Life is NOT a journey to the grave with the goal of arriving safely in a prettily preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways in a shower of gravel and party shards, thoroughly used, utterly exhausted, and loudly proclaiming: "Fuck ME, that was BRILLIANT!"— Saltation (2004)
(revved-up from an earlier quote,
apparently from Hunter S. Thompson)
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Stuart's back 'n' all
and his first refreshmentpost is...
i just deleted most of my clip-post-age because in retrospect they're spoilers
read it
It was the first time she’d been kissed since she arrived at this university.
i just deleted most of my clip-post-age because in retrospect they're spoilers
read it
It was the first time she’d been kissed since she arrived at this university.
You forget
It's so easy to forget just how cossetted we are in "the West" by our cultures.
Our cultures which encourage and reward Trust, and Sharing, and Personal Responsibility.
Yes, I know:- re the last, we actively REward IRresponsibility. But only in an Absolute/real-world sense. Compared to the rest of the world, in a strictly Relative sense, "the West" celebrates Responsibility.
This is not Normal. (If you look at mere volume of people, rather than economic contribution.) (Which Observation is profoundly interesting by itself-- is one the Cause, one the Effect?)
Our cultures which encourage and reward Trust, and Sharing, and Personal Responsibility.
Yes, I know:- re the last, we actively REward IRresponsibility. But only in an Absolute/real-world sense. Compared to the rest of the world, in a strictly Relative sense, "the West" celebrates Responsibility.
This is not Normal. (If you look at mere volume of people, rather than economic contribution.) (Which Observation is profoundly interesting by itself-- is one the Cause, one the Effect?)
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Speaking of horse sex
I would advise against clicking on this gonadular bottle in any environment you feel sackable in.
And if you're offensive by nature --I DO beg your pardon: I meant to say: if you're easily offended, say by nature or what you deem nature or what you deem un-nature, well then, I would advise against clicking on this. Or anything, actually. Frankly, if I were you, I'd hide in the cupboard with a tea-towel over my head. Or, had I a responsible, empathic, or charitable bone in my body (which, since I'd be you, I wouldn't), I'd seek out everyone like me, then kill them before topping myself. As a public service.
also:
unicorgy
oh you so want it. i mean *cough* : one.
You know, that whole virgins on unicorns thing's potential metaphorical or even allegorical slant had never occurred to me. Never occurred to me.
And if you're offensive by nature --I DO beg your pardon: I meant to say: if you're easily offended, say by nature or what you deem nature or what you deem un-nature, well then, I would advise against clicking on this. Or anything, actually. Frankly, if I were you, I'd hide in the cupboard with a tea-towel over my head. Or, had I a responsible, empathic, or charitable bone in my body (which, since I'd be you, I wouldn't), I'd seek out everyone like me, then kill them before topping myself. As a public service.
"Dear Mom & Dad,
Thanks for paying for the tuition
to help me make this animation.
Hugs and Chris-es,
-Me"
also:
unicorgy
oh you so want it. i mean *cough* : one.
You know, that whole virgins on unicorns thing's potential metaphorical or even allegorical slant had never occurred to me. Never occurred to me.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Not a Good Sign
This door is a Fire Exit.
This door is in Constant Use.
...
Speaking for myself, the building would only have to catch fire three or four times before I'd seriously question the wisdom of me returning to it.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Coñazo's Back!
Please go welcome a most welcome return from the Dutchen dead:
Coñazo
Coñazo
"!!!Sexual Patents Here!!!
Have you invented a unique method of lovemaking? If so, you could generate millions of $$$ by obtaining a Sexual Patent.
For the low low price of $10, I will issue a certificated Sexual Patent for each of you original shagtastical ideas. With this approved patent, you will have 20 years rights to the postion and have the legally enforceable right to charge other couples royalties for the use of your patented lovemaking technique."
Some Techy stuff
- Apple boosted by "Harlo Effect"
- iHog
Renowned motorbike manufacturer Harley-Davidson has added an iPod connector as standard to some of its newest models.
The company's 2006 range features...
The company's new Street Glide touring bike (illustrated) carries an all-new Harman Kardon audio system, with an MP3-capable CD player, a radio, and an auxiliary iPod jack as standard.
"You can plug music devices into the auxiliary jack on the Advanced Audio System so you can move to your own beat as you beat the treads," Harley-Davidson claims.
...
All the options work using an in-dash display. - Oh, THAT's a nice idea
- A keyboard whose keys' labels will change according to what keyboard layout you're using. Each key's a little LCD Panel, you see.
So you could find out if Dvorak helped you without all the fiddling around and confusion. Which is why I never bothered. Better things to do. 100+wpm suffices which gives me more spare time to oh hello, what's YOUR name?
English lower-case
Russian upper-case
Photoshop
Quake - Sony discovers world outside Sony
- Sony's Q1 profits went negative by US$136m, due in part to:
"In the Electronics segment, an operating loss was recorded mainly due to a continued deterioration in the cost of sales ratio resulting from a decline in unit selling prices, as well as a decrease in sales to outside customers," the company said."
Ahhh yes. That old external revenue issue. The inability to make money from swapping things at agreed prices with other internal departments. Nightmare concept, but one that's difficult sometimes to avoid when the universe becomes unfair. (*stamp foot*)
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Meanwhile
I know, I know. I said I'd finish the NotCon BBC Open Tech post. I haven't even looked at it. Sorry. So until a fine steaming feast of fresh-cooked observational creativity can be brought to your famishing mouse, stall yourselves, your hungry hungry selves, on this third-rate buffet of yesterday's cold collation:
- NASA struggles with the concept of Engineering
- "Since the loss of Columbia, NASA has spent more than $1.4 billion to redesign the external tank, restructure its management team, and make other safety changes recommended by the Columbia Accident Investigation Board."
Tricky things to work with, those "management teams". Liable to blow a powerpoint up in your face, move your cheese, or suddenly fail to achieve anything without giving any clue as to what went wrong nor what the hell it was they actually thought they were contributing. - Journalists struggle with the concept of professionalism
- Betrayal and Heartbreak in Washington
"horses -- one of which belonged to them.
"It was a really rural community," Sullivan explained. "They were pretty devastated."
But so far, despite the subject matter, public response has been positive, she said. She explained that out of the many emails she's received, only one has been negative. Most of them express sympathy to Sullivan for having to write such a horrific story and thank her for leaving out gratuitous aspects, or using phrases like "horsing around."" - Pseuds like Geldof struggle with reality
- Abolish Poverty TODAY!
Feed 3 million people a day on the food dumped by Japanese Convenience stores as being culturally unsaleable but still with long shelf-life remaining.
The alternative, of course, is just put money in your pockets and tickets on yourself organising completely pointless pseudo-charitable feel-self-righteous-good events. ("The £20m it raises will go not on poverty but on itself. Not a penny will go to Africa. ")
and last but least: - Americans are Nazis : PROOF
- Nazi Germany's famous Cathedral of Light:
vs the Modern Day Tribute to America's Kampf
Well, THAT'S let the cat out of the bag.
(Any internet argument vs an American can therefore be automatically won. They're Nazis and whatever it is that's under discussion, that's JUST like it was in Nazi Germany, and they said it first because they ARE Nazis.
So there.)
Monday, July 25, 2005
Sal's Important Safety Tips
Number 1 in an Indefinite Series:
"Any suggestions?"
"Yeah. Don't die. I did that once, pissed me off no end. Worst of it was, while I was out of it, some wally rolled this huge bloody rock over the door. Hell of a time getting out. Arsehole."
Sunday, July 24, 2005
BBC Open Tech mini-conference, 2005
She screamed at the top of her lungs.
Then with draggled head firmly pointed at her feet, she wobbled off the footpath amid the layered flutterings of 3 saris over grimy pants, and determinedly inched her upside-down baby stroller atop belongings atop baby stroller across the road.
Four lanes of ceaseless 5mph metal away from her, I blew the froth off my beer and turned back to the footpath table.
Hammersmith is an odd place.
I'd just left the student bar at ICL. The beer's half the price, and I'd wanted a beer, but I knew no-one there and wasn't in the mood to force open any social graces and if I'm going to drink alone, I'd rather do it in circumstances that don't reek of the systemically-denied misery of people who don't know any better in real life claiming something's fantastic. As every UK uni student (venue) does.
NotCon.
Or rather: UKUUG's BBC Open Tech 2005.
The venue had been Imperial College's Reynolds Building within the Charing Cross Hospital. Which is in a suburb of Charing Cross called Hammersmith. I knew I was at the right place when the buildings turned institutional, newish but disintegrating from poor materials and poor workmanship and poor upkeep, and unsettlingly grimy. A fug of officious hopelessness squatted on the place.
Ah ha, I thought, drawing on previous experience, this must be the hospital.
It's "NotCon" in the sense of being Not a Conference, just a happy collation of happy geekery. But "hCohG" sounds too much like the start of an epileptic fit for most people, so they went with NotCon. Last year I'd heard about its inauguration on the blogovine™ and toddled along around midday without booking. Nice venue, little I-would-never-have-found-this-place-otherwise courtyard and campus and bar and genuinely olde worlde buildinges. Desk on the other side of the courtyard with some people regretfully declining would-be attend-ees since a late notice from their Insurers had re-defined how many people were allowed in. (Anyone else noticed that Insurance, on the back of the Legal System, on the back of Political Correctness, is more powerfully enforcing subsets of PC than any other part of society?)
"We can't sell any more tickets."
Easily resolved.
I wouldn't buy a ticket.
Cogito ergo nonticketi ergo insuro. ("Construe!" "Latin therefore cod-latin therefore crabstick-latin.")
I strolled past them and into the conference with I-have-a-right-to-be-here attitude and joined for the rest of the day. Gatecrashing's something I'm quite good at -- it's a game where for once I can happily join the standard human game of Style Over Content. And then my presence wouldn't void their insurance. If worse came to worst and the whole place burned down in a terrorist asteroid strike with anthrax and leaves on the line, so long as EVERYONE wasn't killed, my scorched pox-bubbled autumn corpse would be no more than an unidentified insufficiently-recorded attendee.
And quite good it was too. Not so much the presentations (which in happy amateur fashion varied between Holy FWow! and Umm), so much as the fizzing substrate of enthusiasm which invested everything. Really pleasant. Really pleasant.
There were two stand-out presentations.
First: the sheer jaw-dropping INSULATION of the government-provided WEALTH of the wayback machine. And also the lovelyly rational {yet decoupled from the reality of most people's lives} progenitor of it, who described himself o so accurately as a librarian. And I mean that very positively.
Second: the first coherent tutorial I've come across in my life for people who want to be Managers Who Achieve Things. (MmmmWAT!?!?!) I've written many dozens of things like it in subset, but have never summarised it in a single presentation. If you ever want to ACHIEVE REAL-WORLD THINGS as a manager of PEOPLE (as opposed to just licking your way up the corporate ladder), you should read this: "Shit, I'm a manager". It's accurate and good. I got a brief chance to talk to the chap afterwards-- he is genuinely rational. And, amusingly, (ex)BBC. Hmm. See below.
So when the followup was announced, I signed up early so as to ensure I could pay without breaching their insurance.
This year's had been sponsored by the BBC (an odd undercurrrent theme you keep seeing in the UK high-profile blogosphere and to some extent UK interwebsphere™).
Kick-off, well for me anyway, was Danny O'Really. And I see now why he has the following he has. A very VERY clever man, and a very VERY rational man. The former is rare, the latter is diamond.
(To Be Continued. The rain has stopped and I just got a call and the Beer and the Sunshine is calling. If anyone wants me, I'll be sitting with friends outside the Barley Mow on Curtain Road defending ourselves against Hackney Council Officers outraged that anyone is enjoying themselves in public.)
Then with draggled head firmly pointed at her feet, she wobbled off the footpath amid the layered flutterings of 3 saris over grimy pants, and determinedly inched her upside-down baby stroller atop belongings atop baby stroller across the road.
Four lanes of ceaseless 5mph metal away from her, I blew the froth off my beer and turned back to the footpath table.
Hammersmith is an odd place.
I'd just left the student bar at ICL. The beer's half the price, and I'd wanted a beer, but I knew no-one there and wasn't in the mood to force open any social graces and if I'm going to drink alone, I'd rather do it in circumstances that don't reek of the systemically-denied misery of people who don't know any better in real life claiming something's fantastic. As every UK uni student (venue) does.
NotCon.
Or rather: UKUUG's BBC Open Tech 2005.
The venue had been Imperial College's Reynolds Building within the Charing Cross Hospital. Which is in a suburb of Charing Cross called Hammersmith. I knew I was at the right place when the buildings turned institutional, newish but disintegrating from poor materials and poor workmanship and poor upkeep, and unsettlingly grimy. A fug of officious hopelessness squatted on the place.
Ah ha, I thought, drawing on previous experience, this must be the hospital.
It's "NotCon" in the sense of being Not a Conference, just a happy collation of happy geekery. But "hCohG" sounds too much like the start of an epileptic fit for most people, so they went with NotCon. Last year I'd heard about its inauguration on the blogovine™ and toddled along around midday without booking. Nice venue, little I-would-never-have-found-this-place-otherwise courtyard and campus and bar and genuinely olde worlde buildinges. Desk on the other side of the courtyard with some people regretfully declining would-be attend-ees since a late notice from their Insurers had re-defined how many people were allowed in. (Anyone else noticed that Insurance, on the back of the Legal System, on the back of Political Correctness, is more powerfully enforcing subsets of PC than any other part of society?)
"We can't sell any more tickets."
Easily resolved.
I wouldn't buy a ticket.
Cogito ergo nonticketi ergo insuro. ("Construe!" "Latin therefore cod-latin therefore crabstick-latin.")
I strolled past them and into the conference with I-have-a-right-to-be-here attitude and joined for the rest of the day. Gatecrashing's something I'm quite good at -- it's a game where for once I can happily join the standard human game of Style Over Content. And then my presence wouldn't void their insurance. If worse came to worst and the whole place burned down in a terrorist asteroid strike with anthrax and leaves on the line, so long as EVERYONE wasn't killed, my scorched pox-bubbled autumn corpse would be no more than an unidentified insufficiently-recorded attendee.
And quite good it was too. Not so much the presentations (which in happy amateur fashion varied between Holy FWow! and Umm), so much as the fizzing substrate of enthusiasm which invested everything. Really pleasant. Really pleasant.
There were two stand-out presentations.
First: the sheer jaw-dropping INSULATION of the government-provided WEALTH of the wayback machine. And also the lovelyly rational {yet decoupled from the reality of most people's lives} progenitor of it, who described himself o so accurately as a librarian. And I mean that very positively.
Second: the first coherent tutorial I've come across in my life for people who want to be Managers Who Achieve Things. (MmmmWAT!?!?!) I've written many dozens of things like it in subset, but have never summarised it in a single presentation. If you ever want to ACHIEVE REAL-WORLD THINGS as a manager of PEOPLE (as opposed to just licking your way up the corporate ladder), you should read this: "Shit, I'm a manager". It's accurate and good. I got a brief chance to talk to the chap afterwards-- he is genuinely rational. And, amusingly, (ex)BBC. Hmm. See below.
So when the followup was announced, I signed up early so as to ensure I could pay without breaching their insurance.
This year's had been sponsored by the BBC (an odd undercurrrent theme you keep seeing in the UK high-profile blogosphere and to some extent UK interwebsphere™).
Kick-off, well for me anyway, was Danny O'Really. And I see now why he has the following he has. A very VERY clever man, and a very VERY rational man. The former is rare, the latter is diamond.
(To Be Continued. The rain has stopped and I just got a call and the Beer and the Sunshine is calling. If anyone wants me, I'll be sitting with friends outside the Barley Mow on Curtain Road defending ourselves against Hackney Council Officers outraged that anyone is enjoying themselves in public.)
Friday, July 22, 2005
Blue-Sky Thinking is the way forward!
Vast squadrons of Marketing drones have been flown into England from Soho to attempt to assist the irritated Londoners.
After some fearsome brainstorming deep deep deep outside the enemy box, they have come up with a punning clan.
London needs to re-brand itself.
And fortunately, a previous squatter has moved from a well-known, well-liked Brand. It is now available.
We can opportunise this potentiality scenario!
There are endless upsides but this powerpoint lists the Key Impacters greenlighting the actualisation of our core demographic:
We are proud to present:
the new identity of this proud city.
No longer rigid old-fashioned stale musty old "London".
Henceforth:
After some fearsome brainstorming deep deep deep outside the enemy box, they have come up with a punning clan.
London needs to re-brand itself.
And fortunately, a previous squatter has moved from a well-known, well-liked Brand. It is now available.
We can opportunise this potentiality scenario!
There are endless upsides but this powerpoint lists the Key Impacters greenlighting the actualisation of our core demographic:
- Londoners will be re-vivified and re-energised-- literally re-created in every respect by the complete change in every aspect of their lives as a result of the follow-up marketing campaign
- The new name subtly combines yet overlays important characteristics of the target identity
- Terrorists will no longer be able to find the place
We are proud to present:
the new identity of this proud city.
No longer rigid old-fashioned stale musty old "London".
Henceforth:
"Bombay"
Thursday, July 21, 2005
London 2, Bombers 0
In light of today's further shambolic attempt to re-use now-aging unstable explosives, resulting in the detonators going off by themselves with the bombs not being interested, we would like to announce the following change of name.
We're_Not_Afraid.com
will now be known as
This_Is_Getting_Tedious_You_Ineffectual_Wallies.com
Thank you.
We're_Not_Afraid.com
will now be known as
This_Is_Getting_Tedious_You_Ineffectual_Wallies.com
Thank you.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
July 20
In honour of this auspicaceous... of this apcisi... of this auspicii... of this bloody great big occasion, I am proud to present two special websites created to commemorate momentous events that took place on this day:
Moon Landingsvia
Vanessa's Landing (after Taking Off)
Moon Landings
Vanessa's Landing (after Taking Off)
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Britain's Response
Well, as the dust settles and Britain takes the full measure of the blow against it, Britain's leaders must now turn their thoughts to how they will lead their country in a response to the attacks.
This is not a matter to be taken lightly. A GREAT DEAL of poll popularity and election security is at stake. No government can stand passively by when the security of the entire party is imperilled.
And I feel Britain should follow the lead set 4 years ago by the United States of America.
Britain needs to invade somebody.
And just as the USA, attacked by middle-class suburban Saudi Arabians, chose to announce a war on Terror and then invaded Iraq, I feel Britain should announce a war on Ennui and then invade Bhutan.
The logic is inescapable.
The invasion of Bhutan meets all the same key requirements as did the invasion of Iraq. Let's run through those, to be absolutely clear:
All things considered, I'd suggest the army start packing their bags.
Bhutan and the defiance of Ennui, here we come.
This is not a matter to be taken lightly. A GREAT DEAL of poll popularity and election security is at stake. No government can stand passively by when the security of the entire party is imperilled.
And I feel Britain should follow the lead set 4 years ago by the United States of America.
Britain needs to invade somebody.
And just as the USA, attacked by middle-class suburban Saudi Arabians, chose to announce a war on Terror and then invaded Iraq, I feel Britain should announce a war on Ennui and then invade Bhutan.
The logic is inescapable.
The invasion of Bhutan meets all the same key requirements as did the invasion of Iraq. Let's run through those, to be absolutely clear:
- Bhutan is a very long way away
- Very few of the electorate are more than vaguely aware of it, nor able to place it accurately on a map (google is cheating)
- They dress funny
- Their army is littler than Britain's
- The government will be Seen to have Done Something
All things considered, I'd suggest the army start packing their bags.
Bhutan and the defiance of Ennui, here we come.
Blast. Let's try again.
"Right. This Qrand High Qouncil of al Qaydar is qonvened. Allahu Akbar, Allahu Abha, and whatever you're having yourself."
"Cheers, mine's a scotch and dry."
"What?"
"Uh... mint tea. What did Dave tell you I said? He lies."
"Careful, brother, the wicked ways of the west are pernicious and we must not let ourselves succumb to their temptations. Well, not unless we're about to kill lots of people, then it's on for young and old."
*omnes* "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Abha!"
"Yes, yes, good, good. Right, to business."
"Business is evil!"
"No, that's charging interest that you're thinking of."
"Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. Carry on."
"Cheers. Right, where was I? Oh yes.
Now, look. Last Thursday..."
*omnes* "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Abha!"
"Look, could you please all stop doing that? I can't hear myself plot with all you lot going off every 5 minutes. It's driving me nuts."
*omnes* <mumble, scuffle> "Sorry, o cell leader."
"Better. Now, last Thursday..." He pauses with his gimlet eyes darting around those assembled before him. Several are vibrating with agonised tension from the unaccustomed self control, the occasional trickle of sweat marking the effort. He grunts and continues. "...we struck four mighty blows against this week's Infidel du Jour, which was-sss." He consults his notes. "England. Death to England and all glory to god and so on.
Now, unfortunately --and I can't tell you how much it grieves me to have to say this-- we didn't have quite the effect we wanted.
To wit, it didn't work.
Leaving to one side very briefly our appalling 0.0001 fearons reading on our terrorometer -" and here all eyes went to the dial on the box in the corner:
"- an even more grievous outcome was our COMPLETE FAILURE to cripple their transport infrastructure. We had almost no effect on it at all! People were travelling normally the very next day. We achieved nothing."
"So-ooo, do our lads' souls still get their 72 virgins in the martyr's afterlife?"
"Actually, that's 'raisins' not 'virgins'."
"What!?"
"Oh, ah, no. I mean. I didn't say that. Did Dave tell you I said that? He lies! Trust me and do whatever I say, for there will be great reward for you in heaven afterwards."
"Oh. OK. Rightio."
"Well, anyway, our best sqientists have been at work day in and day out since last Thursday, stopping only 50 times a day to shout at a city over the horizon, and they've come up with the solution.
This solution is much much MUCH more powerful than the explosives your brothers used last week.
These materials can bring all of Britain to its knees. They will paralyse their entire transport infrastructure, cripple their ports, halt all their trains, block all their roads! THIS is our Ultimate Weapon! THIS will bring England to its knees!! THIS, THIS WILL CAUSE CHAOS THROUGHOUT ENGLAND!!!"
With a dramatic flourish, he flips open the lids of the two heavy insulated boxes in front of him.
"Gentlemen! I give you: SNOW and LEAVES!!!"
"Cheers, mine's a scotch and dry."
"What?"
"Uh... mint tea. What did Dave tell you I said? He lies."
"Careful, brother, the wicked ways of the west are pernicious and we must not let ourselves succumb to their temptations. Well, not unless we're about to kill lots of people, then it's on for young and old."
*omnes* "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Abha!"
"Yes, yes, good, good. Right, to business."
"Business is evil!"
"No, that's charging interest that you're thinking of."
"Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. Carry on."
"Cheers. Right, where was I? Oh yes.
Now, look. Last Thursday..."
*omnes* "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Abha!"
"Look, could you please all stop doing that? I can't hear myself plot with all you lot going off every 5 minutes. It's driving me nuts."
*omnes* <mumble, scuffle> "Sorry, o cell leader."
"Better. Now, last Thursday..." He pauses with his gimlet eyes darting around those assembled before him. Several are vibrating with agonised tension from the unaccustomed self control, the occasional trickle of sweat marking the effort. He grunts and continues. "...we struck four mighty blows against this week's Infidel du Jour, which was-sss." He consults his notes. "England. Death to England and all glory to god and so on.
Now, unfortunately --and I can't tell you how much it grieves me to have to say this-- we didn't have quite the effect we wanted.
To wit, it didn't work.
Leaving to one side very briefly our appalling 0.0001 fearons reading on our terrorometer -" and here all eyes went to the dial on the box in the corner:
"- an even more grievous outcome was our COMPLETE FAILURE to cripple their transport infrastructure. We had almost no effect on it at all! People were travelling normally the very next day. We achieved nothing."
"So-ooo, do our lads' souls still get their 72 virgins in the martyr's afterlife?"
"Actually, that's 'raisins' not 'virgins'."
"What!?"
"Oh, ah, no. I mean. I didn't say that. Did Dave tell you I said that? He lies! Trust me and do whatever I say, for there will be great reward for you in heaven afterwards."
"Oh. OK. Rightio."
"Well, anyway, our best sqientists have been at work day in and day out since last Thursday, stopping only 50 times a day to shout at a city over the horizon, and they've come up with the solution.
This solution is much much MUCH more powerful than the explosives your brothers used last week.
These materials can bring all of Britain to its knees. They will paralyse their entire transport infrastructure, cripple their ports, halt all their trains, block all their roads! THIS is our Ultimate Weapon! THIS will bring England to its knees!! THIS, THIS WILL CAUSE CHAOS THROUGHOUT ENGLAND!!!"
With a dramatic flourish, he flips open the lids of the two heavy insulated boxes in front of him.
"Gentlemen! I give you: SNOW and LEAVES!!!"
A Common Thread?
Two items came to light yesterday.
First, most of the London bombers were Pakistanis from Leeds in the north of England.
Second, Pakistan had a huge train accident, killing 132 people.
It strikes me there could be a valuable lesson we could all learn from this.
Either Pakistan is showing solidarity with Britain (We're with you, brothers! Huzzah! All for one and one for all!).
Or maybe Pakistanis and Trains just don't mix?
First, most of the London bombers were Pakistanis from Leeds in the north of England.
Second, Pakistan had a huge train accident, killing 132 people.
It strikes me there could be a valuable lesson we could all learn from this.
Either Pakistan is showing solidarity with Britain (We're with you, brothers! Huzzah! All for one and one for all!).
Or maybe Pakistanis and Trains just don't mix?
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Nicked from Vanessa
Friday, July 08, 2005
Livin' la Viva Bomba
text from kent-bound drunkard off to drink'ard:
"Police doing road blocks every time they find an empty carrier bag down here."
reply
"Good. Give them a beer. Or a thank you."
"Police doing road blocks every time they find an empty carrier bag down here."
reply
"Good. Give them a beer. Or a thank you."
London Shrugs
The morning dawned, as mornings do.
The city woke, as cities do.
And for all of yesterday's vileness, as the population washed across the city I felt as though I'd wakened in winter in an alpine hut, and leaned out the window in the still-snowing morn with the shutters banging to either side, and breathed again yesterday's self-same chill sharp forested air, and once again the white white landscape stretched out and up and before and around me:
unblemished
restored
Liverpool Street Station, today.
The site of the first bomb, yesterday.
London Underground has surpassed itself.
Half the lines are running normally.
Only TWO lines are suspended.
Awesome.
(you can ignore the bottom line's Waterloo-to-City's "Closed" -- it's a single-stop commuter-only line which only opens at particular times of day. It is Closed according to timetable, not Suspended due to ratbags)
The specifically bombed Piccadilly Line is running with only minor interruption.
This by itself has me open-mouthed.
And the rest?
Hiccups. The other lines damaged by blast irruptions or track overlaps are running with only minor interruptions, gaps in the line. Special busses are laid on, for free, between all stations which are cut off from each other by normal Tube. The Circle Line is too damaged to run, but has at least two alternatives for any destination, and the Hammersmith and City Line similarly.
Yet again, I am awed by Londoners' intermittently tapped capacity to Overcome.
Sorry if that sounds combatitive. Or if any of the above does.
It's not meant to be.
It's meant to just be pointing out characteristics.
For those seeking a short-form view of the last two days, you should, if nothing else, read these, in decreasing order of importance:
Again, if you read nothing else about this event, read this:
How Humans Think ("You did it MY name? Pardon?")
The city woke, as cities do.
And for all of yesterday's vileness, as the population washed across the city I felt as though I'd wakened in winter in an alpine hut, and leaned out the window in the still-snowing morn with the shutters banging to either side, and breathed again yesterday's self-same chill sharp forested air, and once again the white white landscape stretched out and up and before and around me:
unblemished
restored
Liverpool Street Station, today.
The site of the first bomb, yesterday.
London Underground has surpassed itself.
Half the lines are running normally.
Only TWO lines are suspended.
Awesome.
(you can ignore the bottom line's Waterloo-to-City's "Closed" -- it's a single-stop commuter-only line which only opens at particular times of day. It is Closed according to timetable, not Suspended due to ratbags)
The specifically bombed Piccadilly Line is running with only minor interruption.
This by itself has me open-mouthed.
And the rest?
Hiccups. The other lines damaged by blast irruptions or track overlaps are running with only minor interruptions, gaps in the line. Special busses are laid on, for free, between all stations which are cut off from each other by normal Tube. The Circle Line is too damaged to run, but has at least two alternatives for any destination, and the Hammersmith and City Line similarly.
Yet again, I am awed by Londoners' intermittently tapped capacity to Overcome.
Hitting England is like hitting Silly Putty.
The harder you hit it, the harder it gets.
Sorry if that sounds combatitive. Or if any of the above does.
It's not meant to be.
It's meant to just be pointing out characteristics.
For those seeking a short-form view of the last two days, you should, if nothing else, read these, in decreasing order of importance:
- The Long View:
- How Humans Think
- something which everybody should read, from somebody whom everybody should read.
Jerome K. Jerome and George Orwell have soulmates still.
If you read nothing else about this event, READ THIS. - How Humans Behave
- A more fundamental/less human/less tolerant view
- English People's Gut Reactions
- 1: Fuck You
2: Fuck You - Ground Zero
- At the bomb
Above the bomb
Again, if you read nothing else about this event, read this:
How Humans Think ("You did it MY name? Pardon?")
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Congratulations!!
I Salute You, Brave Warriors! Your bravery is an inspiration to us all!
Armed only with your delusions, you had the courage to attack unsuspecting innocents then hide! All praise be to god!!
Truly, no grandmother or child is safe from your might. No dog is safe from your manhood.
You have demonstrated the true nature of your courage to the world -- I salute your bravery.
Armed only with your delusions, you had the courage to attack unsuspecting innocents then hide! All praise be to god!!
Truly, no grandmother or child is safe from your might. No dog is safe from your manhood.
You have demonstrated the true nature of your courage to the world -- I salute your bravery.
London's Weakest Link Bombed City-Wide
Blogging from Ground-Zero
NUMBER OF UPDATES: 7
Well, it's finally happened. Someone seeking to show off has finally decided to go for London's arthritic knees rather than its rock-hard skull.
You only have to live here for a month to realise if you want to cripple London you just attack its transport. London lives on the razor's edge of transport capacity. I've blogged about it before, I've been pointing it out to people for years whenever the discussion turned to terrorism. As it does.
Details still sketchy as of midday, but at the moment it looks like 4 bombs targetting key train/tube hubs all went off at around the same time. Previously reports said only injuries; now apparently there are two confirmed fatalities. Grim. And deeply enraging.
1 bomb was in top deck of bus, which is very ineffective so therefore most likely accidental. And it was on the main road leading up to Euston a stone's throw south of the station -- guarantee you wonderboy got stuck in traffic. For once, London's appalling busses have helped it. It's just lucky he didn't take out the 3 busses right behind him.
I'm at home about 200m from the Aldgate East explosion, the first I knew of it was an email from Brisbane. In Australia. Bloody internet.
No unusual sirens really, maybe a slightly more persistent helicopter than usual.
Bishopsgate is taped closed and strident apotheotic policewomen are directing traffic shrilly and scathingly. Liverpool Street Station is all taped off, wootweep sirens going off inside. And odd red-diode-on-black signs are flashing 3 lights each side, next to the doors. I've walked through those doors how many thousands of times, and never seen them.
Down and on round the vaguely swollen crowd filling the footpaths, but the roads are cleared so those of us getting irritated are spilling out a bit.
Big chunk of real estate in middle of Houndsditch is all taped off. That's where the actual bomb went off, tunnelwise. Most of the surrounding buildings have been evacuated as their basements potentially are at risk of collapse.
Back up past Tesco's, and note that it and most large shops nearby are closed.
--
All right, that helicopter's getting really bloody annoying.
--
Reprise: I'd intended to stay away, to not add to the police and emergency services' problems. But there are no sirens and there's no unusual foot traffic in the alley, so I think: what the hell, I can always turn back if it's obviously inappropriate. Grab the camera and head out, into a soft soft misting rain, the ground one wide slipperiness. Up to the corner on Bishopsgate, smile at the policewoman's obvious illicit pleasure in her new power, turn to see...
Not much really. The station's taped off and a few more people milling round a bit more aimlessly than usual, but apart from that: not a lot.
The camera stays in my pocket.
Is that crane and boarding pulling something out a collapsed Tube ceiling? ... No. Just roadworks. Round onto Bevis Marks to see crowds of bored office workers hanging around. Eh? This part of the street is also taped off, though there's no tube station here. This must be where the bomb actually went off. Quick word with the (push)bike cop at the Houndsditch tape: official word to him is 4 bombs, and the people here are all evacuated because of the threat of collapse of all these buildings' basements. Yeah, the tube runs close to the surface here, and all these buildings basements must brush its roof. I've said it before and I'll say it again: London is a surreally 3D city.
Well, nothing much to see and turn back the way I came. Buying the papers on the corner kiosk, I stare with awe at the Evening Standard's front page. Huge splash headlines and news about the bombs. It's 11:15. They've changed the paper and reprinted it, and then distributed it around London in 2 hours. TWO HOURS!! I am truly awed.
--
For those interested, this is where the bomb near me went off (known landmark used to point out the roped-off portion):
Google Satellite Picture
Liverpool St Stn is the large bright yellowish ridged oblong left of centre at the top. Draw a line from it through the bottom of the Google balloon and go the same distance out as Liverpool St is. See that elongated roundabout/round-cornered rectangle? That's on top of Aldgate East.
According to Google, it's 300m and 54 seconds from here, although I reckon I can do better than that.
Apparently, another bomb went off at Old Street tube. That's 10 minutes walk north-west from me.
--
I'd yawned, stretched, taken my coffee upstairs, checked email. Oh, good, email from home. "I've just heard that there has been some sort of explosive ruckus at Liverpool Station." Eh?
Flashback: 30mins prior, very odd phone conversation in the alley below me: "Yeah. Apparently there were a couple of them. There's some people injured but nobody really knows anything yet. Yeah, OK, I'll talk to you later." Hmph. Sounds like some idiots have bombed somewhere again. Hey, it wouldn't be London... no, I'd have heard something, sirens or something. Back to my book -- I'll find out in due course.
Due Course: Eh? Click open BBC and don't bother going any further. Fuck. Finally. It's happened. Tap into the stories. The usual confusion, contradictions, partial informations. Smile grimly at "Stock market drops!" -- idiots. If you hadn't already priced this in 4 years ago, you're fools. Read for a bit, reply to some concerned emails -- all from down-under. Think for a second. Send some more to some family and friends.
Coffee needs a refill. Back downstairs. R. is slumped over breakfast.
"Did you hear the news?"
"No?" She turns with a rigid smile. Last night, she and D. had one of those periodic hysteria fits that people do rather than clean up after themselves: rush around in high self-righteousness attacking small portions of the mess they've made, so they can claim moral high ground, achieve almost nothing, then have carte blanche to expect other people to clean up after them for another couple of months. Very consistent. I left them to it and went to bed. This time, they broke the fridge. Knife through the vitals while defrosting. She's expecting a drama this morning.
All change when I tell her what's happened. We find out where they were, place them on a map, work out which tube lines are cut. I laugh a little viciously when I see where the bus bomb went off -- what incompetence.
"And can you imagine how hard it's going to be to get the wrecked trains out of the tunnels?"
"Oh mi gaahhhhhd... I hadn't thought of that! How are they going to do it?"
"I'd imagine they'll have to use an engine to tow them out. But think: first they're going to have to have the emergency services down there to find and clear any injured or dead, then police forensics is going to have to have time to go over each site thoroughly, and only THEN can they even START to do any of the physical heavy lifting. And they'll have to have tunnel engineers come in and make sure the roof's still sound. And the tracks will have to be re-laid too. London's out for days, at least."
Days...
IF there's no serious damage...
I shudder. It's traditional in England to moan about the tube. Especially the Northern Line, "the Misery Line". Bollocks. Yes, it's woefully underfunded-- your governments have been running it on an interest-only no-capital basis for 50 years. But by god does it shift people. There's no other underground in the world that comes near. Just the Northern Line alone carries 650,000 people PER DAY. EVERY DAY. That's a small city.
And now they're stationary.
London business's arteries are cut.
London's social arteries are cut.
The next few days will be very strange.
--
Phone networks are jammed. Even SMS messages take a dozen Retries or more.
--
"Who do you think did it?"
I hesitate. "Well... could be anyone really. But I reckon it's probably some pseudo-Islamic wannabe terrorists. Saudi suburbanites running around blaming richer countries for what they've done to their own.
I'm quite surprised it hasn't happened a lot sooner, actually. I'd expected something following 9/11."
"Yeah, me too. I was really worried for a while."
--
Already I can hear the tone of passersby's conversation changing downstairs. Strangers are talking to each other, people are laughing it off, everyone has a common topic and an excuse to raise it. People are yomping along the alleyway, high-spirited, laughing and calling to each other and down their phones. It's sometimes as loud as a Friday night. Everyone's leaving work early, everyone's OK, everyone's got something in common -- it's a big adventure. Blitz spirit.
Every bombing campaign against civilians, whether military or cowardly, is undertaken with the objective of terrorising them, of crushing their spirits, their lives.
And every single such campaign has shown that it doesn't work.
Every. Single. One.
See, here's the thing.
Civilians are LESS likely to be intimidated by bombs and random death than are Military.
Why?
Simple.
Military have options. They can run away. They can surrender. And if they can see their enemy, they can fight.
Civilians don't have these options. They have jobs, homes, mortgages, responsibilities. They can't just down tools and go somewhere else.
They simply don't have a choice.
And the per-person risk is always quite low, on average.
So, they just put up with it.
They get on with their lives.
Sure, their quality of life drops a bit, mostly from the added friction when travelling through bomb-affected routes. But apart from that, there's no real change in 99% of people's daily lives.
And, in some ways, it improves.
Nothing draws a group together, nothing creates a group, quite so well as a common enemy. And humans LIKE to be in cohesive groups. That's the essence of cultures, of clubs, of countries, of religions.
And nobody does bloodyminded refusal quite so well as the British.
The best these gutless excrement can hope to achieve is to stuff up the lives of a handful of people. And for that, they are the lowest of vermin.
Well, it's finally happened. Someone seeking to show off has finally decided to go for London's arthritic knees rather than its rock-hard skull.
You only have to live here for a month to realise if you want to cripple London you just attack its transport. London lives on the razor's edge of transport capacity. I've blogged about it before, I've been pointing it out to people for years whenever the discussion turned to terrorism. As it does.
Details still sketchy as of midday, but at the moment it looks like 4 bombs targetting key train/tube hubs all went off at around the same time. Previously reports said only injuries; now apparently there are two confirmed fatalities. Grim. And deeply enraging.
1 bomb was in top deck of bus, which is very ineffective so therefore most likely accidental. And it was on the main road leading up to Euston a stone's throw south of the station -- guarantee you wonderboy got stuck in traffic. For once, London's appalling busses have helped it. It's just lucky he didn't take out the 3 busses right behind him.
I'm at home about 200m from the Aldgate East explosion, the first I knew of it was an email from Brisbane. In Australia. Bloody internet.
No unusual sirens really, maybe a slightly more persistent helicopter than usual.
Bishopsgate is taped closed and strident apotheotic policewomen are directing traffic shrilly and scathingly. Liverpool Street Station is all taped off, wootweep sirens going off inside. And odd red-diode-on-black signs are flashing 3 lights each side, next to the doors. I've walked through those doors how many thousands of times, and never seen them.
Down and on round the vaguely swollen crowd filling the footpaths, but the roads are cleared so those of us getting irritated are spilling out a bit.
Big chunk of real estate in middle of Houndsditch is all taped off. That's where the actual bomb went off, tunnelwise. Most of the surrounding buildings have been evacuated as their basements potentially are at risk of collapse.
Back up past Tesco's, and note that it and most large shops nearby are closed.
--
All right, that helicopter's getting really bloody annoying.
--
Reprise: I'd intended to stay away, to not add to the police and emergency services' problems. But there are no sirens and there's no unusual foot traffic in the alley, so I think: what the hell, I can always turn back if it's obviously inappropriate. Grab the camera and head out, into a soft soft misting rain, the ground one wide slipperiness. Up to the corner on Bishopsgate, smile at the policewoman's obvious illicit pleasure in her new power, turn to see...
Not much really. The station's taped off and a few more people milling round a bit more aimlessly than usual, but apart from that: not a lot.
The camera stays in my pocket.
Is that crane and boarding pulling something out a collapsed Tube ceiling? ... No. Just roadworks. Round onto Bevis Marks to see crowds of bored office workers hanging around. Eh? This part of the street is also taped off, though there's no tube station here. This must be where the bomb actually went off. Quick word with the (push)bike cop at the Houndsditch tape: official word to him is 4 bombs, and the people here are all evacuated because of the threat of collapse of all these buildings' basements. Yeah, the tube runs close to the surface here, and all these buildings basements must brush its roof. I've said it before and I'll say it again: London is a surreally 3D city.
Well, nothing much to see and turn back the way I came. Buying the papers on the corner kiosk, I stare with awe at the Evening Standard's front page. Huge splash headlines and news about the bombs. It's 11:15. They've changed the paper and reprinted it, and then distributed it around London in 2 hours. TWO HOURS!! I am truly awed.
--
For those interested, this is where the bomb near me went off (known landmark used to point out the roped-off portion):
Google Satellite Picture
Liverpool St Stn is the large bright yellowish ridged oblong left of centre at the top. Draw a line from it through the bottom of the Google balloon and go the same distance out as Liverpool St is. See that elongated roundabout/round-cornered rectangle? That's on top of Aldgate East.
According to Google, it's 300m and 54 seconds from here, although I reckon I can do better than that.
Apparently, another bomb went off at Old Street tube. That's 10 minutes walk north-west from me.
--
I'd yawned, stretched, taken my coffee upstairs, checked email. Oh, good, email from home. "I've just heard that there has been some sort of explosive ruckus at Liverpool Station." Eh?
Flashback: 30mins prior, very odd phone conversation in the alley below me: "Yeah. Apparently there were a couple of them. There's some people injured but nobody really knows anything yet. Yeah, OK, I'll talk to you later." Hmph. Sounds like some idiots have bombed somewhere again. Hey, it wouldn't be London... no, I'd have heard something, sirens or something. Back to my book -- I'll find out in due course.
Due Course: Eh? Click open BBC and don't bother going any further. Fuck. Finally. It's happened. Tap into the stories. The usual confusion, contradictions, partial informations. Smile grimly at "Stock market drops!" -- idiots. If you hadn't already priced this in 4 years ago, you're fools. Read for a bit, reply to some concerned emails -- all from down-under. Think for a second. Send some more to some family and friends.
Coffee needs a refill. Back downstairs. R. is slumped over breakfast.
"Did you hear the news?"
"No?" She turns with a rigid smile. Last night, she and D. had one of those periodic hysteria fits that people do rather than clean up after themselves: rush around in high self-righteousness attacking small portions of the mess they've made, so they can claim moral high ground, achieve almost nothing, then have carte blanche to expect other people to clean up after them for another couple of months. Very consistent. I left them to it and went to bed. This time, they broke the fridge. Knife through the vitals while defrosting. She's expecting a drama this morning.
All change when I tell her what's happened. We find out where they were, place them on a map, work out which tube lines are cut. I laugh a little viciously when I see where the bus bomb went off -- what incompetence.
"And can you imagine how hard it's going to be to get the wrecked trains out of the tunnels?"
"Oh mi gaahhhhhd... I hadn't thought of that! How are they going to do it?"
"I'd imagine they'll have to use an engine to tow them out. But think: first they're going to have to have the emergency services down there to find and clear any injured or dead, then police forensics is going to have to have time to go over each site thoroughly, and only THEN can they even START to do any of the physical heavy lifting. And they'll have to have tunnel engineers come in and make sure the roof's still sound. And the tracks will have to be re-laid too. London's out for days, at least."
Days...
IF there's no serious damage...
I shudder. It's traditional in England to moan about the tube. Especially the Northern Line, "the Misery Line". Bollocks. Yes, it's woefully underfunded-- your governments have been running it on an interest-only no-capital basis for 50 years. But by god does it shift people. There's no other underground in the world that comes near. Just the Northern Line alone carries 650,000 people PER DAY. EVERY DAY. That's a small city.
And now they're stationary.
London business's arteries are cut.
London's social arteries are cut.
The next few days will be very strange.
--
Phone networks are jammed. Even SMS messages take a dozen Retries or more.
--
"Who do you think did it?"
I hesitate. "Well... could be anyone really. But I reckon it's probably some pseudo-Islamic wannabe terrorists. Saudi suburbanites running around blaming richer countries for what they've done to their own.
I'm quite surprised it hasn't happened a lot sooner, actually. I'd expected something following 9/11."
"Yeah, me too. I was really worried for a while."
--
Already I can hear the tone of passersby's conversation changing downstairs. Strangers are talking to each other, people are laughing it off, everyone has a common topic and an excuse to raise it. People are yomping along the alleyway, high-spirited, laughing and calling to each other and down their phones. It's sometimes as loud as a Friday night. Everyone's leaving work early, everyone's OK, everyone's got something in common -- it's a big adventure. Blitz spirit.
Every bombing campaign against civilians, whether military or cowardly, is undertaken with the objective of terrorising them, of crushing their spirits, their lives.
And every single such campaign has shown that it doesn't work.
Every. Single. One.
See, here's the thing.
Civilians are LESS likely to be intimidated by bombs and random death than are Military.
Why?
Simple.
Military have options. They can run away. They can surrender. And if they can see their enemy, they can fight.
Civilians don't have these options. They have jobs, homes, mortgages, responsibilities. They can't just down tools and go somewhere else.
They simply don't have a choice.
And the per-person risk is always quite low, on average.
So, they just put up with it.
They get on with their lives.
Sure, their quality of life drops a bit, mostly from the added friction when travelling through bomb-affected routes. But apart from that, there's no real change in 99% of people's daily lives.
And, in some ways, it improves.
Nothing draws a group together, nothing creates a group, quite so well as a common enemy. And humans LIKE to be in cohesive groups. That's the essence of cultures, of clubs, of countries, of religions.
And nobody does bloodyminded refusal quite so well as the British.
The best these gutless excrement can hope to achieve is to stuff up the lives of a handful of people. And for that, they are the lowest of vermin.
IOC you and I'll raze you
In swift retribution for their loss of the Olympics to London, the French this morning sent a squad of crack agents to spray garlic throughout the tube network. But they were unprepared for the sheer compression and heat of London's creaking public transport, and their containers of concentrated garlic exploded prematurely.
King Chirac has extended his condolences to the families who grew the garlic, now so tragically wasted.
King Chirac has extended his condolences to the families who grew the garlic, now so tragically wasted.
Bombs shut down London's entire tube network
There was chaos in Fleet Street today as journalists realised their habitual clichéd hyperbole leaves them no vocabulary to describe genuine extremes.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Woodify your iPod!
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Argh! Godzilla is returning!
Japanese coast guard officials said Sunday they believe an underwater volcanic eruption has caused a 3,300-foot high column of steam to rise from the Pacific Ocean near Iwo Jima.
The vapor was reported Saturday after Japanese troops stationed on the small island observed the massive, cloudy plume rise from the sea about 30 miles southeast of the island, said Maritime Self-Defense Forces Hiroshi Shirai.
Defense officials who flew over the area in a helicopter said the surface of the water appeared red where the column was reported
It MUST be true: see? see?
Keep a weather-eye out for giant moths and large sea-going apes.
Japan is sending a crack team of B-cameramen to monitor the situation. Film at 11, also early sessions at 6:00 and 7:30, and the kids' matinee at noon.
More Power!!!
Friday, July 01, 2005
Friday Night in Tropical London
And people often look at me funny, saying "Why on earth do you live here? Why aren't you home in Australia? Are you MAD?" And I usually tell them my perfect lifestyle would be 3 months London, 3 months Brisbane, rotate-- get the food and the space and the lifestyle and the people and the efficiency of Brisbane, but also the crazy denseness and bustling apathy and sheer explosive confusion and travel convenience that is London, while still being repeatedly re-energised enough to be able to really enjoy it to its full.
But then this Friday was a night that could have stood alone as exemplar par exemplarence. What other place in the world could provide such a wide yet comfortable range of experience and emotion in a single warm night on the steaming streets of the inner city?
Laughing and running on hot city streets, hiding under knife-proof cloth from heat-bursting rain, eating fine food in the sun while that sun goes down, chilled people-watching, an opportunity to consult to a modelling agency, she offers free tickets to the burlesque show she's dancing in, a panoply of street theatre over a sweating white wine. These are nights of joy and joy, novelty and comfort.
Blasting heat and breathless air. Delays to the early afternoon start so we didn't meet at the air-conditioned shop till 4. But we knew what we wanted so in and out with military speed and a 50% discount on the best gear in the world. Fantastic. Shop oddly let down by its staff -- she's asking as I walk in late "what's the difference between these two satchels?" and I walk up to the blank-faced stalling guy who's "err"ing and "ahh"ing as he twists it vaguely, and point at the good one and say "they're identical but this one's capable of being clipped to the base of your backpack, that's the one you want." She grabs it, he's vaguely astonished/relieved. And as we cross Oxford Street down to Wardour Street the oppressive crescendo heat of the last week suddenly cracks and the rain hammers down and we laugh.
"Should we wait it out?"
"No. I LOVE the rain!" said soft and trailing away with widened eyes looking at another horizon brought suddenly near by the unLondon weather and the fresh new backpack on her shoulders, smelling of shop and factory and an opening life.
And we skipquick down the emptying scurrying cooling footpath, the hot concrete and tarmac smelling so sweet in the steamy rain. I've my backpack over my head till I realise there's no need -- despite the heat, this is not the tropics and I'll get damp not drenched.
To Gerry's for odd beer for present for her da's birthday. She wanted Dutch but her local was out -- "To Gerry's!" quoth I, "famed provider of liquor-ish provender from any and all of those distant parts." Well, except Finland. They don't do Finland. My peppermint schnapps and mesamarja must remain a tearful memory of better times, better times. Into the little crowded near-kiosk front, the shelves of oddities stacked high and deep behind the bar, I mean the counter. Red-nosed slide-eyed swaying leprechaun staff watch as I dive in and around and over to the beer fridge. And I laugh and I show her the beer I'd shown her just the night before, a fugitive souvenir hiding in my fridge, a delicious tasting Estonian beer with London on the label from its history before the Russians stole the brewery, and with a name guaranteed to bring a delighted crow to the lips of any English gay.
Memory: my Estonian girl was visiting and we'd been invited to a gay friend's party in Brighton, so she brought some over for him and I gave him a box of Danish Spunk. Much hilarity. "Oh mi gaaaahhddd!!! Look what Sal's brought me! Spunk in a Box and Cock in a Can! Omigaaaahhhhdddd!!!!"
Sold. One father sorted out.
Thence for beers before departure on train.
But where? No comfy places on Compton Street. "Wait!" she says as we wander off-piste, "this place is good!" And so to The Yard a few streets west of Wardour Street, an odd public toilet of a place reeking of disinfectant and saddened misfits, everyone looking either beaten or mis-shaped and all with the same mournful rictus cheerfulness. But a welcome respite from the heat and the humidity and we collapsed into comfy corner seats for a quick pint or three..
And she's self-worryingatself at the prospect of being forced to eat her parents' dinner, late and food she doesn't like. And I say, "then just text them now, tell them you'll be too late for dinner because you're eating in Soho." And a look of blank surprise -- so easy? surely not-- and she does it and we're off up Wardour Street to Busaba Eathai, my favourite summer Soho restaurant, maybe 50 yards away. No queue, it's still early, we're seated exactly where I hoped: facing out the window, the warm warm window with the breezes and the steam and the street theatre washing across us for all of a long and delicious meal. Roseapple Chicken? Fantastic. 2 free glasses of wine because the waitress refused another bottle, claiming "restaurant licence", and I objected. A scar on an otherwise blemishless night. But so very long and so very pleasant at that sun-covered table that even that was a mere moment.
And it's dark now and she's stayed too late and she's off for her train to Middlle England.
I turn and stroll my own way to my own tube, and wandering along, think: "no! It's too early to go home, and I don't come into town that often anymore, let's find someplace I can sit and drink and watch the life-show streaming past in this odd little epicentre of sophistication and sleaze."
I wander past Jazz After Dark, a lone little table under micro-awning -- dry and warm and on the footpath. "Can I buy a wine without paying the covercharge?" I ask the rondured pout-lipped bouncer. "Of COURSE you can! Just sit down! I'll ORganise it!" And he calls into the bar and a frost-chilled glass appears on my little private public table and the world is good. Much entertainment on the streets. And much entertainment in my surrounds. I teach the bouncer a couple of useful fight-shortening tricks to keep him out of trouble but I'm not sure they penetrated the bravado. His mate, struggling with next steps for a modelling agency he's just set up and is growing too fast -- I point out a few things, he's open-mouthed, he presses his card on me with earnest requests we "sort something out". I retrieve three people put off by the bouncer's inflexible reaction to the difficult girl, catch them up down the street, bring her back onside with some swift chat, get her happy and keen, and the three pay their cover charge and go in for the show, and I tip the bouncer a wink. I'm good at closing business. Two homeless creaming up a miniature bottle on the footpath, crack-addled worldviews blinding them to their surrounds. Freshly chilled wineglass, sweating condensation in the night. Various flurries of various people. And one such, soft faced erect bodied, diaphonous pink dress and pushing an old-fashioned high pink bicycle, eyes too long on mine as she pushes it across the road then veers and bumps it over the footpath in front of me and hesitates and "Did you used to work with D. and E.?"
And bam. Like a fist in the stomach.
D. & E. Jesus. D. & E. RV. The two people I'd trusted, whom I'd quit my job to work with, who'd had an invention that could literally change the world but who knew nothing about making it happen. Who'd been one long surreal ongoing unbelievable nightmare to work with. Who'd betrayed me and cost me my life savings and left me with a CV that excludes me from most careers.
One of the worst 6 months of my life, followed by several worse ones.
She knew none of this. She's renting a room from them now, the room D. had had a major hissy fit about me turning into an office so we could actually get some work done, his first major flounce. And it appears they've cocked it up. The funding that was so close that they found the courage to explicitly shaft me, has either all been spent in two years or they fumbled it. They've fumbled it.
"So what are you doing here?"
"I'm... in a burlesque show. In the chorus line."
"Really?! Fantastic! What, with the corsets and nudity and everything?"
"Well, yes... there is one scene that's like that."
"Excellent!" with a huge grin, and she grins back.
Another card pressed on me, with "I can sometimes get free tickets or two-for-one if you ask for me." Then her old bright bike bumps away and I turn again to the street theatre.
And then the midnight draws in and a laughing run to the Tube, crowded with happy shouting drunks all also squeezing in for the last train of the night, and out and through my own locale's street theatre of people spilling out of Bishopsgate's pubs. And thence to my Victorian home. And bed.
And all within 20 minutes of my house. And all without walking more than 100 yards, for all this difference and spectacle.
There're reasons I like London.
And nights like this are one of them.
But then this Friday was a night that could have stood alone as exemplar par exemplarence. What other place in the world could provide such a wide yet comfortable range of experience and emotion in a single warm night on the steaming streets of the inner city?
Laughing and running on hot city streets, hiding under knife-proof cloth from heat-bursting rain, eating fine food in the sun while that sun goes down, chilled people-watching, an opportunity to consult to a modelling agency, she offers free tickets to the burlesque show she's dancing in, a panoply of street theatre over a sweating white wine. These are nights of joy and joy, novelty and comfort.
Scene Spasm: tropical travelling
Blasting heat and breathless air. Delays to the early afternoon start so we didn't meet at the air-conditioned shop till 4. But we knew what we wanted so in and out with military speed and a 50% discount on the best gear in the world. Fantastic. Shop oddly let down by its staff -- she's asking as I walk in late "what's the difference between these two satchels?" and I walk up to the blank-faced stalling guy who's "err"ing and "ahh"ing as he twists it vaguely, and point at the good one and say "they're identical but this one's capable of being clipped to the base of your backpack, that's the one you want." She grabs it, he's vaguely astonished/relieved. And as we cross Oxford Street down to Wardour Street the oppressive crescendo heat of the last week suddenly cracks and the rain hammers down and we laugh.
"Should we wait it out?"
"No. I LOVE the rain!" said soft and trailing away with widened eyes looking at another horizon brought suddenly near by the unLondon weather and the fresh new backpack on her shoulders, smelling of shop and factory and an opening life.
And we skipquick down the emptying scurrying cooling footpath, the hot concrete and tarmac smelling so sweet in the steamy rain. I've my backpack over my head till I realise there's no need -- despite the heat, this is not the tropics and I'll get damp not drenched.
Scene Spasm: curiosity shop and a welcome blast from the past
To Gerry's for odd beer for present for her da's birthday. She wanted Dutch but her local was out -- "To Gerry's!" quoth I, "famed provider of liquor-ish provender from any and all of those distant parts." Well, except Finland. They don't do Finland. My peppermint schnapps and mesamarja must remain a tearful memory of better times, better times. Into the little crowded near-kiosk front, the shelves of oddities stacked high and deep behind the bar, I mean the counter. Red-nosed slide-eyed swaying leprechaun staff watch as I dive in and around and over to the beer fridge. And I laugh and I show her the beer I'd shown her just the night before, a fugitive souvenir hiding in my fridge, a delicious tasting Estonian beer with London on the label from its history before the Russians stole the brewery, and with a name guaranteed to bring a delighted crow to the lips of any English gay.
Memory: my Estonian girl was visiting and we'd been invited to a gay friend's party in Brighton, so she brought some over for him and I gave him a box of Danish Spunk. Much hilarity. "Oh mi gaaaahhddd!!! Look what Sal's brought me! Spunk in a Box and Cock in a Can! Omigaaaahhhhdddd!!!!"
Sold. One father sorted out.
Thence for beers before departure on train.
Scene Spasm: hard core gay bar
But where? No comfy places on Compton Street. "Wait!" she says as we wander off-piste, "this place is good!" And so to The Yard a few streets west of Wardour Street, an odd public toilet of a place reeking of disinfectant and saddened misfits, everyone looking either beaten or mis-shaped and all with the same mournful rictus cheerfulness. But a welcome respite from the heat and the humidity and we collapsed into comfy corner seats for a quick pint or three..
Scene Spasm: elegant faux-thai outdoor eating
And she's self-worryingatself at the prospect of being forced to eat her parents' dinner, late and food she doesn't like. And I say, "then just text them now, tell them you'll be too late for dinner because you're eating in Soho." And a look of blank surprise -- so easy? surely not-- and she does it and we're off up Wardour Street to Busaba Eathai, my favourite summer Soho restaurant, maybe 50 yards away. No queue, it's still early, we're seated exactly where I hoped: facing out the window, the warm warm window with the breezes and the steam and the street theatre washing across us for all of a long and delicious meal. Roseapple Chicken? Fantastic. 2 free glasses of wine because the waitress refused another bottle, claiming "restaurant licence", and I objected. A scar on an otherwise blemishless night. But so very long and so very pleasant at that sun-covered table that even that was a mere moment.
And it's dark now and she's stayed too late and she's off for her train to Middlle England.
I turn and stroll my own way to my own tube, and wandering along, think: "no! It's too early to go home, and I don't come into town that often anymore, let's find someplace I can sit and drink and watch the life-show streaming past in this odd little epicentre of sophistication and sleaze."
Scene Spasm: Soho streets at night and an unwelcome blast from the past
I wander past Jazz After Dark, a lone little table under micro-awning -- dry and warm and on the footpath. "Can I buy a wine without paying the covercharge?" I ask the rondured pout-lipped bouncer. "Of COURSE you can! Just sit down! I'll ORganise it!" And he calls into the bar and a frost-chilled glass appears on my little private public table and the world is good. Much entertainment on the streets. And much entertainment in my surrounds. I teach the bouncer a couple of useful fight-shortening tricks to keep him out of trouble but I'm not sure they penetrated the bravado. His mate, struggling with next steps for a modelling agency he's just set up and is growing too fast -- I point out a few things, he's open-mouthed, he presses his card on me with earnest requests we "sort something out". I retrieve three people put off by the bouncer's inflexible reaction to the difficult girl, catch them up down the street, bring her back onside with some swift chat, get her happy and keen, and the three pay their cover charge and go in for the show, and I tip the bouncer a wink. I'm good at closing business. Two homeless creaming up a miniature bottle on the footpath, crack-addled worldviews blinding them to their surrounds. Freshly chilled wineglass, sweating condensation in the night. Various flurries of various people. And one such, soft faced erect bodied, diaphonous pink dress and pushing an old-fashioned high pink bicycle, eyes too long on mine as she pushes it across the road then veers and bumps it over the footpath in front of me and hesitates and "Did you used to work with D. and E.?"
And bam. Like a fist in the stomach.
D. & E. Jesus. D. & E. RV. The two people I'd trusted, whom I'd quit my job to work with, who'd had an invention that could literally change the world but who knew nothing about making it happen. Who'd been one long surreal ongoing unbelievable nightmare to work with. Who'd betrayed me and cost me my life savings and left me with a CV that excludes me from most careers.
One of the worst 6 months of my life, followed by several worse ones.
She knew none of this. She's renting a room from them now, the room D. had had a major hissy fit about me turning into an office so we could actually get some work done, his first major flounce. And it appears they've cocked it up. The funding that was so close that they found the courage to explicitly shaft me, has either all been spent in two years or they fumbled it. They've fumbled it.
"So what are you doing here?"
"I'm... in a burlesque show. In the chorus line."
"Really?! Fantastic! What, with the corsets and nudity and everything?"
"Well, yes... there is one scene that's like that."
"Excellent!" with a huge grin, and she grins back.
Another card pressed on me, with "I can sometimes get free tickets or two-for-one if you ask for me." Then her old bright bike bumps away and I turn again to the street theatre.
Scene Spasm: sudden happy-rowdy strangers
And then the midnight draws in and a laughing run to the Tube, crowded with happy shouting drunks all also squeezing in for the last train of the night, and out and through my own locale's street theatre of people spilling out of Bishopsgate's pubs. And thence to my Victorian home. And bed.
And all within 20 minutes of my house. And all without walking more than 100 yards, for all this difference and spectacle.
There're reasons I like London.
And nights like this are one of them.
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