What a difference a week makes; 168 little hours

At the end of one holiday it’s cliché to comment that one feels like another but… perhaps I should take two weeks out next time around. So what difference does a week really make? I’ll tell you; four films, two guinea pigs, a couple of days out and the BBC iPlayer… and I really regret the guinea pigs, though I had little say in the matter. However the BBC via their iPlayer enabled me to catch up on back episodes of The Street, and a week where I can watch a few films, all for the first time, could never be classed a write-off.

I have a weakness for American sports dramas though I am guilty of neither appreciating the sport nor understanding the rules. Baseball is a statistical cul-de-sac, rounders with a bigger bat, yet we have The Natural. Basketball is despite the points utterly pointless, yet we have Hoop Dreams - one of the best documentaries I’ve ever seen. American gridiron football yesterday provided me with Friday Night Lights. Living in the UK I can’t vouch for accuracy, but it felt real. It helps knowing that this particular film was based on a real life season of the Permian Panthers, the football team of Permian High School in Odessa, Texas. Elements are shot in a documentary style yet it also includes the formulaic father-living-on-past-glories and the cocky-yet-likable athlete who you know is going to come undone. Perhaps the best sports dramas are really human dramas. It’s rather like an intelligent compassionate love story set in Paris; I can’t vouch for accuracy but if it feels real it doesn’t make me feel so bad - sometimes quite the opposite.

A corner of a foreign field

Today has been tremendously tiring in a way that only office moving days can be. I didn’t sleep well last night just thinking about it. This and an unexpected mid-year goal appraisal, which was as much a fear of the unknown as anything else, has left me exhausted.

In the end the update was better than expected. A couple of tasks I didn’t particularly care for were removed and another couple added; they are a part of what my job has become. You do it to the best of your ability and see what happens.

My new desk may be smaller, the space tighter, but it’s all about location isn’t it? Considering I work in Wales the flag, a decorative addition from a colleague, might seem a bold move… but it works for me. It’s back to normality tomorrow or just as soon as I can figure out what that is. There’s a lot of new work; on my optimistic days it’s a challenge and on others it’s the perfect recipe for stress.

When I got home this evening my daughter showed me some photographs she’d found in the spare room.

There’s one of Mummy with long hair and one of you with black hair...

You’ve got grey hair now, Daddy. You look like Granddad...

Today was one of the better days.

It’s the end of the world as we know it

Approximately 1600 years ago the world ended. I’ve often wondered if Ammianus Marcellinus, alive at the time of the catastrophic defeat of the Roman army at Adrianople, lived to witness the formal division of empire into East and West. Did he live long enough to see the sacking of Rome only 15 years later, and if so how did he feel? How does anyone cope with the end to their world?

Speaking of work, it’s been rather mad today. I’m tasked with supporting products on which I have little knowledge yet bizarrely… it’s also been rather fun. I think that’s the word - I guess I like the challenge. It’s quite a rush when after many hours you fix a problem; and rather sad that it’s not diminished in the slightest by the thought that with a little more knowledge you could have solved it much quicker. There’s a long and winding road ahead and perhaps enough to keep me interested, dare I say employed, for the foreseeable future.

Speaking of improbabilities, I’d rather like to see the Moon this weekend but finances (I don’t have any) will probably dictate otherwise. I’ve some time off work in a few weeks; if I’m lucky it will run until then. There’s a pile of unwatched DVDs at home crying out for my attention. If I’m really lucky I’ll be allowed to watch those too.

Speaking of science fiction, my PC decided to auto-install IE8 this week. My first completely unscientific impression is that it is indeed better, faster, stronger… but not good enough to win me back from Chrome.

So you want to be starting something?

Well I’ve blogged for a while, but not very well and not here. I created this blog a few years ago but immediately ran into the problem of having nothing meaningful to say. I still don’t have anything useful to offer but as I reasoned before, I’m not going to let this stop me… although I did. Instead I posted the occasional iffy poem before finally taking the plunge last week and… customising my page.

Now customising pages is something else I can’t do particularly well. After many hours tweaking the CSS, I finally came up with something I really liked which, after randomly browsing some other pages, became something I could just about live with. Tomorrow it’ll be something I wish had never happened.

But all I’ve really done is duck the issue – if you have a blog you have to… blog. I can’t vouch for the quality but one advantage of having a blog that no-one reads is that it doesn’t really matter. And if I write often enough who knows… maybe I’ll manage something passable once in a while. Of course one of the drawbacks of having a blog that no-one reads is that no-one will ever know.

Game over, man

“How are things?” you might ask.

To which I’d reply “Lieutenant Gorman has just seen his ship crash, most of his platoon wiped out by Aliens and arranges a meeting the following day to discuss any concerns the marines may have...”

Pop star uses bad language, crowd has orgasm

Lest I sound like some Daily Mail anti beardy-weirdy tree-hugging lentil-loving pinko-hippy type, I ought to say up front how much I enjoyed Glastonbury this weekend. I didn’t go of course. The idea of me trying to survive in a tent overnight, let alone three, is ridiculous. Instead I relaxed on the sofa, navigated my way through the various BBC interactive channels and caught up on their website.

I wasn’t taken with Bruce Springsteen, I fell out of love with him a long time ago, and Blur were a little rusty, seemingly desperate to get to the end of some songs with some band members quicker than others. Franz Ferdinand suggested the crowd had carnal knowledge of their own mothers and, judging from the resultant roar of the crowd, they may have been right. I liked their set but, even with the more electronic sound, I’m beginning to find them a little predictable.

There was a whole load of stuff I hardly dare admit I hadn’t heard before. White Lies overcame the cheap suits, lyrics such as “and all we heard was lies about the truth” and my short-lived mean-spiritedness; enough to persuade me to buy their album. Pendulum were loud enough to damage my hearing with the sound muted and were huge fun to watch. There were Doves, who I’d heard of but until now never listened to… and I finally discovered why Lady GaGa is “whack”.

However my favourite thirty-or-so minutes came from The Specials who managed to induce a big cheesy grin throughout their show. Terry Hall has understandably filled out a little and appeared to amble around the stage, leaning forward earnestly every so often; then I remembered he’d always moved that way. My favourite song, “Friday night Saturday Morning” didn’t really work, but that’s a minor quibble.

There was a lot of great music. Even acts such as Status Quo take on a new light when your seven year old daughter starts jumping up and down… though I may attempt to steer her in other directions next year. If I could stay in a hotel I’d take her…

Consistently inconsistent

I seem to have a haphazard approach to films recently. Of those I've seen recently, only two (In America, Metropolitan) would fall into a 'recommended' category. The others were either rubbish (Lady in the Water, Curse of The Golden Flower, Wolverine, Paycheck), not as good as I remembered (Cop Land) or guilty pleasures (Star Trek, Taken). The last group is a particular problem for those sad people who have a compulsion to score what they’ve seen; I’d give Star Trek seven out of ten… I enjoyed it but, at the risk of a few Klingon death threats, I can’t quite find it in me to call it good; just to make sure I saw it twice. Taken is problematic because despite the formulaic setup it’s executed well and is a lot of fun. I’ll be watching that again too.

Then there are the films I hardly dare watch again. Is the moment as beautiful as I remember? I watch and am often disappointed... but sometimes I am reminded of how great it is to be. There are those who would argue this reticence is misplaced, that we shouldn’t be afraid of moving on and leaving the past behind us. I’m not sure I care for this brand of progress, or even whether it’s practical or representative of the truth; the past may bind us, but isn't it part of who we are? If we can wipe it away so easily what does that say about us?

Damn… and I only had 8,401 days until retirement

Everything annoys. People leaving shopping trolleys in parking bays. The able bodied using disabled parking spaces. The government for suggesting fundamental changes to our democratic system; when the main mistake was made years ago in breaking with tradition and appointing an incompetent half-wit, from their own party, to be leader of the house. Racist idiots using the expenses scandal as an excuse to vote BNP. People who don’t vote. Adjusting the thermostat up and down or switching the heating off altogether rather than letting the thermostat do its god damn job. The mess in the kitchen. Bullying. Bullying at work. Physical bullies. Intellectual bullies. Men who hit women. Men who hit men. A pack of crisps from a multi-pack is smaller than an individual pack of crisps. It’s the same with chocolate. People talking in cinemas. Big Brother. People who watch Big Brother.

It's entirely possible I may need a break...

Noise

"I’ve started using Ariel for washing the clothes. Sarah’s children have eczema and she says it’s much better for their skin and we have sensitive skin so I thought I’d try it though it’s a little more expensive."

"You’re listening to Five Live breakfast with Nicky Campbell and"

If I had another chance tonight

"It doesn’t hurt to give it a go does it? I spoke to Melanie about"

"Shelagh Fogarty. In the studio we have"

"Mum and she said she’s being very difficult. She won’t talk as it’s"

"Sheila to tell us about RBS. They’ve announced their quarterly figures which are"

I'd try to tell you that the things we had were right

"about Nana and you know what she’s like. She won’t acknowledge"

"a pre-tax loss of 44 million pounds which is round about"

"what the doctor says, or take her medicine when she’s supposed to. Which is just"

If I had another chance tonight
I'd try to tell you that the things we had were right

"…what we would have expected."

Is this my wonderful life
Or the tale of another
One other solitary soul
With an abstract goal
Of happiness

It’s madness
This sadness

I don’t like this beautiful house
Yet the music shrouds me

And it’s not such a bad place to go.

The curious case of Harriet Harman

What’s up with Harriet Harman? I was rather troubled by an interview I heard last week in which her argument for future leadership of the Labour party, thinly disguised as a presentation of the ‘equality’ bill, was “either you agree with me or you’re a sexist egotistical pig”. Well it was something along those lines.

Most politicians tend to paint the world in broad colours, it’s when they deal in absolutes that we ought to worry; and this isn’t the first time Harriet has indulged in a little rabble-rousing. Not so long ago she suggested Fred Goodwin, disgraced former chief executive of RBS, “shouldn’t count” on his pension, deliberately giving the impression that the government would intervene despite knowing they couldn’t. It might have been popular but the law, after all, is the law; much as Harriet might like to ignore it, which is odd since she’s a solicitor.

And then there was this…

We know that inequality is grounded not just in gender, race, disability, age and sexual orientation, but also by class.

Whoa… full house! Is it possible our wannabe leader is living her political life in reverse? Inequality of opportunity exists in many of these areas, and has blighted far too many lives, but perhaps someone could remind me just how long this champion of the working class, this Labour party, has been in power? Upper and middle class socialists such as Harriet spend more time agitating over class than any other people I know; you’d have thought they could have managed an effective law or two by now.

Alison

Years erode and memories scatter

Subtle imprints

Of your touch

I reach in faith but only flounder

Anchor…

And to kindness clutch

I remember…

Your first look

My purpose took

And spirit quickly won

Your first smile

Is blinding while

Inept I stutter on

And then…

The ritual dance

I blow my chance

Hopeless fumble

Passion stumble

Ardour crumble

...and I never dance again

They came

First they came for the Moslems, and I didn’t speak up for I was not a Moslem;

And then they came for the Christian, the Jew and the Hindu too;

And I remained quiet for I thought they knew

Who had won?

They came for hate, and that seemed OK;

But passion as well, that went the next day

It’s for the best, they explained;

There’s too much pain

When you get into bed

With love

Now few dare dispute

Their truth absolute

There were some

But whilst they came for Martin

They never came for me

For there was nothing worth taking

Or nothing left to take

Cheese and pineapple on a stick

One of the great things about having children, besides the supposed excuse for watching films you ought to have grown out of, is the readily accepted defence for behaving strangely in public. Thus I found myself at a wedding reception dancing in the most peculiar way and, since there was nothing about it in the news, you can trust me when I say that no one was hurt in the process. I even came out with my dignity intact.

OK, that bit’s not true but dancing with a seven year old affords a certain level of absolution; for a short period of time I truly enjoyed myself. Though the worst thing about any reconnection is that no matter how good the moment, there are the moments that follow. Enough maudlin nonsense, here’s the report.

The GPS got me to the church on time. I’m so enamoured of my new best friend that after a stop at the service station I still got her out for a chat despite knowing the rest of the way home. She can take me to the third exit at the roundabout (and back again) anytime.

The church service was nice - though for me the pastor overdid the smiling with his eyes closed, holding his palm upwards and swaying during the hymns. I know there’s nothing wrong with this but I had my religious radar on and it was a little over sensitive. The bridegroom was smiling and relaxed, the bride looked lovely and Little Miss R was totally carried away with excitement.

The reception was good too. The best man was nervous, about half my age, and still gave a far better speech than I could ever manage. Most of the guests may have had strong religious backgrounds but contrary to popular perception the few I spoke to were easy going, genuine and a far better example of kindness than most. They looked just like ‘normal’ people…

I will close by making the following observations.

• There are far too many middle aged men, or any men for that matter, who know the Macarena… stop it. Conversely there is nothing wrong with the YMCA. This dance personifies cool… as anyone who saw me can testify.

• The pastor may have thought it was love but personally I think its cheese and pineapple on a stick.

Striped pyjamas

I spent part of last week and most of this week being fought over between Texas and Canada. Canada won, so the Texas catch up meeting will be one where I have to explain why I haven’t caught up. I’m spending a lot of time creating large “to do” lists and then farming the work off to other people. This week I had to work on some problems on our next rather than current project and they weren’t even the problems that originally caused me to offload my work. The first turned out to be a fault with the live version of the software; the other error was process rather than software but it took me an age to track it down.

So I spent ridiculously long hours at work, drank way too much coffee, learnt how to butter toast yet still had time to watch another film.

My 3rd film of the week (three in one week is a modern day record) was The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. Now if I were analytical I could point out the limited budget, the stage school child actors who weren’t wholly convincing and compare it to other films on the same subject. But for me the small scale brutality was effective, as it was sudden. I appreciated the different perspective and though it was simply told this didn’t affect my appreciation of the film; the end may have been predictable but it was nonetheless moving.

Welcome to the temple of Richard Dawkins

There are would-be murderers, all around the world who want to kill you and me, and themselves, because they are motivated by what they think is the highest ideal.
--Richard Dawkins

I'm agnostic. I believe the theory of evolution, that’s ‘theory’ in its scientific rather than popular sense. There’s a part of me that wonders why I should have to qualify myself, but the larger part thinks it easier that way.

With the recent anniversary of Charles Darwin’s birth I somehow found myself reading a Richard Dawkins blog. This was in response to a colleague of mine who had read of a report showing an ‘alarming’ percentage of science teachers who didn’t believe in evolution. It later turned out that actually it was a percentage who weren’t convinced that evolution offered all the answers… then later again we agreed that not only did we not know the result of the survey but that, since we didn’t know the question asked, the previous discussion had been rather pointless… but still a lot of fun.

Regardless, I found myself reading Dawkins’ blog and it wasn’t long before I had this strange feeling of déjà-vu. If I remember correctly (I don’t care to go back because it was an ugly read) the discussion originated on correspondence between Dawkins and a journalist; in which the journalist had the temerity to infer that Richard Dawkins appropriation of Darwin’s significance was counter-productive to the teaching of evolutionary theory.

The journalist suggested that the teaching and acceptance of evolution was best served by keeping it separate from any debate on religious belief. Dawkins reply missed the point; he repeatedly commented that this was irrelevant as the science stands for itself. He either couldn’t, or wilfully refused, to entertain the idea that a person forced to choose between truth and love will sometimes choose love. Personally I think this rather wonderful; though Dawkins and his acolytes would doubtless roll their eyes at the very suggestion.

Richard Dawkins is an evolutionary biologist and an atheist; like most of us he combines what he knows (which is considerable) with what he believes. This is perfectly natural and in Dawkins case it helps to shift a lot of books; but in presenting the two tenets of evolution and atheism as a package he undermines that with which we can all agree. I say this because I don’t know any Christians who disagree with the theory of evolution. If he were to separate the two then science as a whole would find it easier to educate, and sloppy ideas such as ‘intelligent design’ would lose their grip and slowly die away.

So why doesn’t he? Judging from the many contributors to his blog I found it difficult to escape the feeling that they enjoyed the conflict; the intellectual bullying of people considered their inferior. It was unpleasant but I can hardly blame the great man for his following. There’s a certain irony in this fundamentalist approach to following their highest ideal, for they fail to consider the possibility that it’s not so much religious belief that is the ‘root of all evil’ but religious intolerance; and in that respect they condemn themselves.

A privatised affair

I’m a staunch believer in capitalism, though I admit I’m prone to try and have it both ways – as an ugly necessity that provides the money to pay for the nice things in life; schools, hospitals and the like. And as I’m someone who grew up in the eighties I’m generally comfortable with the privatisation of national industries; the notion of allowing potentially successful companies to operate free from political interference seems eminently sensible. Since our politicians are often failed businessmen, businessmen on the make or people who’ve never had a real job, they’re the last people who should be trusted to run anything. In addition there’s an inherent conflict of interest in having the same people who own a company being tasked with its regulation.

Whilst Harold Macmillan may have likened it to selling off the family silver, all this remark really demonstrated was (perhaps not unsurprisingly) how out of touch he was. The repeated windfall taxes are ample evidence that the government can, if it wants, steal money just as easily from the private sector as it can the public.

The earliest examples of privatisation (BT, British Gas) were extremely successful; we may complain about the prices but these are driven by market forces and we now have a very real choice. In later years however, flushed with the success of what had gone before, the Conservatives became almost dogmatic in their approach. If they could privatise those industries, they could privatise anything, and at times it appeared they weren’t too bothered with the outcome.

Had there been much left then I’m quite sure the current Labour government would have equalled, perhaps even excelled, the Thatcher years. However they found ways to make the Conservatives look almost prudish by comparison; the fluttering of its eyes at the merest suggestion of a PFI and the sluttish manner in which it jumped into bed with any industry that would have it. The re-employment of Arthur Anderson (accountants to the dodgy but, tellingly, sponsors to various Labour party events) who Thatcher herself had banned from government contracts, was ample evidence that there really were no limits.

Not even the Royal Mail was safe.

In principal I have no issue with a privatised mail service; I do however have a problem with the timing and reason behind the decision to sell a share in the company. I’m no great financial expert but it’s a pretty safe bet that selling in a busted market results in a much lower price than if you sell when all is well. It’s as idiotic as having a large pile of gold for sale but instead of selling it quietly, a little at a time to maximise your income, you announce your plans in advance and thus drive down the price. That particular example, courtesy of Gordon Brown, cost the taxpayer several billion pounds - and that’s back in the days when several billion pounds was a lot of money.

Of greater concern than the government’s incompetence is their duplicity over the need to sell. The company pension scheme has a crippling £6bn deficit and we know the government, in the form of Peter Mandelson, wants to sell. How convenient then that the chair of trustees for the pension scheme should write a letter to Peter Mandelson, stating the urgent requirement to do just that. There are two other methods to deal with the shortfall, one of which suggests the government take over the running of the scheme, allowing the company to run as a profitable concern. This is by far the fairest solution because had the government (past and present) not taken a 13 year pension holiday from paying in, then this problem wouldn’t exist; and neither would the negative image of the company (cultivated by the government) as a drain on public finances.

If The Royal Mail is to be sold, it should be as a going concern and at a time when the best price can be obtained for the British tax payer, not at a time that is politically expedient and the focus of the populace is elsewhere. But before selling we should first ask whether it needs to be; and this can only happen after an informed debate that doesn’t involve the orchestration of correspondence for the purpose of leaking it to the press.

David McCallum and some giant man-dissolving snails

God I’m tired. It’s been a horrible week and, since I seem to use that phrase rather a lot, I’m thinking I should get those words engraved. You know where. I’ve overdosed on data scripts for the next rollout; I left my last script to run overnight and came back this morning to find it took nearly four hours to finish. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, a data script will take as long as it takes, but it’s enough to attract attention. I think I hold the company record for the longest ever running script, 38 hours to create 17+ million rows, designed to enable on-line queries to execute with greater speed. Is that ironic? I’m not sure, it might be. Did I mention I’m tired?

Last night I was on a case with David McCallum who unfortunately, and literally, came to a sticky end. We’re looking at a tunnel in a sand dune, only of course it couldn’t be a sand dune because how can you have a tunnel through the sand? David, with his forensic hat on, takes a look and decides to crawl right in. “I wouldn’t do that” I said, noticing this giant snail, only I was too late. Poor David, he never knew what happened. Only he did, because giant man-dissolving snails aren’t exactly the fastest killers around. I’m not exactly sure what happened next but at one point my arms fell off, I fell over and I couldn’t get up again because… well it’s not easy when you’ve got no arms.

What the hell was that about? Why did I have to dream about Ducky? Why couldn’t it be Ziva? She’s ‘fit’ (I may be middle-aged but I know the lingo) and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t come to a sticky end… at least not from a giant man-eating snail. Though with my luck, she probably would.

L'Enfer

My car is ‘briefly’ in the garage for its paint job and I am currently driving to work in the oldest courtesy car on the planet. It’s an automatic, not much of the driver console appears to be working, a brake warning light decides to flash up periodically, it has a tendency to shimmy of its own accord and has 140,000 miles on the clock. To your average U.S. citizen this may be no more than a trip to the local shop, but in the U.K. that’s a long way. Oh, and the radio doesn’t work; so for 35 minutes I am trapped with only my thoughts for company. Now there’s hell for you.

Sing if you’re happy

My car has been patched up - it passed its MOT – it’s safe. I can’t afford to drive it anymore, but that’s a minor quibble. I spent yesterday afternoon shuttling back and forward between garage two, who had done some welding, and garage one, who failed the job because it hadn’t been done properly. I was supposed to be working from home and instead found myself fielding calls on my mobile phone whilst watching my car being welded for a second time. The only positive came when garage two managed to reverse my car into a Porsche. This might not sound too good, but the rear bumper was in a sorry state beforehand, now it gets a free re-spray before I attempt to sell the car on. If I’m lucky it may cover the cost of repairs.

It was enough to have me pine for the days when I used public transport. For over ten years I travelled into work by train and even though the journey by car is hardly arduous, and using the train was never very quick (an hour door-to-door compared to 30 minutes if I drove), it was much more relaxed. I could spend my time reading the Metro newspaper (hey, it’s free) or even (gasp) a book. That’s right, I use to read. Whilst doing so I could drink vile coffee and munch on an over-priced cinnamon Danish – there was no end to my multi-tasking skills. I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. I could… I could… you’re not buying any of this are you? I lost you at coffee.

Working at home was much more productive than I’d imagined. This despite being crouched over a laptop, placed on a desk that wasn’t really large enough for serious work, and using VPN to connect to my desktop in the office. I didn’t check my blog once throughout the day. I don’t remember checking my personal e-mail. When I was called up to ‘attend’ a meeting over the phone I contributed far more than if I’d been there in person. Perhaps it was the novelty of it all. It brought to mind the Hawthorne effect – where a change in the working conditions (I think it was factory lighting) would result in increased productivity, temporarily at least. Perhaps when the novelty wears off I’ll return to normal; any advantages gained from having no distractions or being able to sing more loudly than usual will be lost. Singing doesn’t come naturally, I never could sing in tune – but importantly I keep trying.

Poor man, rich man, poor man

This week I decided to address my haphazard finances. In the process I found an insurance policy with a high monthly premium that I could afford to cancel, and discovered to my surprise that it had a surrender value (£1045 credit).

Also this week I decided to sort out my car, though I didn’t really have a choice. On Monday I bought three new tyres and had the tracking fixed (£201), having wrecked the other tyre a week earlier driving over a pothole (£40). On Tuesday I put the car in for its MOT and service. On Thursday my car was returned with a seemingly endless list of faults fixed (£726) and a failed MOT. Tomorrow I pick up a new alloy wheel (£151). Next Monday I take the car in for some welding (£Unknown) and hopefully on Wednesday the car will be re-tested (£Unknown).

Hang on a second…

Faith

Is any of it real? I’ve been thinking how much of what we live for is illusory. I don’t mean that in a “what’s the point of it all” sense, more that those things that give our lives a purpose have no scientific basis. A small percentage of us may improve the physical lives of those around them, but the vast majority such as I will fail.

But then I’m not living for a cure for cancer, nor to be witness to other great scientific achievements. None of these things, worthy though they are, give my life meaning. Instead I choose to believe in those elements that provoke an emotional response. Science enables me to live but does not tell me why. It provides no reason for great literature or kindness and compassion; yet none of us doubt these things exist. They are more than mere biology; the whole invariably outweighs the sum of its parts, so how can they be real?

They are real because, regardless of the evidence, we choose to believe. Perhaps then when someone believes in God, then God too is real for that person, and that is all that matters. Perhaps all of us, religious, agnostic and atheist, have a belief system of sorts. Mine may not include God but it encompasses other essentials that have no proof; they only require… faith.

And since we have faith, we should allow for others who have a different kind of faith. Proof is irrelevant. If I deny people their God, then I deny myself the right to love.

Don't worry, be happy

It seems quite a while since I said goodbye to another year, but it will take another month before I pull myself out of the inevitable post Christmas funk. Though having seen the forecast for 2009 I’m beginning to think it may be better to keep my head down and try to avoid this year altogether. My favourite story this week, notwithstanding the small matter of a new U.S. president, was the advice from a prominent financial guru to abandon the U.K. currency altogether, or as The Times put it, "We're f****d". Oh alright, they didn’t really say that but a blunt assessment of our future is long overdue and it’s simple enough so that everyone can understand – we don’t have a future.

I’m not convinced that the solution to our financial woes, a problem caused by borrowing too much money and spending more than we can afford, is to borrow even more money and spend it on things that we couldn’t afford when we actually had money to spend.

However we shouldn’t despair; because despite what I said earlier there is some hope. I’ve done a lot of research on this - someone has to – and I think I have the answer. The government would be better advised to consolidate all our debt into one affordable monthly payment. With a bit of luck we’ll have money left over for a holiday.

Failing the cricket test

In 1990 Norman Tebbit gave an interview in which he questioned the loyalty of immigrants to the U.K. by asking which cricket team they supported. Putting aside any pedants (most Scottish people would fail the cricket test) and accepting the metaphor, a better question would have asked why some ‘fail’ and whose ‘failure’ it really is.

When I was 14 I took part in a school football match before which one player ran around the pitch shouting “There’s no black in the Union Jack”. Whilst this boy (who was prone to writing the initials NF on any available surface and who later joined the police force) was more than capable of beating me to a pulp, it is to my eternal shame that I failed to say anything. I don’t believe we are a fundamentally racist country but there are still too many of us who fail to speak up when we should. Is it any wonder that immigrants in such a hostile environment may sometimes look to their country of birth for relief?

Such problems are compounded by the internet which has become a powerful source of disinformation. I recently read of a primary school in Birmingham where a boy was told that for PE lessons they could wear football league shirts - but NOT an England shirt as it could offend others.

This story isn’t true; yet it features at the start of a chain e-mail currently circulating that includes all sorts of spurious ‘information’ justifying why ‘they’ should adapt to ‘us’ and not the other way around. If we truly are a tolerant people then we should question whether the problem is real and if so why; we should even entertain the idea that we may in some way be to blame.

I don’t doubt that similar stories exist, but consider that we are a country of 50+ million people and local government is prone to silly behaviour from time to time. Why is it that this particular story should have been so readily believed? Why is it that though white immigrants are far more likely to fail the cricket test than those from ethnic minorities, this doesn’t invoke nearly as much ire?

Episode VI - Return of the chocolate muffin

So I sent a couple of droids to talk it over with Jabba at his castle, where entertainment included a musical interlude by a blue elephant playing in the style of Stevie Wonder (you had to be there). I turned up, killed his favourite pet and we flew off into the sunset to meet up with the rest of the fleet, but not before I met with Ben who told me that the girl I'd fancied was in fact my sister. I'm kind of glad now that Dad cut off my right hand… I met up with the rest of the fleet, a woman we'd never seen before passed on information from some Bothan spies and Admiral Ackbar, a talking squid from the planet Mon Calamari, showed off his new 3D computer screen. The emperor saw us coming (Bothan spies are rubbish – it's no wonder so many of them died) but despite this we managed to defeat a crack legion of the emperor's best troops with the help from some cuddly teddy bears.

That's the problem with any final act. The outline may look good but putting it into practice…

So perhaps I shouldn't have set myself the target of two blogs in as many days. I'll not be doing that again. Nor shall I make any resolutions for the New Year; except perhaps not to quote the film quite as often as I do (if at all). God only knows what people must think of me – though as it happens I am sat at work wearing a T-shirt with the small green character printed on it. Some days I feel obliged to live up (or should that be down?) to the stereotype.

Instead I'll promote a new sophisticated Phil; the kind that orders something at Starbucks with 'skinny' in the title - or is it just tall skinny women who order tall skinny lattes? Either way I'll not be having any more of their chocolate muffins; they're just like 'Episode VI'… rubbish.

Episode I - The phantom tea cup

I saw very few films over the Christmas period and I saw no films during Christmas week, which seems a real waste. I had a yearning to watch 'Fight Club' again though Mrs R wasn't very keen, preferring instead to watch 'Mamma Mia' with Little Miss R - I slept through it all. My stack of unwatched DVDs grows whilst the time in which to watch them shrinks. At work there are six of 16 desks occupied. On this floor we number three support people (100% attendance for the support team), one database person, one business analyst and one developer (that'd be me).

The Christmas decorations are beginning to fall down and no-one has the will to maintain them. The tinsel remains on the floor or dangling from the ceiling; we sidestep the end of Christmas as if hoping to delay the arrival of the New Year. Office etiquette is proving tricky. With five people on one side of the office and 'Lone Developer' Phil (they should make a TV series) on the other, there was one burning question of the morning; should I offer to make the tea? This problem was resolved when one of 'The Others' drifted my way to ask if I'd like a drink. "No thanks" I replied, because by that time I'd already sneaked a couple in. Bear in mind I've been a developer for a long time. Put it this way. Imagine I'm in a bar with a fellow developer, discussing where George Lucas went wrong with 'The Phantom Menace', and a beautiful woman (who somehow hasn't heard our conversation) sits next to me and strikes up a conversation. I might be thinking 'Serendipity', but I'll mainly be thinking 'Help!'. Let's face it, there's only one thing I know about women - and there's only so many ways I can compliment her on her hair. It's safer in 'Phil's World'. I suppose I could always wing it and ask where she stands on the hot topic of the afternoon; "Who is more annoying – Jar Jar Binks or Anakin Skywalker?" I'm only kidding... Everyone knows the answer to that.

Losing it

Forgetfulness and poor eyesight have combined to ensure my Christmas present this year will be a new pair of glasses to replace the pair I lost yesterday. I can't really afford them as I have a particularly expensive, and oft delayed, service and MOT due on the car - but I've reached the point where I can't read a thing without them. And I am determined to read something soon, something nourishing, something good for the soul. It's a bit early for New Year resolutions perhaps but I could do with an overhaul myself.

This year's acts of stupidity (I also lost my car keys... or that may have been last year – I can't recall) only confirmed my suspicions. I can't take it any more... or rather my brain can't take any more. I have reached the point where I no longer remember whole conversations, seemingly choosing only to remember edited highlights. There are two ways to look at this; either my intellect has reached a higher plane that automatically excludes extraneous information at an advanced level... or I have stuffed my mind with so much junk it's beginning to overflow. Yes, I know I only have myself to blame but try to remember my New Year resolution – and if you can could you remind me?

Yes I'm a fool, but if I may quote Obi-Wan Kenobi in the original Star Wars trilogy:

Who's more foolish, the fool or the fool who reads him?

At least it was something along those lines...

Guitar hero

Last week the future musical credibility of Little Miss R was placed in serious doubt thanks to her discovery of a Cliff Richard tape, dating back to the time when people knew what was meant by the word "tape". I'm rational enough to realise this isn't the fault of Sir Cliff, besides which it's quite obvious that the blame lies elsewhere and I told her as much, whilst ducking the stress balls she threw in my direction. I can assure you, as I assured her, there are no such embarrassing revelations from my past...

However it was just one tape from a box full of possible indiscretions or relief. Mercifully it wasn't long before the tunes of Summer Holiday and Wired for Sound (there were more and I'm a little worried I can remember so many) were soon drowned out with the more wholesome sounds of Oasis. It's such a relief when your seven-year old discards "Mistletoe and Wine" for "Cigarettes and Alcohol"…

Inspired, and as if to confirm her new found street cred (should that be with a hyphen or without?), she's taken up the guitar. Move aside Noel, your days are numbered…

Smells like Christmas spirit

It's been a fractured week, I'm tired and it's beyond me to tie it all together. So instead I've broken it down into sections and even added in a joke – see if you can spot it.

Home life:

Mrs R has been given a medical drug reference book. This along with access to Wikipedia is proving to be detrimental to our health. What her GP was thinking of is anyone's guess.

Work life:

Two weeks ago we had a company re-structure; our new boss will visit us next week to explain the changes. I'm going to do my bit for the team and heed one of the six e-mails of the week reminding us to keep our desks tidy. I'll even wear my best t-shirt and, who knows, I may even iron it.

Current Affairs:

More enjoyable was the Jeremy Paxman interview with the Leader of the House of Commons, Harriet Harman. Given that it's now apparently a criminal offence to embarrass the government, perhaps the police should consider locking her up as well?

Joke:

Two software developers are standing in the park.

One developer has a shiny new bike.

The other developer asks him, "Nice bike - how much?"

The first one says, "It was free."

The other asks, "Really, how did you get it for free?"

The one with the bike says," Yesterday a beautiful woman rode up on this bike, took off all her clothes and told me I could have anything I wanted."

The other software developer says, "Good move - her clothes wouldn't have fit you anyway."

A time to reflect

That's two good Fridays in a row. I once again achieved something unprecedented - though it occurs to me that if I've done it again then there is a precedent. There I am speeding through my work in a not-quite-unprecedented fashion, going so fast that I move ahead of schedule and have time for a little reflection. Not of the contemplating life variety unfortunately; nowadays when I attempt such a feat the result is something akin to tumbleweed being blown across a deserted office floor. This 'reflection' was of the type used to access private methods of a public class and, since I was feeling particularly cocky (but mainly because I had to), access public methods of a private class within a public class. I know what you're thinking… where can I find me a man like that?

Actually I must own up. You'll find this difficult to believe but I had to google 'how to' and found out... er... 'how to' on a site page published FIVE YEARS AGO. This shocking lack of knowledge on the inner workings of the Microsoft .NET framework probably explains my lack of success with gorgeous attractive women, or indeed any kind of women. There could be other factors involved, such as being married and in my forties, but I doubt it.