There are four lights

It was Anthony Burgess in a television interview that first impressed upon me the power of language, though at the time I didn’t appreciate the significance. I only thought of the positive, the “beauty is truth, truth beauty” though I’ve never really understood those two lines of Keats. I was a huge Bruce Springsteen fan back then:

When the legend becomes fact, print the legend, not the fact.

This dangerous aphorism from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance was used in the introduction to a Springsteen biography I read many years ago, but the timing was unfortunate; right about the time I was reading the final chapters, describing in loving detail his marriage to Julianne Phillips, the news broke of his relationship with backing singer Patti Scialfa. It served as an early warning that passion, whether written, music or any other form, has little bearing on that truth that exists outside of art.

I sometimes think of this when I read the comments section in The Guardian or, if I’m feeling really brave, an article in The New Statesman.

For whilst I remember the 1980’s as a time of great upheaval, terrible hardship for some and excessive greed by a few, I also remember the Free Nelson Mandela concert, Live Aid, Children in Need and unprecedented levels of charity. It turned out that given economic freedom most were more than willing to do the right thing, yet much of the recent ‘history’ paints a colourful picture of cartoon villainy; beware the evil Thatcher beast that would ‘cheerfully’ destroy communities and ‘gladly attack’ the poor. A litany repeated whilst staring down those who would point out the folly of this thinking seems designed to silence the critics - for who would be associated with such monsters?

I would. I have my truth. What's yours?

Bonfire night: special edition

Last night was dry, which made a change from the previous day where every time I looked up I got a face full of water. It’s not easy watching fireworks in the rain, but we had a good time and knew we had the main show the following day. We didn’t stay for the whole display, it was good but it was incidental. Little Miss R got her overpriced piece of plastic flashing crap and smiled a lot, so I smiled a lot. It’s the sense of occasion we look forward to and possibly for my daughter the knowledge that I’d carry her home. My shoulders ache but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ending the week

I’m tired. I’ve spent the home part of my week adapting to the school run, housework, cooking the dinner and trying to watch re-runs of Star Trek: DS9. I’ve spent the work part of my week grappling with legacy code, though in the absence of an environment in which to ask questions or generate ideas it’s a solitary experience. That’s not a criticism, merely acknowledging the realities of working in such a small office. It’s not dissimilar to my first job in which I spent six years with ever-decreasing staff numbers before deciding to take a peek at the world outside. This time we are at least connected, you and I, though whether we’ll ever understand each other. The internet brings us together and emphasises the distance between, provides answers and a constant reminder of how little I know.

So I looked forward to the supporting act to this weekend’s firework displays. Little Miss R and I forsook the car and umbrellas and instead took a short walk to watch a quick display of very loud bangs and dazzling colour. It tipped down. We had a lot of fun.

‘Tis the season for mucus and mucous

I was laid low for a second time last Thursday so I should be full of antibodies – nothing can overcome me now! On this occasion it was a nasty cold; the following day I went in only to feel crap sat at my desk. On balance it was the right thing to do as I got a bit of work done and I don’t think I was contagious, but I did wonder whether the cost to British business from people ‘taking a sickie’ - often estimated in the billions each year - might be matched by the cost of sick people coming into work when they should have stayed at home. I’m pretty sure of having ‘taken out’ a few colleagues myself in this manner.

My road to recovery was aided yesterday by the heroic Harriet Harman who, put out by Polly Toynbee’s tilt at the title, decided to grab some of the glory by taking a swing at Danny Alexander. I’m guessing the message from the dear leader on being serious about politics doesn’t apply to party get-togethers though it makes you wonder when it does apply. ‘Ginger rodent’ is hardly the nastiest thing I’ve heard (Nye Bevan referred to the Conservatives as ‘vermin’) but as with all insults it’s counterproductive, there is no progression of ideas and it raises the thorny issue of when is it ever acceptable to prefix an insult with a reference to the person’s appearance. I’m pretty sure of being guilty of this too but just in case you’re wondering Harriet, the answer is NEVER!

A difference of opinion

Last week's comprehensive spending review has resulted in a disappointing but predictable rehash of ‘Conservatives out to destroy the poor’-type headlines that I first remember reading during the 1980’s. Regardless of your political outlook they didn’t make a lot of sense then and they certainly don’t now. Logically, why would a ruling party set out to deliberately alienate a large section of the voting public? The answer is simple, they wouldn’t; they might not do a very good job but they wouldn’t intentionally do a bad one. There, I’ve stated the bleeding obvious but, you know, just in case…

I suspect we’ll always be assaulted with this sort of nonsense of which there’s no better practitioner than Polly Toynbee. Polly, who I only read for the comedy, outdid herself on Monday by holding forth on the Conservatives ‘final solution’ for housing the poor. Come to think of it, it’s not that funny, perhaps I should be insulted and that might be the intention, but after the pleasure of seeing her make an idiot of herself there’s the sigh at another act playing to the home crowd. Points on for winding up the Tories but points off for losing the neutrals and more points off if the intention was to help the poor, for invective rarely changes and often entrenches opinion. There's also the suspicion that such talk isn’t just to rally the faithful but to keep them in line. Can you imagine what would happen to the poor bastard brave enough to put up his hand and suggest:

Maybe they just have a different point of view?

Anything but

It just goes to show how much personal experience can influence opinion and not necessarily in the right direction, because whilst Internet Explorer 6 is a stinky browser I can understand (there’s a lot of understanding in this post) how it got there. Back in the day Microsoft were quite an innovative company and IE was an innovative product - oh yes it was! As Obi Wan in my obligatory Star Wars reference might say, it’s “true, from a certain point of view”. Forging ahead instead of waiting for consensus from newly emerging standards bodies can be seen as perfectly valid when there’s only you and Netscape on the scene. Unfortunately Microsoft carried on in this vein right up to, and some would argue beyond, version 6. God help us all.

Tobias wrote a challenging post a while back explaining why he temporarily switched off IE access to one page on his site. Though it struck me at the time as being a little severe I understood the frustration, mainly because it wasn’t the first time I’d heard people complain. I only recollect this as I recently found myself writing a little code - ‘code’ as in tinkering with the blog because I don’t have a life - and hit the ‘it looks fine in everything but’ problem with Microsoft’s browser. I think that was when I really understood the frustration – ‘understood’ as in wanting to burn Internet Explorer, more specifically IE6, to the ground; too severe, right?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

When I was young or to put it another way, a long time ago, I was prone to excessive maudlin episodes that were often punctuated by my Dad telling me to “smile” or “cheer up”, to which I would grimace and mutter something ungrateful under my breath. Later, much later I remember seeing Janet Street Porter interviewed by a group of teenagers complaining that the world wasn’t fluffy enough, to which they were told to stop whining; thus introducing me to the genuinely new experience of liking Janet Street Porter. If only I could figure out what happened in-between...