Tag: Stupidity

MOT

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

Stands for what: Moment Of Truth? Mode Of Transport? Money Over Time? All of those. Most Of Today I seemed to have spent the entire day trying to tax the mini truck. That’s proactive administration for me as it’s over two weeks before the normal breathless panic descends on the post office two minutes before closing time. Still on Sunday I’ll be (not) celebrating an age mostly linked with the meaning of life, so it seemed apposite to begin to get my shit together.

Now many of you non paroled hedgies have had to suffer my many entried whine list, right at the top of which is the bloody nanny state. And you’ll not be surprised as I put the critical into hypocritical with a vocal moan that nobody told me the MOT on my car had expired. About a month ago. A month in which I’ve driven over a thousand miles – essentially without insurance.

The noise you can hear is my Matrix Neo body swerve as I dodge expensive bullets. It does seem odd though that the Government wants their car tax, the insurance company their premiums, but no one seems to give a monkey’s that your car may plough into an bus queue because it’s unchecked for mechanical failures.

A cynic may argue that’s because those particular institutions care much about revenue and little about consequences. And he’d be right, which is exactly what I wasn’t as I harangued an innocent Welshman about their rubbish on line excise systems. I was feeling quite mentally excised as the computer said “No” with ever increasing determination.

“Your MOT isn’t valid Sir” said the nice man receiving my tirade (to whit: “What’s the point in putting this stuff on line if your bloody system offers nothing other than wasting my time for thirty minutes before apologetically spitting out a phone number which offers about 47 options, none of which help at all“)

“Yes Sir, but you can’t renew as your MOT isn’t valid”; / “Don’t be rediculous Man* of course, it is, it says right here valid until July 13th 2009” PAUSE. “It’s August 11th Sir”. LONGER PAUSE “And that’s your best excuse is it? I’m not going to spend any more of my time talking to you, you clearly can’t help”

Neither could four garages. The fifth promised much but has yet delivered little. Specifically a new MOT. Tomorrow I’ll be back hoping for my car, a hire car, some form of divine intervention, whatever to get me back on the road so I can bloody well get on with my job/life/ranting.

I feel I need someone to blame. However, I don’t feel it deeply enough to work out who that should be. As I have a feeling, the answer is probably close to 42.

* I’m nearly 42, I believe I’ve earned the right to be pompus at least once a day

Trigostupidry.

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

My continuing fascination to splodge together two entirely inappropriate words has brought forth Trigastupidry. This is the practical – if entirely bonkers – fusion of trigonometry and stupidity.

From the sound of cow bells, it’s clearly crazy Austrians or Germans who have come up with a cunning plan to launch a man off the side of a mountain.

It’s hard to pinpoint the epicentre of stupidity here. Is it the building of a giant sod-off ramp that’ll launch a rubber suited man at close to terminal velocity into space. You’d think so wouldn’t you. But that’s not it.

Watch where he lands. The phrase “margin of error” springs to mind as does “you have to be joking”. I mean what can of mind can precisely calculate the flight, trajectory and speed of an object, and then bazooka fleshy parts into a landing zone the size of a small paddling pool.

Are Austria a Nuclear power? I think I’d better go and check. This is not the kind of people you want with their finger on the trigger of something dangerous.

Thanks to Julian for the link.

Radio Ga Ga.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

I’ve said before whoever smugly proclaimed that “”Honesty is the best policy” had clearly never tried it. However I am now forced to grudgingly acknowledge that the righteous tidy-mind may not be entirely wrong. Let me qualify that, he (and it wil be a he, with clipped hair, nails and accent, polished shoes, knitted jumper, humour bypass – you know the type) is wrong most of the time, because telling fibs greases those difficult parts when the truth will trigger a set of emotional explosions and a hard stare.

Sure you may have to fabricate exactly which band you were in at Live Aid, and play up a little your part in designing the Space Shuttle, but this is merely lexical liquid smoothing otherwise bumpy conversations. But occasionally telling the truth can save you from the kind of embarrassment that leaves you pleading for the world to catch fire, or some other significant event to stop everyone pointing and laughing.*

I nearly managed to lie my way out of an unfolding grubby spectacle when a large, earnest lady dressed in a sack, and carrying a microphone politely enquired if “these” were my children. Since “These” were essentially de-constructing some very expensive looking exhibits at the time during our visit to Techniquest, my first instinct was to go with the big whopper.

True to form, the kids dobbed me in it. Random declared she was indeed a much loved offspring, while verbal insisted it was her sister that had done it** before legging it. Sack-Woman was in fact reporter from Radio Wales on a mission to understand the difference between my generation (i.e. old and hard bitten) and our kids (i.e. young and pampered) when it came to entertainment.

Centre of attention? People clinging onto my every word? Chance to be on the radio? Would I do an interview? What d’you think? Anyway hardly was the question out, before I was describing – with great arcs of hand motion which must really work for radio – how my childhood was essentially hardship, graft and the odd lighter moment when we got to set fire to the Conservative Candidate for Sheffield South.

She gamely tried to get another question in, but I was not to be deterred “Played outside all the time in street, essentially feral coming in only for meals and birthdays. Our kids? Just the same, moved to the countryside, lots to do, riding bikes, long dog walks, playing in the tree house. Computers? No, hardly go near them, strictly rationed like the TV and the Internet”

She looked impressed at my vision of model parenting. But as I was readying myself for a Churchillian finale, she switched Leigh’s and bent to talk to little Random “So, what’s your favourite toy then?” Bit of a pause into which I inserted a desperate burst of telepathic suggestion offering generic outdoor activities and, specifically, not dropping your dad in the poo.

Larger Pause. I’m bricking it now because Random doesn’t really answer questions. She merely mainlines whatever oblique stream of consciousness is currently zapping across her wired-up-wrong brain. Don’t forget this is the child who wants to be a big house we can all live in when she grows up. Experience has taught me her interactions with strangers leaves them – at best – bewildered or just mentally unbalanced.

Sack Person leans forward and asks again “so what’s your favourite toy then?” Random leans my way and gives me THAT look. The one that I’ve come to dread because what follows is going to be no better than “A dead giraffe”, “the road” or “my alien friends“.

She finally proudly pipes up into the Microphone “My DS Lite”. I then receive what I can only describe as “an old fashioned look” from purple portly person, but I’m not really interested as I try to shunt Random into a mental siding labelled “mostly human”, but she’s off explaining – with great enthusiasm – all the different games she has been bought. By those parents that proudly dismiss the need for electronic stimuli to entertain their children.

I’m telling you this now, because the broadcast has already gone out, and – with it being Radio Wales – only 11 people will have been listening, four of which think it’s just another voice in their head. I dunno – maybe she’s getting her own back for the Sports Day thing.

Better go practice my dance moves then.

* Although having ridden with some quite “honest” people during my cycling career, I’ve become accustomed to such verbal cruelty.

** Doesn’t matter what. Toy left out. Sister. Dog abandoned somewhere. Sister. Suspicious crumbs in bottom of cake tin previously the site of large cake. Sister. Word Financial Crisis. Sister, with help from dog.

DAV 478Y

On By AlexIn Other stuff6 Comments

Show me a personal plate, and I’ll show you a humourless prick driving a blacked-out people carrier with the road sense of a blind hedgehog. That was certainly my recent experience while attempting to pierce the jam packed multi-lane defences of the A3, and escape from the South-East.

Before I rant, first assumptions; 1) the deep window tint is to protect precious Crispin and Jacasta from any possible view of poor people. Unless the BMW X6 has become the transport of choice for crime syndicates – whisking the big boss from deal to deal. Winchester Mafia? No, that doesn’t sound right at all.

2) Anywhere South of Reading and East of Heathrow, traffic ground rules specify that once you have had a SINGLE flick of an indicator, this delivers a God-Smiting right to stuff your child-killing nose into any lane of your choosing. Regardless of whether there is something in it already. And because you are terribly important, the Highways Agency have laid on an extra lane for you, normally reserved for Police, accidents and fly tipping.

3) Tail-Gating is a mandatory right of citizenship of Shitsville, Berkshire. If the bloke in front can see ANY of your car south of the windscreen, there is damn well room for another fuck-you-I’m-in-a-hurry fatbloke cage in there.

Okay with that? I’m not really nor the kind of terrifyingly insane mindset that would spend forty grand on a bastard hybrid of the Batmobile and a Military hummer. Especially once it’s stuffed it’s vulgar snout in a space which I’d carelessly been minding my own business a second or so before. The A3 wasn’t moving but this cheeky fucker was, barging his way to choir practice, or Pink Gins at the Snotnose-fuckworthys or – and I’m really not buying this – racing to dump a body in the never ending roadworks.

And because I’m a year up the line from driving like a total twat, I resisted for almost seconds before cracking in the familiar way. Before I could say “leave ‘im ‘es not worf it“, I’m gunning the engine, tailgating like a local and flashing everything I had in my motorised armoury*. We jousted up the slip road with his audacious 4 lane sweep from right to left leaving me somewhat positionally embarrassed.

Except that’s where I was going for real whereas he’d merely broken a few hundred traffic rules to save four seconds. A nifty double bluff saw me pin him to the left hand lane, and a refusal to acknowledge the mighty right of his clicking indicator saw windows drawn at dusk.

I had a perfectly articulate argument locked and loaded; to whit “Why behave like that? If you’ve got kids in there, what kind of example is that setting? Where does it get you? I mean, just chill out? If you’d asked nicely I’d have let you out, but you were so damn arrogant and rude.”

One look at his apoplectic, chubby face informed this was an arse masquerading as the other end who never listened because that’s time when he could be talking. Instead a quick internal edit summarised my position thus “Oi SmallDick, stupid car, stupid driving, go fuck yourself. Oh and what kind of sodding name is DA478W? What a wanker!” His face/arse was a picture, I so wish some presence of mind would have had my camera in my non gesticulating hand.

But it felt way better than it should. I swiftly declutched and sped off (verging on the dishonest there, the love truck manages nothing quicker than a swiftish trundle) programming the SatNav with the little known “Rejavik Alternative” designed to remove a county – as swiftly as possible- from your personal geography . Even it it means driving over the Armco.

That’s okay, I had my indicator on. Honestly, lesson here kids – stay away from anything within the satanic orbit of our capital city. They’re not right in the head down there.

* You’ll be relieved to know I kept my trousers on. But only because of the bloody seat belt.

Burn’n’Crash

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

Right, for the uninitiated – and noticeably unwashed from those of you who I’ve met – in all things silly modelling, this is the business end of a glider than thinks it’s a proper aeroplane. With the sort of low cunning we’ve come to expect from marketing types, they offer up a flighty solution to days when you’re short of time/wind/appropriate hillage.

Fire it up, chuck it, make it a speck up in the sky somewhere, shut the engine off and glide for a bit. Run out of height, lean on the noisy stick and start again. Great idea, and absolutely necessary for me to add such a niche to the ever expanding mass of winged foam in my workshop.

But this one is special because it has been on fire. A late night chuck should have brought twenty minutes relaxing stick twirling, followed by a cushioned landing in the field of wheat a nice farmer has provided as my makeshift runway.

What actually happened was a perfect launch, a fast climb and then… well… nothing. The motor turned off, the transmitter was no longer talking to the receiver, and my frantic twiddling had all the effect of asking a ten year old to finish their homework. Unlike recalcitrant children, the glider was blissfully serene at this point – merely heading off downwind from a height of 100+ feet, and destined to crash into some poor innocent minding their own business in a spot of cow tipping. About four miles away.

A gust of wind changed that and gravity rapidly brought on terminal velocity, which thumped the model hard into the crop and cartwheeled previously attached parts to all corners of the field. This crashing been happening rather a lot lately, but in this case it wasn’t my fault.

Not that I was much cheered by such thoughts, as I trudged through waist height wheat heading for the scene of the accident. After some searching I found that the model mostly undamaged due entirely to the springy, vigorous crop cushioning the impact. Honestly we’re taking a vertical dive at high speed followed by significant deceleration trauma, and most of the bits were still the same shape.

They should make airbags out of this stuff. Anyway things were not so good up the front with the small, yet eye wateringly expensive, motor controller on fire and – until I took swift action – in danger of setting alight thirty acres of uncut crop. The smell was terrible, and that was just from my shorts after they’d be on the arse end of a thought process that ran something like “How the fuck am I going to explain setting fire to a field?”

Anyway it’s easily fixed. When I get time. Which I have none of, and even should some magically be presented, it’ll be eaten up by pond dredging*, removing broken forks, hammering the transmission straight on the cross bike, peeking inside the budget spreadsheet and fixing myself. With a large G&T.

It’s nice to know my “skills crossover ” from MTB to models is so seamless. Crap building? Check. Excuses? Lots. Rubbish ability? Oh yes. Crashing? Big sodding tick.

That’s a comfort of sorts.

* This weekend I’ve been up to my armpits in smelly, rank and sticky mud. I’ve had terrible flashbacks to riding in the Chilterns.

Electoral Stroll

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

That’s what Carol did today; she walked into the voting booth in our local village and asked who we’d failed to bribe in order to receive a voting ballet. I’d assumed our lack of political capital was because there was some ritual with a tea tray, frisky chicken, window ledge and amusing handshake we’d forgotten to undertake. Either that or our ineligibility was sealed with having only the four fingers and one thumb on each hand.

Now you all know Winston Churchill was wrong and I am right. Because his view was that Democracy is a terrible thing, but what’s the alternative? Mine’s right here Winny, and we’re talking benevolent dictatorship – an extremely small pointy topped ruling party with me both at the top and brandishing the pointy thing. I’ve already allocated the key government posts of “Keeper of the Scorpion Pits” and “Head of Cheese” although I’ve been considering upgrading “Expenses Adjudicator/Baseball bat tester” to full cabinet status.

I wasn’t going to vote anyway because – as I’ve said before – it just encourages them. And my own political ambitions – constrained by our dumb democracy – were thwarted by apathy and sobriety, hence the “five door hatchback party” was stillborn as a single issue party. Leaving those who believe a protest vote has some validity voting for the fascist bastard’s or Major Loony and the Hang’em high silly sods.

And before someone – and there is always one -starts giving it the “my grandad fought and died for democracy, the least you could do is show it some respect“, just stop because you’re wrong. Badly, as it turns out because many, many brave people went into battle because a) they were told to and b) the Germans bombed their dads’ chip shop. There’s a great quote attributed to Bill Vaughan (but I don’t think it’s him) that goes “People will cross an ocean to fight for democracy, but won’t cross the street to vote for it”

I always though Universal Suffrage was missing an important ‘e‘. Sure allowing the “ordinary man” (rather lamentably followed by the ordinary woman) to vote on whose in charge was a big improvement that that vote being taken by those who already were. But it’s not like it’s going to make much of a difference is it? They’re all power seeking crooks with the morals of a heroin spiked alley cat.

It’s like the BBC TV license, I’m forced to pay it, but that doesn’t give me the editorial control to set fire to “The X-Factor” studio. But, at least I can throw things at the TV, or – as I am increasingly doing – turn it off. But I can’t do that with politicians, they grease up to your door, bombard you from billboards, score pointless inter-party points and so separated from our reality they should consider marriage counselling.

And there’s a beautiful – if twisted – irony that the electorate have only re-engaged with politics now the slimy twats in apparent power have been caught with their finger in the till. I honestly wouldn’t worry about that too much – it has merely proven what we already knew and, given the chance, we’d all do the same – but it’s a bloody concern that such incompetence can somehow collectively run a country.

So anyway, we found our house isn’t on the electoral roll, and we’ll probably get round to fixing it, but it did amuse me that the Inland Revenue, NHS, and a myriad of assorted public bodies can find where we live. But if I wanted to vote for them, I was told “you can’t vote today, sorry that’s the system”

I’m struggling to care.

“It’s not glandular”

On By AlexIn Other stuff6 Comments

Right there, that’s the title of my new healthy lifestyle book. I am somewhat conflicted here because I cannot comprehend how the almost infinite heft of diet books seems to make no bloody difference to the weight of the people reading them. And yet, I still feel there is room for one more written in the style of blunt northerner and focussing on some simple truths.

Here are my draft chapter headings, feel free to help me out with suggestive edits. I’ll feel free to ignore them of course.

1. Eat less, exercise more. Inspired by looking out of the office window this lunchtime. The leafy square was divided about 90/10 in favour of those who looked as if the last meal they missed was when their mum ran out of milk. The exercise regime of these individuals seemed to revolve around warm up cigarettes, reps of mobile phone texting, and finishing up on a big session of sugary cakes.

2. It really isn’t glandular. No it isn’t. You can pretend you have big bones, over-active glands or a sloth like metabolism. But honestly, it’s more the fact that you spend 20 minutes checking calorific values on nasty gas packed sandwiches, and then taking the lift to the second floor.

3. Being round isn’t a cool look. Which seems to be a bloke thing – the other day I saw two fellas comparing beer bellies, reaching forward to give them an affectionate pat “All paid for mate...” was the smug refrain. You can tell it’s nearly summer because the world is full of FPIO*, and most of them are men.

4. Dieting is dumb. It Just is. I do love all those adverts for slimming products modelled by lovely looking women** who have absolutely no body image issues or whatever marketing euphemism hides “looking like a sack of spuds” behind some soothing words. Creeping obesity is simply saying that adding 9000 calories a month is a shit load easier than shedding them.

But crash dieting just eats muscle fat and when the weight loss plateaus – as it absolutely will once that’s gone – everyone just gets depressed and eats again. And the body thinks “bloody hell, food, I tell you what I’ll store that in my fat reserves.” Or arse as the less medically inclined may think of it.

5. Stop kidding yourselves. If you’re fat and happy, then I’m happy for you too. If you’re whinging that your diet isn’t working/the food is shit/exercise is boring/etc/etc, then accept you’re going to be a human beach ball, or do something about it. And no, whining doesn’t count.

It’s going to be a best seller. Retirement beckons I think.

I know this is probably fatist, and I’ve done it before. But I don’t care, because I still find it bloody odd that we have a chunk of health system built to prolong a bloody miserable life, rather than fix the problem before wheelchairs are involved.

And I’m writing this post BBQ, drinking beer but I nearly bloody killed myself commuting, and spent a day eating stuff that was nutritionally outstanding, but digestively dull. So let me leave you with this; the local rag was showcasing a slightly less fat bastard than a year before, who’d been the only bloke in his WeightWatchers group.

When asked what the greatest benefit of losing four stone and becoming both more active and less of a hospital statistic, he declared “getting in and out of the car is easier”. Than what? Walking a mile? Getting on a bike? It’s like escalators in Gyms’ – when did we lose the link between feeling better and actually being better?

I know I’m a grumpy bugger with a myopic view of stuff no one else cares about, but I do wonder sometimes if the world went mad one day, and nobody bothered to tell me.

* Fat People In Oakleys.

** And it generally is, so testing point 3).

Compassion Fatigue

On By AlexIn Bikes, Clic-24, Mountain Bike Riding, Photography1 Comment

The Eighties were dreadful for so many reasons*, but even in that decade of pompous absurdity that phrase shines like a beacon of stupidity. Some quiff in a sleeve-rolled suit would wring their hands to a backdrop of starving African kids, and piously declare that the country had “compassion fatigue“.

No it bloody had not. The ones who could see further than their own self-importance measured by cars, cash, being a fuckwit that kind of thing continued to give what they could, while everyone else – from governments down to those believing AIDS was a solution made excuses.

The problem wasn’t people not caring, it was the explosion of the global coverage of dreadful poverty set against a pot that wasn’t getting any bigger. None of this was helped by a Western approach that patronised rather than listened, gave the money to the wrong people, and were somehow surprised when the misery continued after the cameras left.

I remember this making me quite angry at the time, and – even nearly twenty years on – the dying embers of when the world was black and white still burn a little. Good job as it was about the only thing keeping me going, as the rain charged in one way and my motivation slunk off in the other.

Neil (Organiser, all round top man, poor bugger whose wife died last year from Cancer) told me that while all the entries had been sold, only around 2/3rds of the riders had turned up. I have no issue with serious athletes using the CLIC24 as perfect training for the upcoming 24 hour race season. But what does piss me off is when they can’t be bothered to earn their sponsorship** because the weather is a bit shit.

And shit it was. I arrived early enough to sound out the perfect pitch at the foot of the big camping field. Perfect in terms of being well drained and flat, also geographically spot on for funnelling freezing winds into the nether regions of team “hardcore loafing“. After Nig and I had done our damnest to be fatter piggies than the hog roast, the temperature had dropped to the point of “is it me or is it fucking winter?”

We gave up with outside and cracked a middle aged bottle inside the back of my truck. A truck full of many things, which now included red wine stains. but sadly not my lights***. At least it was warm although I cannot imagine what our neighbours thought of a ton and a half of metal rocking in the stiffening wind. Honestly it was nothing more than “to you, to me, can I just stretch that leg out,? okay Dave you can come in now but you’ll need to leave at least one arm outside”

Last year Dave cleverly avoided the first lap by inflicting£200 work of crank based damage on his bike. We all joked that this time around no one could possibly trump that. But come a morning punctuated by squally showers and clamped in ball freezing cold, Jason put the Hardcore into Loafing by completely failing to turn up AT ALL.

CLIC24 - 2009 (9 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (7 of 26)

Dave was so stunned by this ballsy race craft, he barely objected to being sent out first although – in the spirit of loafers everywhere – we turned up ten minutes late for the start, even after arriving some sixteen hours before. We’re all understandably proud of that.

CLIC24 - 2009 (2 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (11 of 26)

The clock ticked on, the rain sheeted down, blue sky occasionally appeared before being distainfully swept away by a stormy wind in league with the God of Precipitation. Dave’s course report was largely irrelevant since Nig and I were instead checking out the state of his bike. Brown and Wet were the key indicators of trail condiitons and that’s never a good combination in almost any life experience.

CLIC24 - 2009 (14 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (20 of 26)

Jason joined us half way through the next lap, showing a worrying confidence in the future performance of his lovely new Titanium hardtail. Worrying as I’d built it three days before utilising the experimental technique of fitting everything with the largest hammer. Still it looked okay and with 14k of mud, rocks, stream crossings, fast descents and gurning climbs, what could go wrong eh?

I worried a bit for him as a displacement activity during my first lap. Because as quick as the course was drying out, fat rainclouds threatened to submerse it under the water table. And when those clouds did explode, the next fifteen minutes of my life were the ideal preparation for reincarnation as a trout. I was beyond wet and had entered that transcendental state known to riders everywhere as “four quick beers, a warm shower, B&B and a hot meal and I may live”

My team mates were waiting for me in the transition area. Well waiting to laugh anyway, which is the kind of team spirit that sustains us during the bad times. Of which , we were about to have another as a fierce gust dispatched the gazebo in a scream of tortured metal and extreme flappage. I watched Nig and Jas embodying this extreme flappage from the inside of the truck.

CLIC24 - 2009 (3 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (17 of 26)

Revenge is a wonderful thing. Still to ensure that team spirit wasn’t affected I made sure my laughing and pointing were delivered in a motivating and positive manner. From there until enough was more than enough, we greased our way round an every more comedic course, between hiding from the wind in any location pedalling food and beer.

Three things stand out; the brilliant organisation, the fantastic atmosphere even when it’s pretty miserable, and a whole bunch of riders on the course trying their first event. I lost count of the number of low cost bikes with nervous riders trying their best to stay onboard in increasingly difficult conditions. And when I came out in admiration they were giving it their all, that’s where we came in with compassion fatigue.

Everyone out on that course had a story to tell, a scary moment, a grin at the silly mud, a determined expression on the never ending fire road, a look of satisfaction on completing the lap and a smile at the shared sillyness of what we were doing. Oh sure, there are those occasional aliens who enjoy this kind of thing, but I’m not one of them and neither were any of the people I spoke too.

CLIC24 - 2009 (18 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (19 of 26)

But they carried on because they’d promised to earn sponsorship for CLIC Sargent, and I was very proud to be riding with them. It was hard enough when you’ve ridden a bit, it must have been bloody dreadful if this was one of your first experiences trying proper MTB off road. But I couldn’t help thinking about those who couldn’t be arsed, who decided being dry and war was better than being co-located with a moral conscience

Sorry if I’m going on a bit, I didn’t realise how much it pissed me off until I sat down to write this. It is not as if we did a million laps like the hero soloists or serious teams. But we gave it a good go, and while it wasn’t really fun, the worse times were not while you were out on the course. I quit after a dawn lap as I really wanted to be there when Verbal opened her presents, and the morning downpour doused what little motivational fire I had left.

Not Nig tho, he was kitted up and ready to go as I squelshed back in. And one lap in the seemingly unending rain and cold deterred him not at all. As we were herding flywaway tents into wet cars, he set off on a seconds lap clearly having imbued madness by a process of trail based osmosis. Although when he finally gave up, my suspicion is his tactic had been merely to lie face down in the mud for an hour before riding back to the start.

CLIC24 - 2009 (23 of 26) CLIC24 - 2009 (22 of 26)

He denies it, but I think the pictures tell the true story.

So that was CLIC24:2009. Bottom line is it’s upwards of£30,000 to a charity that clearly invests every penny it receives in making tragically shortened young lives as good as they can be. And somehow giving parents who are doomed to outlive their children, a reason to go on. I cannot imagine what that must be like, but while I can still turn a pedal, I’m bloody determined to make sure they have my support.

Talk to those people about compassion fatigue. I have a feeling they might not get it.

* if you were there, you’ll know what I mean. If not google “puffball skirts”, “Athena posters” and “everyone being a dickhead”

** Assuming they had any. And assuming they didn’t just collect it whether they rode it or not. I know this isn’t a perfect argument. but I was having it at 5am in the freezing bloody cold, and I wasn’t thinking entirely straight.

*** Or so I thought. I found them in the muddy sweepings of a forgotten spares box this evening. A serving of double numpty with a side order of dimwit for Mr. Leigh please.

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.

Holey Moley

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

We’re going for a temporal shift tonight. Rather than me imagine something that could have happened and may be amusing, I need you to stir your creative juices* so to paint some pictures in your head**. Because the photos that really should accompany this post are as yet untaken. There are many good reasons for this, but I shall give you just one: It is already dark and somebody stole the spare from my time.

First the “garden” – never really a garden really and certainly not one now. After Ken “The Lost Wurzel” and his mighty digger excavated an unbelievable 150 tonnes of harcore, this former car park now resembles the showpiece exhibit for the Manhattan Project. Either than or ground zero at a significant meteor strike.

I expect to receive our first inquisitive visitors once we’ve upgraded to the full Flanders Trench experience due next week. Christ knows how much deeper we can go before we hit the water table. Or Australia. Not that this troubles the many tradespeople now setting up second home in our house. A round table roll up and tea excavation summit ended with the following joint statement “Arrgh, she’ll be fine”

Yes, we do seem to be employing pirates. This in no way phases me as I have really no idea what’s going on at all anymore. If one of the interchangeable Geoffs/Johns/Kens wandered in and announced “okay the Gorrilla is here, still going in the utility room, yes?” I’d just assume the big furry fella is an integral part of the heating system, and go and fetch some bananas.

There has to be some reason for the roof being four inches higher than it was*** and a 8 foot primate would seem as good idea as any. It certainly looks like Godzilla was involved in cutting a doorway between the hall and the mini warehouse tacked onto the side of the house. And quite why a new wall has gone up in there is the kind of mystery beyond my ken to solve.

Maybe we’re going to box the kids in? Not that I’ve seen much of them either because my time is spent between keyboard and paintbrush with not much in between. Today I wasted invested four hours protecting our massive erection with a fluid not unlike the fnar-fnar where we came in.

I was – predictably – so bored I painted in a style of whatever the mp3 player was shuffling. So Green Day meant anarchistic splashes while The Killers segued into rhythmic stripes. A long forgotten prog rock track extended the brushing past the end of the wood, and onto the dog. Still he looks good with a racing stripe.

You really do need to see some pictures. Not because it is any way interesting, rather I need someone to tell me it’s going to get better soon and all this money/dust/boredom/stress is worth it. I’d consider pitching a tent in what’s left of the garden and declaring myself temporarily insane except a) no one would really notice and b) it’s not so bad that CAMPING could in any way be better.

Well it wasn’t that bad until I found another big hole. It’s in the budget spreadsheet and I’ve just filled it with a large glass of wine.

* Perfectly legal with the proviso that no animals are harmed during the process.

** Better than crayons eh? I’ve got a good handle on the mental age of most of my readers.

*** This was amusing. A bunch of blokes trying to gauge how long four inches was. The fairer sex were somewhat more accurate.