Sat-nav research
A research team at the University of Woolamaloo lead by the Department of Neurological Jiggery-Pokery's head Professor Baron Von Neuron has overturned recent research into sat-nav problems. Bon Neuron's team conducted exhaustive tests on sat-nav systems and drivers; while other recent reports have claimed poor interfaces, incorrect mapping dat and lack of familiarity for navigational problems experienced by drivers which have lead to people obeying instructions to turn left where there is a brick wall, into fields, canals or railway lines. The Woolamaloo University team, after months of analysis concluded that while incorrect data in the mapping was a factor the major component of sat-nav accidents, the principle element was stupidity.
Von Neuron explained that new technology had allowed the stupidest members of society to create entirely new forms of entertaining accidents, but this wasn't necessarily as bad a thing as it seems. In fact Von Neuron pointed out possible advantages to this real-world blindness on the part of insanely stupid drivers - some small tampering with sat-navs to lead them further astray into more accidents could help reduce the stupidity levels in the gene pool (disclaimer, Professor Baron Von Neuron's research was part funded by the Darwin Awards).
Monday, November 12, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month
"Arms and the man", Siegfried Sassoon
Sassoon, often referred to as the most innocent of the Great War poets, turned his poetry and his inventive sarcasm not only on the war and the enemy of the time but on the damned fool politicians (we could use more of that today - sadly we still have stupid fools who seem to make the decision to send people out to fight and die all too easily; perhaps each leader who would consider leading us into war should be forced to put forward a blood guarantee by only being allowed to send us to war if a close blood relation of theirs goes to. Then maybe they might suddenly think on other ways...).
Incidentally Sassoon escaped full censure from a less than forgiving military and political elite for speaking his mind by being classes as 'shell-shocked', which in truth he probably was but it doesn't lessen his criticisms. He was sent to recuperate at Craiglockhart, not far from where I live in Edinburgh where among those being treated by psychiatrists (officers only, enlisted men didn't get such treatment, needless to say) he met and befriended another of that dreadful slaughter's greatest makkers, Wilfred Owen. They might have walked some of the same streets near me or the ones in the centre of Edinburgh when they sneaked out for the day. Then they were sent back to a man-made hell. Damn every bastard who thinks the sword, the gun and the bomb is the simplest and quickest way to achieve their aims.
| Young Croesus went to pay his call On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall: And, though his wound was healed and mended, He hoped he’d get his leave extended. The waiting-room was dark and bare. He eyed a neat-framed notice there Above the fireplace hung to show Disabled heroes where to go For arms and legs; with scale of price, And words of dignified advice How officers could get them free. Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee, Two arms, two legs, though all were lost, They’d be restored him free of cost. Then a Girl Guide looked to say, ‘Will Captain Croesus come this way?’ |
Sassoon, often referred to as the most innocent of the Great War poets, turned his poetry and his inventive sarcasm not only on the war and the enemy of the time but on the damned fool politicians (we could use more of that today - sadly we still have stupid fools who seem to make the decision to send people out to fight and die all too easily; perhaps each leader who would consider leading us into war should be forced to put forward a blood guarantee by only being allowed to send us to war if a close blood relation of theirs goes to. Then maybe they might suddenly think on other ways...).
Incidentally Sassoon escaped full censure from a less than forgiving military and political elite for speaking his mind by being classes as 'shell-shocked', which in truth he probably was but it doesn't lessen his criticisms. He was sent to recuperate at Craiglockhart, not far from where I live in Edinburgh where among those being treated by psychiatrists (officers only, enlisted men didn't get such treatment, needless to say) he met and befriended another of that dreadful slaughter's greatest makkers, Wilfred Owen. They might have walked some of the same streets near me or the ones in the centre of Edinburgh when they sneaked out for the day. Then they were sent back to a man-made hell. Damn every bastard who thinks the sword, the gun and the bomb is the simplest and quickest way to achieve their aims.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Rockford
Can anyone tell me why I spent all day yesterday with the theme from the Rockford Files stuck in my head? I was humming in the shower first thing and realised it was the Rockford Files; thereafter it was in my head all day long. I haven't seen it repeated anywhere recently or seen any old film on TV with James Garner, so gods know why it suddenly leapt out of the murky depths of my brain (I don't care to look down into the recesses too much, I'm not sure what I'd find in there).
Can anyone tell me why I spent all day yesterday with the theme from the Rockford Files stuck in my head? I was humming in the shower first thing and realised it was the Rockford Files; thereafter it was in my head all day long. I haven't seen it repeated anywhere recently or seen any old film on TV with James Garner, so gods know why it suddenly leapt out of the murky depths of my brain (I don't care to look down into the recesses too much, I'm not sure what I'd find in there).
Mailer
New today that one of the best known novelist of the last half century, Norman Mailer, has died. In truth I've never been quite sure what to think of Norman - the Naked and the Dead is a powerful read worthy of space on any reader's shelves, but a lot of his other work I find uncomfortable. He belongs to the mid-20th century class where writers were almost the rock stars of their day - long before spoiled musicians would get drunk, stoned and into fights Mailer and his ilk were there, living it all. He even head-butted Gore Vidal once (I'm sure there are others who have wanted to). Thinking about it, it is surprising he lived so long, you'd half expect him to self destruct like Brendan Behan. Most modern writers aren't quite the same - sure many of them enjoy a decent drink (and I've been lucky enough to share a few drinks with a handful of them) - but the excesses of the Mailer type writers is something more confined to musicians these days.
I suppose in a way his behaviour wouldn't have been out of place at one of Byron's parties a century and a half earlier. As I said, I've never been quite sure what to make of Mailer the man - I'm not sure I'd like to have been around him personally and yet at the same time we need colourful characters in literature as elsewhere, acting out what we can't or won't do, almost like a catharsis, and we like reading about it, whether it was Byron and Shelley's antic, Mailer, Werner Herzog or Pete Doherty. Part of us looks on disgusted at their selfish indlulgence and bad behaviour and another envies that they seem to be able to get away with it.
It reminds me a bit of a story I once read of a hotel manager making up the bill for - I could be wrong, my memory is hazy - I think it was the Who or a similar 60s/70s rock band after they did their usual and trashed their rooms. Their tour manager asks why the hotel manager looks so pissed off - after all they will more than pay for the damage. It isn't that, he answers, do you think when I was at school this is what I dreamt I'd be doing for my life, running a hotel? You guys are living the lifestyle the teenage me wanted to do and will never get, I just get to pick up and tidy after you. Tour manager smiles understandingly, tells the hotel manager, go pick a room and smash the living crap out of it to your heart's content and stick it on our bill, mate. Rock'n'roll. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. It has a certain allure and you're often left wondering if they act that way because they are spoiled or if that reckless self-indulgence and belief normal rules don't apply to them is what made them write great poetry, novels or songs? The medium and artists change with the decades but the song remains the same...
New today that one of the best known novelist of the last half century, Norman Mailer, has died. In truth I've never been quite sure what to think of Norman - the Naked and the Dead is a powerful read worthy of space on any reader's shelves, but a lot of his other work I find uncomfortable. He belongs to the mid-20th century class where writers were almost the rock stars of their day - long before spoiled musicians would get drunk, stoned and into fights Mailer and his ilk were there, living it all. He even head-butted Gore Vidal once (I'm sure there are others who have wanted to). Thinking about it, it is surprising he lived so long, you'd half expect him to self destruct like Brendan Behan. Most modern writers aren't quite the same - sure many of them enjoy a decent drink (and I've been lucky enough to share a few drinks with a handful of them) - but the excesses of the Mailer type writers is something more confined to musicians these days.
I suppose in a way his behaviour wouldn't have been out of place at one of Byron's parties a century and a half earlier. As I said, I've never been quite sure what to make of Mailer the man - I'm not sure I'd like to have been around him personally and yet at the same time we need colourful characters in literature as elsewhere, acting out what we can't or won't do, almost like a catharsis, and we like reading about it, whether it was Byron and Shelley's antic, Mailer, Werner Herzog or Pete Doherty. Part of us looks on disgusted at their selfish indlulgence and bad behaviour and another envies that they seem to be able to get away with it.
It reminds me a bit of a story I once read of a hotel manager making up the bill for - I could be wrong, my memory is hazy - I think it was the Who or a similar 60s/70s rock band after they did their usual and trashed their rooms. Their tour manager asks why the hotel manager looks so pissed off - after all they will more than pay for the damage. It isn't that, he answers, do you think when I was at school this is what I dreamt I'd be doing for my life, running a hotel? You guys are living the lifestyle the teenage me wanted to do and will never get, I just get to pick up and tidy after you. Tour manager smiles understandingly, tells the hotel manager, go pick a room and smash the living crap out of it to your heart's content and stick it on our bill, mate. Rock'n'roll. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. It has a certain allure and you're often left wondering if they act that way because they are spoiled or if that reckless self-indulgence and belief normal rules don't apply to them is what made them write great poetry, novels or songs? The medium and artists change with the decades but the song remains the same...
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Bitesize
The BBC asked if they could borrow one of my photographs from my Flickr stream recently, to use as part of their Bitesize revision guides, in this case to be part of a audio-visual slideshow to accompany a reading of "The Field Mouse" by Gillian Clarke - my pic of a harvest-time field, taken just outside North Berwick near Tantallon Castle is the first one in the presentation. No money, sadly, but the feel-good factor is quite rewarding, especially since I'm so fond of poetry.
The BBC asked if they could borrow one of my photographs from my Flickr stream recently, to use as part of their Bitesize revision guides, in this case to be part of a audio-visual slideshow to accompany a reading of "The Field Mouse" by Gillian Clarke - my pic of a harvest-time field, taken just outside North Berwick near Tantallon Castle is the first one in the presentation. No money, sadly, but the feel-good factor is quite rewarding, especially since I'm so fond of poetry.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Government minister makes twat of himself
How funny was it this week seeing Home Office minister Liam Byrne being done for driving while using a handheld mobile phone? Especially as he is a member of the government which made that a criminal offence. And I loved his limp defence that he had an 'important call'. Eejit. Should have been a bigger fine for him to make a public example of the bugger, especially as there are still far too many arrogant, ignorant, dangerous buggers who are still driving while yacking away on a handheld - you see a score of them every night going home after work in Edinburgh.
In fact I was nearly hit by a stupid woman in a Range Rover (and what is it with the amount of bloody Range Rovers in Edinburgh? Its a city, not a grouse estate you stupid, selfish bastards!) who decided to turn into a side street and through the crossing as I and others were on it, one hand trying to turn the wheel of the huge vehicle, one holding a phone to her brainless head and a whine that said she needed another arm to change gears rather badly. And oh yes, she had the kid strapped in the back too... The stupidity of some people knows no bounds. And you have to assume if you can afford a brand new Range Rover you can afford a hands-free phone kit for it...
How funny was it this week seeing Home Office minister Liam Byrne being done for driving while using a handheld mobile phone? Especially as he is a member of the government which made that a criminal offence. And I loved his limp defence that he had an 'important call'. Eejit. Should have been a bigger fine for him to make a public example of the bugger, especially as there are still far too many arrogant, ignorant, dangerous buggers who are still driving while yacking away on a handheld - you see a score of them every night going home after work in Edinburgh.
In fact I was nearly hit by a stupid woman in a Range Rover (and what is it with the amount of bloody Range Rovers in Edinburgh? Its a city, not a grouse estate you stupid, selfish bastards!) who decided to turn into a side street and through the crossing as I and others were on it, one hand trying to turn the wheel of the huge vehicle, one holding a phone to her brainless head and a whine that said she needed another arm to change gears rather badly. And oh yes, she had the kid strapped in the back too... The stupidity of some people knows no bounds. And you have to assume if you can afford a brand new Range Rover you can afford a hands-free phone kit for it...
"of my friend I can only say this... of all the souls I have encountered on my travels, his was the most... human..."
Star Trek fans will recognise the above line delivered in a moment of Serious and Emotional Acting by that great thespian of our age, William Shatner, at Spock's funeral service at the end of Star Trek II: the Wrath of Khan. Well, guess what? Now you too can enjoy eternal rest in a coffin - oh, I do beg the pardon of funerary folks, I meant casket - designed after Spock's burial tube (formerly a photon torpedo casing). Eternal Image - 'brand name funerary products that celebrate the passions of life' offer this or if you are a Trek fan who plans to be cremated rather than interred when you go beyond the Final Frontier you can have an urn shaped after the design on the flag of the United Federation of Planets. I wonder if you can have a tombstone shape like a Starfleet emblem to go with it?
I don't know whether to laugh or shake my head in disbelief... What next? A theme park for the deceased where your dearly departed are sealed into their caskets or urns then placed onto a variety of their favourite rides for all eternity? And if some rich loony does decide to do that I want royalties on it! (link via Boing Boing)
Star Trek fans will recognise the above line delivered in a moment of Serious and Emotional Acting by that great thespian of our age, William Shatner, at Spock's funeral service at the end of Star Trek II: the Wrath of Khan. Well, guess what? Now you too can enjoy eternal rest in a coffin - oh, I do beg the pardon of funerary folks, I meant casket - designed after Spock's burial tube (formerly a photon torpedo casing). Eternal Image - 'brand name funerary products that celebrate the passions of life' offer this or if you are a Trek fan who plans to be cremated rather than interred when you go beyond the Final Frontier you can have an urn shaped after the design on the flag of the United Federation of Planets. I wonder if you can have a tombstone shape like a Starfleet emblem to go with it?
I don't know whether to laugh or shake my head in disbelief... What next? A theme park for the deceased where your dearly departed are sealed into their caskets or urns then placed onto a variety of their favourite rides for all eternity? And if some rich loony does decide to do that I want royalties on it! (link via Boing Boing)
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