So, it's virtually summer, and everyone's getting their drop-top out to enjoy a brief bit of ideal convertible weather before it gets too hot.
There is an excellent game which you can play if you drive a drop-top. It works like this: Any time you see another convertible being driven (parked doesn't count), you win a point if your top is down and theirs is up, and you lose a point if yours is up and theirs is down.
At the end of the year, whoever has the most points wins!
I have 27 points so far, so you've a little catching up to do.
Monday 16 April 2007
Tuesday 10 April 2007
Trackie Bottoms
The Man came to fix the tracker in my car today.
And by "The Man", I don't mean a metaphorical gestalt entity representing the harsher side of corporate capitalism, but an actual homo sapiens-type man man.
He suffered from terrible Builder's Bum.
Yes, naturally I had to look.
It has been suggested that this "makes me" gay.
Anyone who has ever seen The Man's builder's bum will know it's far more likely that if I were gay, it would rapidly have "made me" heterosexual.
And by "The Man", I don't mean a metaphorical gestalt entity representing the harsher side of corporate capitalism, but an actual homo sapiens-type man man.
He suffered from terrible Builder's Bum.
Yes, naturally I had to look.
It has been suggested that this "makes me" gay.
Anyone who has ever seen The Man's builder's bum will know it's far more likely that if I were gay, it would rapidly have "made me" heterosexual.
Monday 9 April 2007
Soapy tit - wank
Soap Operas. Why do you watch them?
If you want to know what normal lives are like, just talk to some normal people. You don't need a TV for that. Plus you might make some friends. You will require basic communication skills, but these will come with practice.
If you already have friends, and you watch Soap Operas so as to have a common frame of reference about which to chat with your friends, why not agree on a different subject in advance? Who knows, you might even come up with an original and creative thought instead of becoming nothing but a vapid sponge for the tedious output of a manufactured and meaningless subgenre.
And no, your opinion is not as valid as mine. I had mine first.
If you want to know what normal lives are like, just talk to some normal people. You don't need a TV for that. Plus you might make some friends. You will require basic communication skills, but these will come with practice.
If you already have friends, and you watch Soap Operas so as to have a common frame of reference about which to chat with your friends, why not agree on a different subject in advance? Who knows, you might even come up with an original and creative thought instead of becoming nothing but a vapid sponge for the tedious output of a manufactured and meaningless subgenre.
And no, your opinion is not as valid as mine. I had mine first.
Friday 6 April 2007
Why Vegetarians Are Wrong
One bar of butter, fresh from the dairy, and warmed just enough that it almost spreads.
One loaf of the finest ever-so-slightly-crusty bread, direct from the baker's.
And most important of all, eight slices of the world's best bacon, direct from the butcher's.
I sliced the bread and left a knob of butter on each slice.
I fried the bacon in a pan, using premium olive oil instead of cooking oil because I am decadent like that (and because I couldn't find any cooking oil).
I put the slices of bacon onto the bread so that the heat from the bacon melted the butter into the bread.
This is the finest cuisine known to man.
And that's why vegetarianism is wrong.
One loaf of the finest ever-so-slightly-crusty bread, direct from the baker's.
And most important of all, eight slices of the world's best bacon, direct from the butcher's.
I sliced the bread and left a knob of butter on each slice.
I fried the bacon in a pan, using premium olive oil instead of cooking oil because I am decadent like that (and because I couldn't find any cooking oil).
I put the slices of bacon onto the bread so that the heat from the bacon melted the butter into the bread.
This is the finest cuisine known to man.
And that's why vegetarianism is wrong.
Thursday 5 April 2007
Wisdom of the Ages
Thus spake the Wise Man:
Yea! Spare not the ice from the cola, for down this path lies the unrighteous state of lukewarm cola.
But stay also thy hand from filling the glass with ice unto its very brim before thou dost pour therein a single drop of thy cola, for thus thou wilt cause the cola to taste of mildly-carbonated water.
Treadest thou then the middle path, neither withholding clear coolness from thy liquid as the blasphemers, nor inundating it therein as the false and foolish heathen, but rather, seek solace and comfort in the offering of, say, two, or maybe three cubes, by which sign shall ye be known and welcomed amongst us as a true believer.
Yea! Spare not the ice from the cola, for down this path lies the unrighteous state of lukewarm cola.
But stay also thy hand from filling the glass with ice unto its very brim before thou dost pour therein a single drop of thy cola, for thus thou wilt cause the cola to taste of mildly-carbonated water.
Treadest thou then the middle path, neither withholding clear coolness from thy liquid as the blasphemers, nor inundating it therein as the false and foolish heathen, but rather, seek solace and comfort in the offering of, say, two, or maybe three cubes, by which sign shall ye be known and welcomed amongst us as a true believer.
Ode to the Croquant
Ode to the Croquant
There are many, many Croquants spread across the Empire's lands
Some are bigger than your feet and some are smaller than your hands
Croquants come in two varieties - one has a puffed-up chest;
But the other Croquant's noted for his fashionable crest.
Now learn these words of wisdom for it really doesn't do
To misidentify a Crested - they're divided into two:
The Lesser Crested Croquant's crest doth stand most fair and tall
But the Greater Crested Croquant has the greatest crest of all.
Some are bigger than your feet and some are smaller than your hands
Croquants come in two varieties - one has a puffed-up chest;
But the other Croquant's noted for his fashionable crest.
Now learn these words of wisdom for it really doesn't do
To misidentify a Crested - they're divided into two:
The Lesser Crested Croquant's crest doth stand most fair and tall
But the Greater Crested Croquant has the greatest crest of all.
Prius Inter Pares
On the three most recent occasions when I have left the building at which I work, a silver Toyota Prius has driven past.
I left at a different time on each occasion, and once, in a different direction.
It is obvious that the government have found out who I really am, and are having me surveilled. (See how I verbed that there? Nice.)
Why the government? Because surely only government agents would be simultaneously furtive and environmentally-conscious.
I left at a different time on each occasion, and once, in a different direction.
It is obvious that the government have found out who I really am, and are having me surveilled. (See how I verbed that there? Nice.)
Why the government? Because surely only government agents would be simultaneously furtive and environmentally-conscious.
Economics in Action
"I'm working on a $100,000 project," said my colleague. "It's going to save $150,000."
"Well I'm working on a $200,000 project," said my other colleague, "and it's going to save $350,000."
"Well," said I, "I'm working on a $500,000 project."
"How much is it going to save?" they chorused.
"Nothing. But it's very kind of you gentlemen to pay for it."
Apparently, the sort of project that doesn't save any money is also the easiest sort of project for which to get approval. That's economics in action.
"Well I'm working on a $200,000 project," said my other colleague, "and it's going to save $350,000."
"Well," said I, "I'm working on a $500,000 project."
"How much is it going to save?" they chorused.
"Nothing. But it's very kind of you gentlemen to pay for it."
Apparently, the sort of project that doesn't save any money is also the easiest sort of project for which to get approval. That's economics in action.
Wednesday 4 April 2007
Patchy quality control?
In a recent game patch, the following problem was fixed:
"Attempting to turn in a charter with a signature from an ineligible player will no longer result in an inappropriate error message."
Please let it previously have said "Sod off, you cock."
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something poo
Old:
Richard Herring, at 39*. He's very funny though. An excellent balance between rather clever multi-layered comedy and straight-up toilet humour.
New:
A ripped Burger King bag on your table is a great way of making sure people don't sit too close to you, even on a surprisingly-crowded midnight train back from London.
Borrowed:
A young girl on the train was crying because the battery in her mp3 player was bust and she had to go all the way to Shoeburyness (not a nice experience at the best of times). I "lent" her mine, although I don't suppose I'll be seeing it back again. I politely left aside the question of what a mere slip of a 14-odd-year-old was doing on her own on the midnight train coming back from London.
Poo:
In the Burger King they didn't have any Double Whoppers left, only a Double Whopper XL. I had a theory that this would be too big, but I bought it anyway. It was too big. Therefore, for the last part of the journey, I was holding in a huge poo, which my readers will be pleased to know I released into the depths of the sewerage system just before writing this entry.
Also, why is it a Double Whopper XL rather than, say, a Triple Whopper? Does it really all three of the words in its name to describe its size?
__
* This is called "poetic licence", incidentally.
Richard Herring, at 39*. He's very funny though. An excellent balance between rather clever multi-layered comedy and straight-up toilet humour.
New:
A ripped Burger King bag on your table is a great way of making sure people don't sit too close to you, even on a surprisingly-crowded midnight train back from London.
Borrowed:
A young girl on the train was crying because the battery in her mp3 player was bust and she had to go all the way to Shoeburyness (not a nice experience at the best of times). I "lent" her mine, although I don't suppose I'll be seeing it back again. I politely left aside the question of what a mere slip of a 14-odd-year-old was doing on her own on the midnight train coming back from London.
Poo:
In the Burger King they didn't have any Double Whoppers left, only a Double Whopper XL. I had a theory that this would be too big, but I bought it anyway. It was too big. Therefore, for the last part of the journey, I was holding in a huge poo, which my readers will be pleased to know I released into the depths of the sewerage system just before writing this entry.
Also, why is it a Double Whopper XL rather than, say, a Triple Whopper? Does it really all three of the words in its name to describe its size?
__
* This is called "poetic licence", incidentally.
Tuesday 3 April 2007
The Great Fajita Swindle
Mexican restaurants.
Everyone likes Mexican, but did you ever stop to consider...
At an Italian restaurant, you will pay for example £10 for a delicious main course. The ingredients for the course will be provided by the restaurant, cooked by the restaurant, and then presented to you, by the restaurant, in an aesthetically pleasing fashion ready for you to eat.
But at a Mexican restaurant, at which you will also pay £10 for a delicious main course, whilst the ingredients will be selected and cooked for you, you are beholden to scoop them up yourself and wrap them in some sort of consumable packaging.
Surely this should be done by the establishment? After all, isn't the point of paying to eat that people do the preparation for you?
Outrageous. Something Must Be Done.
See also Crispy Aromatic Duck.
Everyone likes Mexican, but did you ever stop to consider...
At an Italian restaurant, you will pay for example £10 for a delicious main course. The ingredients for the course will be provided by the restaurant, cooked by the restaurant, and then presented to you, by the restaurant, in an aesthetically pleasing fashion ready for you to eat.
But at a Mexican restaurant, at which you will also pay £10 for a delicious main course, whilst the ingredients will be selected and cooked for you, you are beholden to scoop them up yourself and wrap them in some sort of consumable packaging.
Surely this should be done by the establishment? After all, isn't the point of paying to eat that people do the preparation for you?
Outrageous. Something Must Be Done.
See also Crispy Aromatic Duck.
Sunday 1 April 2007
On the 97th Day of Christmas...
...my good friend gave to me "The Dangerous Book for Boys" by Conn Iggulden - who, by an amazing coincidence, is the author of the "Emperor" book I mentioned earlier today.
It contains much useful information and is recommended to everybody. Yes, even girls.
Examples of the useful information contained therein: How to make a bow and arrows; The laws of cricket; The story of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson; How to teach tricks to a dog; A brief history of artillery; Common British trees.
Good.
It contains much useful information and is recommended to everybody. Yes, even girls.
Examples of the useful information contained therein: How to make a bow and arrows; The laws of cricket; The story of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson; How to teach tricks to a dog; A brief history of artillery; Common British trees.
Good.
New and Improved
Is it possible for something to be both new and improved?
I think they are probably mutually exclusive.
My television thinks different.
I think they are probably mutually exclusive.
My television thinks different.
If you liked sarcasm, you'll love irony
"If you liked 'Gladiator', you'll love 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'!" said the blurb on 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'.
Now, leaving aside the questions of whether or not I did like (or love) either of these things, let us consider the implications of this type of assertion.
We can suppose that people who like something also have, in general, a tendency to like similar things. Furthermore, we can usually observe that the more similar things someone likes, and the more they like them, the more likely they are to like another similar but as-yet unexperienced thing.
This is how (and why) Last.fm works. I tell it that I love, let's say, HammerFall, Zero 7, and Savatage, and it suggests that perhaps I might like Nightwish. Correct, Last.fm. Go to the top of the class.
Imagine a band (or any other item within your subjective frame of reference) as a set of variables. The meaning or value of each is irrelevant, but what we are saying is that for several variables x, x(Nightwish) is similar to x(HammerFall), x(Zero 7), and x(Savatage), and that for several other variables y, y(Nightwish) is either dissimilar to y(the rest), or unknown. If there are many more xs than ys, it predicts that I will like Nightwish. Otherwise, it predicts that I won't.
So, the point is that whilst you can predict that someone might like something if they love something similar, you can't predict that someone will love something just because they like something similar.
I suppose that this entire entry could consist of the first paragraph and the previous paragraph, but it is early in the morning and I have nothing better to do.
Also, if you loved 'Gladiator', you might like 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'.
Now, leaving aside the questions of whether or not I did like (or love) either of these things, let us consider the implications of this type of assertion.
We can suppose that people who like something also have, in general, a tendency to like similar things. Furthermore, we can usually observe that the more similar things someone likes, and the more they like them, the more likely they are to like another similar but as-yet unexperienced thing.
This is how (and why) Last.fm works. I tell it that I love, let's say, HammerFall, Zero 7, and Savatage, and it suggests that perhaps I might like Nightwish. Correct, Last.fm. Go to the top of the class.
Imagine a band (or any other item within your subjective frame of reference) as a set of variables. The meaning or value of each is irrelevant, but what we are saying is that for several variables x, x(Nightwish) is similar to x(HammerFall), x(Zero 7), and x(Savatage), and that for several other variables y, y(Nightwish) is either dissimilar to y(the rest), or unknown. If there are many more xs than ys, it predicts that I will like Nightwish. Otherwise, it predicts that I won't.
So, the point is that whilst you can predict that someone might like something if they love something similar, you can't predict that someone will love something just because they like something similar.
I suppose that this entire entry could consist of the first paragraph and the previous paragraph, but it is early in the morning and I have nothing better to do.
Also, if you loved 'Gladiator', you might like 'Emperor: The Gates of Rome'.
The DVLA
The DVLA are shit. I have proof.
Polite Welsh Man: Hello, this is the DVLA. How can I help?
Me: Hello, yes, I wonder if you can help me. My car tax is due at the end of this month, but I haven't received a reminder yet, the number from which I need in order to fill in your wizzy Internet application for a car tax disc, thus saving you, the government, money, thus saving me, the taxpayer, money, thus benefitting both of us in a mutual not-as-much-money-being-spent kind of a way.
PWM: Ah, no problem sir, we'll send one out right away. Can you just confirm the registration number?
Me: Yes, it's Sierra Five One Five Juliet Charlie, er, whatever the phonetic for "Y" is*.
(a brief dialogue ensues)
PWM: Ah, but you see the thing is, we haven't received a change of owner for that car, so the reminder will have gone to the old owner.
Me: Ah, but you see the thing is, I do own this car, I've owned it since September, I've got the car keys, I've got the code for the radio, I've got it pre-programmed to all the radio stations that I like, at least insofar as it's possible to like nine of the frankly rather poor radio stations currently available in this country. I've got the thing from the dealer that says it's mine, all my friends have seen me in it, my mum's taken my photo in it, I've even got that funny little bit of New Keeper paper and everything. I know: How about I just give you the number off that and you can send me the reminder that way?
PWM: I'm afraid you'll have to send us the New Keeper slip along with an Application Form. Then we'll send you a Log Book.
Me: And one I get a Log Book, I can get the car taxed, right?
PWM: That's right sir.
Me: OK, how long will that take?
PWM: About six weeks, sir, all being well.
Me: Six weeks huh? Well, that is very quick given the huge amount of effort clearly involved on your part, but I kind of need it taxed at the end of this month - that is to say, in considerably less than six days, never mind the sextuplet of weeks of which you speak. How could I get it taxed in the meantime? Can I get some sort of interim road tax dispensation order, perhaps, or a letter from the Queen?
PWM: I'm afraid not sir, obviously you'll have to keep it off the road until you want to get it taxed.
Me: Ah yes, that is obvious now you put it that way. But I want to get it taxed now. I have insurance, I have an MOT, I even have a ridiculous sum of money which I wish to give unto you as a token of respect for the superbly efficient administration system which it appears you have constructed.
PWM: Yes, but you don't have a Log Book, I'm afraid.
Me: And why don't I have a Log Book?
PWM: Because we haven't received details of you having taken ownership.
Me: But I've just given you the details.
PWM: We need it on the proper form, I'm afraid sir.
Me: But you accept that I'm the owner of the car?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: And you accept that I have valid insurance, MOT, and some money with which to pay you the requisite price?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: Yet despite these facts, despite the clear evidence that I am doing everything I possibly can in order to stay on the right side of the law, no matter what injustices and wrongs have been done unto me, the motoring public, by you, the evil persecuting public-transport-obsessed monolithic state, you still refuse to grant me the one thing I cherish and desire above all else** despite the relative simplicity of doing so, thus forcing me to choose between wilfully living the life of a brigand and an outlaw, or an inability to travel in my car in order to, for example, I don't know, get to my job perhaps, or do my shopping, yes, the shopping for the food and drink I require to live and without which my body will wither and die, or, well, let's say, visit my mother?
PWM: That's about the size of it, yes, sir.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can suggest I do?
PWM: Yes sir. Perhaps you could leave the car off the road either on the drive that you don't have or in the garage that you also don't have, whilst using the contingency car that funnily enough you don't have either in order to fulfil your personal transport type requirements. Or you could perhaps indulge in a spot of pogo stickery? Or possibly you could fly around everywhere, if you're richer than Cardinal Richelieu and not too worried about the carbon emissions.
Me: Right, thanks then.
PWM: Is there anything else I can help you with today then, sir?
Me: I don't think it's technically possible to answer that question, since doing so would imply that you have already helped me with something, a conclusion clearly not in alignment with the facts as they present themselves for independent inspection, I think you must agree.
PWM: Okay, good point, anything else you want to discuss then?
Me: Yes. Fuck you, DVLA. Fuck you.
PWM: Thank you very much sir.
Me: Thanks then. Bye.
PWM: Goodbye.
___
* it's "Yankee", as it turns out
** my dear reader excepted, of course. If you are clever, pretty, rich, and single. And a girl.
Polite Welsh Man: Hello, this is the DVLA. How can I help?
Me: Hello, yes, I wonder if you can help me. My car tax is due at the end of this month, but I haven't received a reminder yet, the number from which I need in order to fill in your wizzy Internet application for a car tax disc, thus saving you, the government, money, thus saving me, the taxpayer, money, thus benefitting both of us in a mutual not-as-much-money-being-spent kind of a way.
PWM: Ah, no problem sir, we'll send one out right away. Can you just confirm the registration number?
Me: Yes, it's Sierra Five One Five Juliet Charlie, er, whatever the phonetic for "Y" is*.
(a brief dialogue ensues)
PWM: Ah, but you see the thing is, we haven't received a change of owner for that car, so the reminder will have gone to the old owner.
Me: Ah, but you see the thing is, I do own this car, I've owned it since September, I've got the car keys, I've got the code for the radio, I've got it pre-programmed to all the radio stations that I like, at least insofar as it's possible to like nine of the frankly rather poor radio stations currently available in this country. I've got the thing from the dealer that says it's mine, all my friends have seen me in it, my mum's taken my photo in it, I've even got that funny little bit of New Keeper paper and everything. I know: How about I just give you the number off that and you can send me the reminder that way?
PWM: I'm afraid you'll have to send us the New Keeper slip along with an Application Form. Then we'll send you a Log Book.
Me: And one I get a Log Book, I can get the car taxed, right?
PWM: That's right sir.
Me: OK, how long will that take?
PWM: About six weeks, sir, all being well.
Me: Six weeks huh? Well, that is very quick given the huge amount of effort clearly involved on your part, but I kind of need it taxed at the end of this month - that is to say, in considerably less than six days, never mind the sextuplet of weeks of which you speak. How could I get it taxed in the meantime? Can I get some sort of interim road tax dispensation order, perhaps, or a letter from the Queen?
PWM: I'm afraid not sir, obviously you'll have to keep it off the road until you want to get it taxed.
Me: Ah yes, that is obvious now you put it that way. But I want to get it taxed now. I have insurance, I have an MOT, I even have a ridiculous sum of money which I wish to give unto you as a token of respect for the superbly efficient administration system which it appears you have constructed.
PWM: Yes, but you don't have a Log Book, I'm afraid.
Me: And why don't I have a Log Book?
PWM: Because we haven't received details of you having taken ownership.
Me: But I've just given you the details.
PWM: We need it on the proper form, I'm afraid sir.
Me: But you accept that I'm the owner of the car?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: And you accept that I have valid insurance, MOT, and some money with which to pay you the requisite price?
PWM: Yes sir.
Me: Yet despite these facts, despite the clear evidence that I am doing everything I possibly can in order to stay on the right side of the law, no matter what injustices and wrongs have been done unto me, the motoring public, by you, the evil persecuting public-transport-obsessed monolithic state, you still refuse to grant me the one thing I cherish and desire above all else** despite the relative simplicity of doing so, thus forcing me to choose between wilfully living the life of a brigand and an outlaw, or an inability to travel in my car in order to, for example, I don't know, get to my job perhaps, or do my shopping, yes, the shopping for the food and drink I require to live and without which my body will wither and die, or, well, let's say, visit my mother?
PWM: That's about the size of it, yes, sir.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can suggest I do?
PWM: Yes sir. Perhaps you could leave the car off the road either on the drive that you don't have or in the garage that you also don't have, whilst using the contingency car that funnily enough you don't have either in order to fulfil your personal transport type requirements. Or you could perhaps indulge in a spot of pogo stickery? Or possibly you could fly around everywhere, if you're richer than Cardinal Richelieu and not too worried about the carbon emissions.
Me: Right, thanks then.
PWM: Is there anything else I can help you with today then, sir?
Me: I don't think it's technically possible to answer that question, since doing so would imply that you have already helped me with something, a conclusion clearly not in alignment with the facts as they present themselves for independent inspection, I think you must agree.
PWM: Okay, good point, anything else you want to discuss then?
Me: Yes. Fuck you, DVLA. Fuck you.
PWM: Thank you very much sir.
Me: Thanks then. Bye.
PWM: Goodbye.
___
* it's "Yankee", as it turns out
** my dear reader excepted, of course. If you are clever, pretty, rich, and single. And a girl.
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