egg, and they are starting to pile up a bit. So how many fried egg sandwiches can a honed athlete such as myself be expected to eat?

Extreme LED sheep video

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

No I didn’t type that wrong.

Sheep on YouTube

There are clearly people out there with too much time on their hands. And I, for one, could not be happier.

The re-enaction of ZX81 tennis is, without doubt, the most amusing thing I’ve seen done to sheep for a very long time*

2.44 minutes of pure genius. Right back to work, I’ll try and write something amusing, soon. Although I’d be inclined to pin my hopes on “soon” and “something” πŸ˜‰

EDIT: I’ve shown this to a few people, and there are those souls with no imagination in their hearts that say it’s a fake. I KNOW it’s a fake, I don’t care. It’s still brilliant.

* that I’m prepared to admit too.

Targets

On By AlexIn Road Riding5 Comments

I’m not sure what is more stupid, racing against yourself or being unhappy when you lose. Commuting in London was also about targets – but only because you were one, and my idea of a result was arriving at work with the same number of limbs as I’d started out with.

Commuting here is different for many reasons. It’s hillier, safer and longer. Finishing via the Ledbury cycleway takes it to a tad under eleven miles, with 570 feet of vertical to get over. On the roadrat, it was a 50 minute pootle through pleasantly deserted roads, dispatched without getting too much of a sweat on.

The Jake is different, it may be from an older generation of race bikes, but a race bike it still is. It seems to falter and lose speed so quickly when you coast – becoming turgid and heavy. But crank it up and it flies, stiff and fast, needing just a nudge to change direction and super composed sweeping through bends.

Throw a GPS into the mix which shows your pace against a previous best time, and beepily nags at you to try harder. And try you do, staying on the drops, refusing to drop a gear and going for the gurn. I used to hate drop bars, but now they make sense – cutting through the wind and providing a stable platform so you can just pedal and go faster.

It’s not enjoyable cycling. There is no time to watch the rising sun slant stunningly through the orchards, you don’t wonder at the joy of being out of the car and into the rural air. At no point does your mind wander to great thoughts or pointless introspection. Because the bastard GPS is beeping out your weakness, and you’re more interested in looking for ten seconds than looking at the view.

Maybe you coasted a bit here last time, did I get off the drops, was it a gear down? No time to remember, just get the hammer down, accept it’s going to hurt, let rasping lungs and burning thighs fight over who gives up first. Chase buses, chafe at traffic, swear at wandering pedestrians – don’t they know I’m on for my BEST TIME?

It’s idiocy. And you can’t win. You can die by a thousand cuts. Weighted down tomorrow by drizzle, tired legs and excuses, I’ll get bested by my virtual self. And it’ll bother me.

Somewhere in this world of lunacy, I might be getting a little bit fit. More likely it’s a tailwind πŸ˜‰

Being Silly

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography4 Comments

It’s official. In the differently shaped world of the Hedgehog, silly is the new serious. Maybe it’s because I never really got around to growing up, or as I have kids of my own, or even – after 40 – days fast forward into weeks and weeks into years, and you have to fill the rushing time with something.

But whatever it is, I have inaugurated Rule#3* into Al’s approach to dealing with the real world. And it is simply “Every week I shall do something properly silly“. There is already quite enough doom, gloom and despondency waiting for a mouse click, or the flick of the paper. What’s needed is some balance, a sense of the stupid, and a reason to giggle.

Today this took the form of trying not to be punched backwards by a gale force wind, whilst being seriously inconvenienced by a wing shaped lump of foam. We waded through damp bracken to crest a high point on the Long Mynd, before being properly bested by Mother Nature.**

Waves of weather washed over us, hail – driven on by screaming wing – piercing any unprotected skin, occasionally clear patches rushed past at the speed of stupid, only for the next front to surf the slope and break right over our heads.

I broke the Wildthing on the second flight. Although that’s an inaccurate statement because a) it was already a bit broken from smashing into a brick wall last week, and b) because it wasn’t flying, it was merely travelling backwards and out of sight while I pointless twirled the sticks.

It took me a while to realise it was broken, as I’d lost it in about fifty acres of featureless bracken. Amazingly I found it nearly HALF A MILE AWAY by twitching the controls and listening for echo of staining servos. Now a non silly person would have taken one look at the damage, the weather and their lack of ability to fly in such difficult conditions and gone home. Sulkily and unfulfilled.

Being silly, I taped the fuselage back together, grafted some further botched repair to prevent the wing from flying free, and headed back to the ridge. Feet soaking, jeans sodden and fingers frozen, I tried again. And again and once more, as the model cartwheeled backwards adding more damage without really ever properly flying.

Being really silly, I kept on going and was rewarded with ten minutes of brilliant fun as the air smoothed out with distance from the edge. Silly possibly went to stupid as practising rolls with a wing held on by parcel tape possibly was taking the whole thing slightly too frivolously. But the model held together long enough for me to see the next weather front rolling up the valley.

We quit then, because two hours of this kind of silliness is really enough. Tea and medals followed and we couldn’t keep the stupid grins off our frozen faces. It reminds me of riding Mountain Bikes when clearly staying inside was the sensible option. Or setting off for an extra loop when light and tired legs are against you.

So it seems I found another way of being silly. And that can only be a good thing. Rule#3, er, rules.

* Rule#1: Life is too short to drink with arseholes.

Rule#’2: If the answer isn’t “a big glass of wine and a sit down” then re-phrase the question until it is.

** Who was clearly having a bad hair day.

Riding buddies

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road Riding7 Comments

Mountain Biking should not be a solitary sport. Fifty percent or more of the fun is who you are with, and the rest made up of where you are. Most riders subscribe to this opinion, so we all gravitate to people who will put up with your bullshit, and kindly check your bike for damage while you’re bleeding elsewhere.

Sure there are those outside the bell curve who decry group rides as diluting the ethereal experience, others’ chatter mere white noise against the simple beauty of being at one with the landscape. I tend to think of these people as a) a bit up their own bottom and b) having no real friends.

And whilst I say your riding world is peopled with those sharing similar mental DNA, there are always leaders and followers, fast guys up hill, nutters streaming down the other way, talkers and silent types, tech heads and don’t give a shitters. And then there’s always one, just one who has a personal mission to make you hurt yourself.

Take my pal Jezz, a rare – and bloody annoying – combination of decent technical skills, a strong climber and a firm expression when offering up a short extension likely to take you into a) the next county and b) tomorrow. But under that genial expression lies the heart of a sadistic bastard. And he worked me out quickly enough as an old bloke whose mouth was writing cheques his body couldn’t cash.

So the challenges started. Not that I really knew, as on our inaugral ride, I thought I was going to die, and on the second I was pretty sure I had. But extra bits started to be worked in, lips were expected to be stiffened during a riding into driving snow experience, hills were for going over not around. But like I say I was too busy suffering near death experiences to notice.

And then I was sucked in “Hey Jezz, I reckon this loop is all doable in the middle ring”. I tossed it out for a laugh and the bugger only went out two nights later and proved it was possible. For him anyway, when I tried I was unpleasantly reminded of singlespeeding. I am such a sucker for this stuff, all competitive bravado, no actual way of backing it up.

This morning I had a proper commute to work and electronically informed the young fella that us oldies cracked out a massive 18k of road work in 43 minutes. Adding hastily that I was weighed down by laptops, shoes (the ones the dog hadn’t eaten), knobbly wide tyres and the dark. The bastard – because that is what he is – replied I was merely a big girl and should put some bloody effort in.

Which is why I was hating my texting finger as it gripped the bars climbing the 200+ vertical feet of twatty hill separating me from home. Lowest gear (which on my CX bike is still bloody hard in case you’re interested), dribbling, sweat rolling into my eyes, 1000 yard gurn in place. The valley road was far below, but that would be far too bloody easy wouldn’t it?

Better to die up here in the rarefied air of the terminally stupid. My breath rasped out and a sane Al would have reached for a Asthma blow, but no because that may slow me down. It was the same spark of lunacy which kept me on the drops on a road much given over to mud and running water, and offering up about as much grip as jelly on ice.

“Can’t slow down, it’ll cost me 10 seconds“. Fair enough I suppose although a couple of times, it did feel I may be forty years early for the next life. Rolled up to the home gate, fumbled for my watch, clicked the light on. Looked. Looked again. 41minutes29seconds. It must be broken, it had to be faster than that.

It wasn’t.

I was explaining this to Carol while lying on the floor, legs a tremble and refusing to move. On the not unreasonable grounds there was no way I was going to tackle a difficult set of stairs. Just throw a blanket over me now and feed me my phone and some humble pie.

My riding buddies seem to be mainly Mr. Pain and Mr Suffering, but I am starting to feel sort of fit. And very, very old.

Wildthing

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

Hobbies, strange things aren’t they? Somewhere between mere displacement activity and a serious mental illness. And even at the not completely bonkers end, fierce debate rages over the classification of how one spends spare time.

Not being good enough to fly real aeroplanes is a representative example. It’s not a hobby, it is sport* so told to me by a humourless middle aged man, wearing a non ironic Christmas jumper and a serious expression. Really? Oh yes, it was reclassified in 1987 by the association of Who Gives A Shit, when a bunch of fat, pointless people really cared about it.

I may have paraphrased a bit there; unfortunately while my face was performing conversational normality, my mind had wandered off on a flight of fancy. Not actual flying because so far that has been denied my by the weather, my engineering skills, and some cruel acts of fate involving spending hobby time trying to get interested in wooden floors.

I’ve broken one model twice before it ever even got off the ground. Possibly trying to fix a key component β€œ the throttle β€œ with a wheel spoke was complicit here. All my repairs are now sponsored by Mr Heath and Mr Robinson, after a real effort to impress involving balsa wood, scribbled drawings, and appreciative beard stroking by those who know lasted all the time it took to say Hey look, you can do this… ah.. it’s broken

The other plane finally flew, although it did exhibit the handling characteristics of a food blender powered by a Saturn Five rocket. This vertical take-off was lengthily preceded by two men β€œ one who knew everything and the other who knew nothing β€œ standing in a muddy field willing the recalcitrant little bugger to start. Eventually the traditional incantation of Start you sod, otherwise I’m emptying this tank of nitro fuel over you and fetching the blowtorch! generated the sound of an angry wasp miked up to a sub woofer.

So I’ve** built the Wildthing which, you many notice, has no engine and is therefore configured for me to crash without any help from a willing instructor. But that’s not the thing really, the best bit is these flying wings are specifically designed for combat. Yes that’s right, the simple concept is to take out your opponent by playing airborne chicken.

My one skill is flying into things. The ground mostly, but let’s not worry about such technicalities β€œ I’m confident of some kind of success this weekend. Not in my local Hills though, because the self appointed nitwits who apparently care for the Malvern’s are specifically chartered to ensure nobody can have any fun at all.

That’s a rant for another day, but come Sunday a magnificent gladiatorial battle shall play out in the skies above the Long Mynd. A location where a few of us will be attempting to kick the shit out of each other’s models, while protecting our own. RAMMING SPEED MR SULU shall be my battle cry.

Now THAT sounds like a sport.

* I’ve spent the thick end of ten years riding round in a muddy field being told Mountain Biking is a real sport. Maybe the guys on TV count, but the rest of us are just delusional. The acid test is to ask a complete stranger and they’ll tell you EXACTLY what it looks like.

** Carol.