World cheers promised 25% increase in level of ignorance

World leaders yesterday lauded another ‘landmark’ announcement from Gordon Brown who, in addition to reducing the number of UK nuclear-armed submarines from four to three, has promised a proportional reduction in the number of people with a rudimentary knowledge of physics.

Whilst some have questioned the need for such a measure, arguing blinkers would prove more cost-effective, sources state that Brown has fallen under the influence of a shady group of neo-realists led by the enigmatic mad monk Alastair Darling. It is thought the Chancellor, whose eyebrows have yet to be authenticated, was reminded of the futility of removing nuclear arsenals after running the economy into the ground at a velocity approaching the speed of light. This near meltdown prompted the hitherto heretical belief that the knowledge of how to destroy ourselves might prove just as dangerous as having the means.

Emboldened with such a vision, Darling arranged a summit at a secret service station on the M4 where he met with the Prime Minister and Ed Balls, Secretary of State for Schools and Stuff… and Peter Mandelson, who they bumped into at the KFC. Several family buckets later they produced the Membury Manifesto.

In it is laid the foundations for making the world a safer place, or as Gordon Brown describes it, “a kinder, more stupid Britain”, by engineering a progressively less intelligent UK population through measures such as The Daily Mail, Sky Television and discouraging students from higher education. “The only way forward”, added the Prime Minister “is backwards.”

Shoot 'em up

A part of me died whilst watching Shoot 'Em Up, the rest of me wasn't so lucky. You know how sometimes you think you ought to give a film a second chance, perhaps you weren’t in the right frame of mind the first time out; there are also times when you should leave well alone. I get that it’s over the top, I get that it’s tongue-in-cheek, I get that some of the puns are deliberately bad. On the other hand it’s not often that you cheer the arrival of each action sequence for the sole reason that you won’t have to listen to any of the characters speak.

There was even a point where I found myself saying “no please… PLEASE DON’T do the BMW versus porcupine joke”... only my appeal was in vain. Michael Davis, the director and writer (so he has no excuse) of this entertainment was no doubt hoping to fool the audience, or at least those capable of rational thought, into thinking it’s a parody or perhaps some kind of ironic statement. I’m pretty sure it isn’t.

But if we must find something to praise, let’s praise it for the full-bodied Monica Belluci; she’s lovely. But what’s not to love about a drug-free lactating prostitute with a heart of gold? Monica uses her considerable charm in the film’s only worthwhile sequence, which manages to show some originality in combining the obligatory sex scene with yet another preposterous shoot-out. Yes it’s true; I did find that bit funny. Also we should commend the film on its length. At 86 minutes it’s mercifully short, but then anything longer and I might have become quite negative.

A perfect blend

Don’t you just hate reading a blog entry that’s no more than a flimsy plug for a restaurant that the blogger has happened to eat in? Well since you’re used to it, here’s one more. Blend Café Lounge in Thornbury makes the most heavenly beef burger and chunky chips I’ve ever tasted. The BLEND burger alone is worth a mention, but with the most amazing chunky chips it’s an unbeatable combination. I hesitate to recommend a place on the quality of their chips, it sounds like a backwards compliment, but you’d have to eat there to understand. Perhaps if I mention that they seem to have cornered the market on relaxed and friendly staff...

Paint the whole world

I had a frustrating day yesterday. By one measure it was productive as I learnt something new… eventually... but it wasn’t as quick as I’d like and I’m impatient to learn more. I was in work at 7.45am and, aside from a break for lunch, didn’t leave until 6.45pm. It would have all felt worthwhile if I’d figured out my LINQ problem, but a solution eluded me and I drove home defeated.

It’s usually enough to dent my entire evening though I ought to know better; experience, or advancing years if you prefer, has shown fresh eyes in the morning often does the trick. But I’ve always found it difficult to separate myself from work once separated from work, thankfully nature made yesterday evening an exception; I saw the most beautiful rainbow. I know that sounds ridiculous, it looks ridiculous written down but ‘beautiful’ is the only way I can describe it. Not dissimilar to this picture and possibly prettier, I could see both ends rooted to the ground and each clearly defined colour in the spectrum arcing over the motorway ahead of me. All I could think was to share the information with my daughter, knowing how excited she’d have been in the car with me, despite the appalling weather. I was on the M48 and it was wonderful. It’s not often you can say something like that.

…and my problem with LINQ? Sorted first thing this morning.

The National Health Service’s new clothes

I’ve been rather irritated by the current disinformation campaign of the Republican Party in response to Barack Obama’s health plans. As far as I’m aware there are no plans to create a National Health Service, so holding up the UK as an example of what can go wrong is highly suspect.

I’m equally bemused by the response of most politicians in the UK who’ve rushed to the defence of the NHS; fighting to proclaim their love is true, that their love will last. Love is blind. It won’t be long before one, probably over-compensating Conservative, starts singing to the tune of all nurses are angels and all doctors are God. Absolute drivel – though I’ll admit to having met a few doctors who acted as if they were God. I'm presuming those wearing the rose-tinted spectacles have never had to wait a year (sometimes more) for treatment, or been misdiagnosed with Parkinson's disease and only after TEN years had the treatment corrected; this happened to my mother. Nor have they been victims of the 'postcode lottery' of NHS treatment after moving 20 miles, and in the process happening to move from one health trust that would fund treatment to one health trust that wouldn't; this happened to my wife.

The NHS is a glorious principle in which I whole-heartedly believe, but those holding it up as a paragon of virtue are about as useful as 'death panel' comments from Sarah Palin, or the idiot Conservative MEP Daniel Hannan describing the NHS as a 'sixty year mistake'. Slightly sinister, though hardly unexpected, is the response of Health Secretary Andy Burnham who described Mr Hannan's comments as unpatriotic. Do my comments make me unpatriotic too?

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.