How much is that in real money?

State of the Art Cinematograph Facility, Shepherd's Bush

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We went for a photo stroll around West London today and saw a peculiar sign on the side of an old cinema.

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Cinematograph Theatre Continuous Performance Seat 1/ - 6d & 3d

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The pricing, as well as the curious terminology dates this sign back to well before 1971.
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Seeing the sign I fell into reminiscing about 'old money'. I was only five when the UK decimalised but I can still remember old money, largely because adults around me didn't let it leave their hearts, even after it was taken from their wallets. Pre-decimal British currency had history and character. Each coin had a personality, such that people gave them affectionate names. We still use some of those old names but no new ones have been coined since we moved over to more modern, essentially soulless money.
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Prior to 1971. The British pound was divided in 20 shillings. Each shilling was worth 12 pence. Prices were broken down into pounds, shillings and pence; which amusingly meant that people had to be able to simultaneously calculate to Base 12, Base 20 and fractions when working with money. Prices were written out like this:

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£1.2/ 6½d

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i.e. One pound two shillings six and a half pence. Or £1.305 in decimal equivalent.

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The 'd' abbreviation, rather than 'p' for pennies, came from the Roman units Lire, Sesteri and Denari; known as LSD. Pounds, shillings and pence were abbreviated as 'L or £', 's or /' and 'd'.

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Still with me?

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In addition to pound notes, shilling and penny coins, we also had all sorts of other amusing currency in circulation, including; farthing (1/4d), half penny (1/2d), two penny (2d), three penny (3d), groat (4d), sixpence (6d), florin (2s), half crown (2s 6d) and crown (5s). Many of these coins were enormous and required that they'd be spread evenly between trouser pockets or held in a centrally mounted pouch; otherwise people would walk in ever-decreasing circles like a ship with rudder damage.

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Other units were also used, even though actual notes or coins were not minted in those units. The most common examples were Marks (13 shillings 4 pence / 160 pence) used in property transactions and Guineas (1 pound 1 shilling / 252 pence) used to price expensive items.

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For many years you could readily tell what social class you were dealing with, depending on how services were priced; pennies (working class), shillings (tradesmen), pounds (professionals), guineas (aristocracy). A plumber would frequently refer to 20 shillings rather than a pound. Posh people would talk in guineas because their money was worth that little bit extra more than upstart professionals who worked for their cash. Even today, auction houses often work in guineas because it is an excellent way to take an extra 5% off inbred people willing to pay a premium for pricing the things that they buy in their own special money.

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But no, not even these refinements made British money confusing enough.
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People wouldn't bother to use the word shilling in conversation and would typically describe prices in the form:

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'two and three'

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i.e. two shillings and three pence or 27 pence

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But that was still far too simple. So the British gave their coins names; tanner (sixpence), thruppeny (three pence), quid (pound), bob (shilling).

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Even the simplest of financial transactions would frequently become a battle of wits between the participants, as they deftly chose to discuss prices in a way that best suited their purposes; trying to outfox their opponent by flipping between different number bases.

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e.g.

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'How much for that pearl-encrusted waistcoat?'
'six bob'
'too pricey for me mate. I'll give you a crown'
'I do it for five and six'
'knock a tanner off that and you've got a deal'
etc. etc.

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Even in 2004 it is unlikely that computer technology has advanced to a point that could keep up with a system as fiendish as this. Decimalization was inevitable. Unlike, other countries, we kept the original currency names and coins when changing over, which meant that the old shilling was worth 12 (old) pence one day and five (new) pence the next, Six pence coins were worth 2.5p and so on. Confusion was inevitable and widespread. The shock of the transition was too much to bear for some people, who never got their heads round what they saw as the unnecessarily complicated new money i.e. £1 = 100 pence. Well into the 1980's, people would still mentally convert prices into shilling equivalents - a £1.73 price tag would cause someone to remark 'Christ, that's almost thirty five bob!' or 'Gadzooks! That's one pound 14 shillings and thruppence! in real money'.

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How I wish we'd retained the old system; along with the English Channel and the invention of radar, this was one of the cornerstones of British defence from foreign invasion. As I watch overseas tourists struggling with idiot-proof, multilingual, fully decimalized ticket machines in Underound stations, I long for an alternate universe where those machines would read 'Single ticket to Earls Court £2.4/6d. Please insert two guineas and half a crown.'. Natural selection would ruthlessly apply and those people too stupid to count in bases of 12, 20 or 21 (for guineas) or use fractions would be scalped and removed of any money they were not intellectually equipped to deserve. Can you imagine what the pocket calculators would look like?

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and I haven't even got into Cockney Rhyming slang. Bored by the sheer straightforwardness of the old money, Londoners further refined the system by coming up with lots of additional names for their money, including; a pony (£25), a monkey (£500) and a carpet (£3), but another time …

Real men drink Kvass. And like it

Russian Barbecue - Note bottles of Kvass in foreground

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Having just noticed half a loaf of stale bread, some rotting carrots and two empty plastic diet coke bottles in the kitchen I've decided I might make some Kvass this afternoon.
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After vodka, Kvass is the second national drink of Russia. My first experience of Kvass was at a barbecue near Voronez. I recall noticing the bottles early on in the afternoon and thinking 'why has someone filled those old plastic bottles with the water from a sink after doing their washing up?'. Later on, our hosts offered me a glass of the stuff, which I drank. I recall then thinking 'why has someone filled those old plastic bottles with the water from a sink after doing their washing up and then offered it to me to drink?'
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I then spent the next few days believing Kvass to be some kind of traditional Russian joke played on visiting foreigners but, no, I actually observed locals drinking the stuff voluntarily. My suspicions had largely been aroused by the sheer peculiarity of the taste and genesis of Kvass but also because I recognized that Russians are capable of being vicious pranksters of the highest and most sophisticated sort.
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On our first night in Voronez, our local factory manager took us out for a meal and, through an interpreter, told a very funny story about how the last British visitors had been fed huge tumblers of vodka at their welcome meal whilst he had been drinking water. The visitors became extremely drunk in less than an hour and had made complete fools of themselves. Within an hour of the manager telling us that story, the three of us were completely drunk, singing karaoke and dancing with a group of middle-aged council officials who were looking for lurve. In the corner of the room, the factory manager could be seen grinning slyly; completely stone-cold sober.
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The factory visit carried on in a similiar vein for the next week or so; us being kept drunk 24/7 and being offered women of varying quality. The factory manager using the merest fraction of his talents to keep us where he wanted us. I played along on the basis that it was clear where most of the collosal fraud was taking place but having absolutely no inclination to die exposing it.
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Our last evening there is one of my fondest memories as it ended with me dancing and singing around the prostate and defeated figure of the factory's drinking champion, an ex KGB officer. I think at one point I actually lifted his head up from the table to taunt him some more. In many ways, this was the peak of my professional career. Thanks to a compliant waitress two of us had finished 2 litres of water at the start of the meal before switching to real vodka. By the time our minder had got suspicious, the evidence had been consumed and we were merrily matching him drink for drink. I recall capping the contest by us depth-charging glases of beer with vodka chasers. The strangest thing. Even though they came from a people that drink pints of vodka a day, and Kvass, our Russian hosts were aghast at the beer/ vodka thing; describing it as a mad thing to do. Stef Top Tip - The only way to beat a Russian at a drinking contest, if you can't do a water switch, dare him to down a pint before drinking his vodka.
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Anyway, back to Kvass. Kvass can basically be made out of anything that is stale or rotten. The variety of recipes is enormous. A basic recipe is something like this ...
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1 lb bread
3 pints boiling water
6 beets, large, peeled, thinly sliced

• In bowl, cut bread into pieces, add water & beets, mix well.
• Cover with towel and set in warm place for two or three days.
• Strain through fine sieve, or cheesecloth, mashing pulp through screen. Discard the bread mix.
• Decant into old discarded plastic Coke bottles. If there's some flat Coke left in the bottles, great.

The resulting drink is lightish brown, foamy and smells vaguely of stale eggs. It is definitely best served chilled and preferably to someone you dislike.
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And Hitler actually believed he could defeat these people?
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I've tried Kvass flavoured with a couple of raisins and, even better, horseradish. Drinking really is believing. Apparently Kvass was/ is popular in Russia because:

1. they have a lot of stale bread
2. the fermentation process purifies the drink and reduces the risk of contracting cholera
3. it tastes really yummy (to Russians)

Drinking Kvass was one of the many experiences in Russia that taught me that life is hard in that country and that Russians have developed the ingenuity and fortitude to cope with that hardness. Western Europeans are complete pussies in comparison and really don't know when they have it good. Russians and East Europeans do, however, know how good we have it which is why so many of them are cramming into the UK and elsewhere. Consumption of a simple glass of Kvass conveys understanding, and some sympathy.
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One day, when I become independently wealthy, I would like to start industrial-scale Kvass production in the UK. I think it might be a hit.

The unarmed British Bobby

Do not carry pieces of furniture in the vicinity of these people

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Not an original post from me - just an extract from a current story that left me shaking my head in disbelief ...
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Police Shooting Of Decorator 'Unlawful'
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A man shot by police while carrying a table leg which was mistaken for a gun was unlawfully killed, an inquest jury has ruled.
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Harry Stanley, 46, from Hackney, east London, was shot in the head and hand by police marksmen in September 1999.Two Metropolitan Police officers fired the shots after mistakenly being informed that Mr Stanley was an Irishman with a sawn-off shotgun.
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The father-of-three was in fact Scottish and was carrying a coffee table leg which had just been repaired by his brother Peter.
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He was shot as he left the Alexandra pub in Hackney.
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The jury of six women and four men at St Pancras Coroner's Court took around seven hours to reach their verdict at the end of a two-week inquest.
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It was the second to have taken place into Mr Stanley's death.
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The open verdict recorded at the end of the original inquest was later quashed by the High Court.

The romance of Night Buses

Dublin Night Buses - clearly different to London

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A friend just sent me a series of poster pictures for Dublin Nitelink Buses.
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They feature a series of Double Entendres which convey the image of Dublin Night Buses as being THE way to go home and have steamy sex after a good night out in the City Centre. Yes, Dublin Night Buses are less of a means of transportation and more a mobile extension of Dublin's Night Clubs e.g.

• 'Ladies. The poles are fitted for Your Safety. No Dancing'
• 'At the end of the night it's a guaranteed ride'
• 'What comes more quickly than your boyfriend?'
• 'Please ensure you have the correct partner before leaving the bus'

So, naturally, I got to thinking how a similar campaign for London Night Buses would work ...

• 'Ladies. Please check your chosen seat for warm pee before sitting down'
• 'Gentlemen. Kindly refrain from assaulting your driver whilst the bus is in motion'
• 'London Night Buses - sometimes preferable to being sexually molested by an unlicenced minicab driver'
• 'You provide the chunder. We provide the receptacle'

£100m buys you a Minister

What this needs is a dedicated Minister

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I've just discovered that the UK has a Minister for Gambling. Andrew McIntosh is his name.
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Fabulous. Does that mean we can look forward to new government ministeries for other vices, human frailties and exploitative industries?

• Minister for Ciggies?
• Minister for Cock Fighting?
• Minister for Alco-Pops?
• Minister for Avarice?
• Minister for Up-skirt Camera Phone Pictures Taken On Public Transport? (the Japanese have one of those already)
• Minister for Those Middle-Aged Blokes Who Dress Up In Nappies And Pay Semi-Retired Prostitutes To Wash Them?
• Minister for Chart Ring Tones

We only have 650 MPs. It won't be enough.

Cheap Beer and Fags Parallelogram

Tracy getting ready to entertain Our Boys

The news is full of stories of British troops moving into the 'Triangle of Death' on the outskirts of Baghdad this week.
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Mmmmm, interesting name for a place, I thought. Who uses it? Who came up with it?
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A quick search on Google and I'm none the wiser. Apparently the term 'Triangle of Death' is only used by journalists.
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Traditionally, squaddies shy away from coming up with nicknames for places that include words like 'Death' or 'Mutilation'. Sometimes they'll be ironic, e.g. Happy Valley, sometimes they'll name a place after its resemblance to something e.g. 'T Bone Hill, and sometimes they'll give a place an English name because they can't pronounce the local one e.g. Ypres/ Wipers. Rarely do they choose to remind themselves that they will probably die there.
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Military commanders also shy away from bumming their troops out by setting objective names like 'Triangle of Death'; preferring snappy titles like 'Objective Orange', 'Hill 471' or, um, Baghdad.
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So, a call from Stef to the World's media oganisations. Stop giving places in Iraq such downer names. Would you torment a line of cows waiting their turn in a slaughterhouse? Of course not. That would be cruel. Try and come up with some more upbeat nicknames for places that give Our Boys something to look forward to. Here are a few suggestions ...

'Listen men. Today's twin objectives are The Isoceles Triangle of T*tty Bars and The Parallelogram of Cheep Beer and Fags. Our heavy armour will proceed along Lap Dance Lane, tactically distributing Iraqi Freedom Dollars as they feel to be appropriate. Meanwhile, the infantry will simultaneously make their way, slowly, along BJ Boulevard, pausing briefly at The Cone of Copulation and the Sky Sports Semi-Circle, where they can watch the Manchester United match and pick up some local souvenirs for their kids.'

PS For any Americans bumping into this page. The word 'fag' in the UK has a different meaning to the US. In England a 'fag' is the term used to describe someone who procures catamites for pederasts.

Lloyd Grossman specified my cheese sandwich

Dad

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I went to hospital with my father yesterday to discuss whether he should undergo chemotherapy or not. I haven't visited a chemotherapy clinic for some time and I'd forgotten just how downbeat these places are. Everyone there has terminal cancer. Few really believe the chemo will work. They really could have done with a visit from Robin Williams and some of his zany, Hollywood-style, brand of inspirational humour. As it was we had to just make do with one of the consultants wearing a brown bow tie. It was limp.
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10 months ago my father had his bladder removed and replaced with a 'neo bladder' made from a chunk of colon. The operation was a success and he was looking fit enough to leave hospital after only a few days. Then the infections started. He was in and out of hospital for 7 months and we almost lost him three or four times. He's out now and I wish him a long and healthy life. Currently he's working on what appears to be a replica of Disney's Magic Castle in his back garden. He claims it's a tool shed.
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The surgery was pretty cutting-edge stuff. Bowel and bladder cancer has killed several people in my father's family and, in the past, once it was diagnosed all we could do was sit there and watch them die. I understand that, if the Democrats win the US Elections, we'll all be able to eat stem-cell burgers in a couple of years that will cure pretty much anything but, in the meantime, the surgery impressed me. The care staff are also, without exception, fantastic. It has been said many times that nurses work long hours, doing a difficult job for not much money. It's 100% true. A lot of money goes into the Health Service not much of it reaches these people.
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Then, after hopefully extending my father's life by the use of this new surgery, the hospital almost killed him because of sloppy hygiene. It was a close-run thing but my father managed to stay with us. It was a terrible six months though and, as a secondary issue, I wonder how much his seven months in hospital cost the Health Service.
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Apparently, Dad was not suffering from the much discussed superbug, MRSA. He had something called MSSA and so won't be counted in the national MRSA figures. Something like 5,000 people supposedly die from MRSA every year; based on our experiences I strongly suspect the real number of people dying from post operative infections is much higher. We're looking at something in the 5,000-20,000 range and the National Audit Office has recently indicated just as much. I appreciate that life is a precious, fragile gift that we should never take for granted; a driver nodding off at the wheel for a moment or a spoonful of fat in the wrong place can end a life in a heartbeat but it is wretched to think that thousands of people are dying every year, in a country as wealthy as ours, just because hospital support staff can't be bothered to wash their hands or keep the wards clean.
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A friend of my brother's was admitted into the same ward as my father with a nasty compound leg fracture. He was so concerned about picking up a lethal bug in hospital that he only ate food his family brought him and hobbled out on crutches, in immense pain, as soon as he was able. I talked about his behaviour with a couple of nurses in that hospital and elsewhere, remarking on just how paranoid people had become; all of the nurses said that, no, he was not paranoid and he was just being sensible. They said they would have done the same.
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I also commented to a nurse in St Thomas' Hospital that I thought it was little strange that patients' meals were being prepared in a facility 200 miles from London and trucked to my father's hospital in North London. Sometimes the food is edible, frequently it is not. She laughed and said that this was better than St Thomas' where patients were normally given cold sandwiches. Mmmm, this struck me as a little strange as the Government spent £40 million on revamping the NHS menu 3 years ago; engaging the assistance of TV Masterchef presenter Lloyd Grossman and a posse of Britain's best chefs. It was in all the papers. I remember that story very well as the new menus supposedly included such ingredients as seafood, dill and Parmesan and oriental dishes using the best cuts of meat. Sounds tasty I thought, maybe I should get sick.
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John Reid, the Minister of Health, was on TV discussing the MRSA issue last week. He explained that the problem was a result of underfunding by the previous Conservative Government. The Labour Party has been in power for 7 years and John Reid is a dick. On my last visit to hospital I noticed that some genius had taken putting up posters everywhere explaining to staff how to wash their hands. Somehow, the thought that hospital stuff need illustrated posters explaining how to clean themselves was not reassuring. There is also some talk of reintroducing Florence Nightingale's basic standards of ward hygiene and care procedures, which is also far from reassuring given that she was doing her thing 150 years ago. Progress?
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So, some of the most vulnerable people in our country; the old, the young, the sick are being killed by our hospitals at the rate of something like 5,000 - 20,000 a year, maybe more. For many, their last meal on this Earth comprises a half-frozen cheese salad sandwich made by an illegal East European immigrant, with no background in food preparation, in a shed 200 miles away. Doesn't this make the whole War on Terror; the millions spent on security, the wasted effort of countless thousands of people, the stockpiling of smallpox and other vaccines against imagined terrorist attacks seem just a little pathetic? And wicked?

Adventures in Spam

Har Har Me Hearties!!!

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The ebb and flow of the Internet has finally returned to 419 scams.
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The content of spam does vary significantly over time. Most of my spam over the last few months has been related to 'Viagra Soft Tabs'. I'm no expert on Viagra but wouldn't be Hard Tabs be more marketable? Then, over the last few weeks a lot of people have been writing to offer me cheap Rolexes.
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Of course, certain products are always in fashion; affordable and proven 'enlargement' solutions are a good example. Recently a spammer offered to 'increase your penis size from 2 to 4 inches', which didn't strike me as being very complimentary to its target market. Naturally, if the offer was from 3 to 5 I would have been interested.

Recently, joy of joys, I've seen the comeback of my beloved Nigeria 419 scam emails. Like a local bus I haven't seen one of these for years and then I receive three in the same week. Here's the latest. If you decide to read through this puppy ask yourself 'Just how stupid would I have to be to fall for this?' and then marvel at the occasional appearances of people who did fall for stuff like this on Consumer Issue documentary programs.

Nigerian fraud email begins ...

Compliments
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Before I introduce myself, I wish to inform you that this letter is not a hoax mail and I urge you to treat it serious. We want to transfer to an oversea account ($11,700.000.00 USD) Eleven Million Seven Hundred Thousand United States Dollars) from one of the banks in Africa. I want to ask you, If you are not capable to quietly look for a reliable and honest person who will be capable and fit to provide either an existing bank account or to set up a new Bank a/c immediately to receive this money, even an empty a/c can serve to receive this money, as long as you will remain honest to me till the end of this important business ,I am trusting in you and believing in God that you will never let me down either now or in future.
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I am Mr.Frank Hambeu, during the course of our auditing last week,I discovered a floating fund in an account opened in the bank in 1996 and since 1998 nobody has operated on this account again, after going through some old files in the records,I discovered that the owner of the account died without a [Heir/WILL] hence the money is floating and if I do not remit this money out urgently it will be forfeited for nothing.
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The owner of this account Mr. Larry Baldridge an American and great industrialist and a resident of Novato, California, who unfortunately lost his life in the plane crash of Alaska Airlines Flight 261 which crahsed on January 31 2000,leaving nobody as nest of kin. You shall read more news about the crash on visiting this site: www.cnn.com/2000/US/02/01/alaska.airlines.list/ - 38k. No other person knows about this account or any thing concerning it,the account has no other beneficiary and my investigation proved to me as well that the account is a secret account.The total amount involved is Eleven Million Seven Hundred Thousand United States Dollars only ($11,700.000.00) and we wish to transfer this money into a safe foreigners account abroad.
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But I don't know any foreigner, I am only contacting you as a foreigner because this money can not be approved to a local person here, but to a foreigner who has information about the account, which I shall give to you upon your positive response. I am revealing this to you with believe in God that you will never let me down in this business, you are the first and the only person that I am contacting for this business, so please reply urgently so that I will inform you the next step to take urgently.I need your strong assurance that you will never let us down, me and key bank officials who are deeply involved with me in this business. I guarantee that this transaction will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law.
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The bank official will destroy all documents of transaction immediately we receive this money,leaving no trace to any place. I will use my position and influence to obtain all legal approvals for onward transfer of this money to your account with appropriate clearance from the relevant ministries and foreign exchange departments. At the conclusion of this business, you will be given 25% of the total amount,70% will be for us, while 5% will be for expenses both parties might have incurred during the process of transferring.
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I look forward to your earliest reply through my email address: fhambeu@mail2banker.com and Call me on my direct telephone number for details:00221 5132211.
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Best Regards,
Mr.Frank Hambeu
Email:fhambeu@mail2banker.com
Tel: 00221 5132211

Reasons why the Internet is wonderful No.327

Yes, that is Chuck Connors

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Just did a Google image search and came across this rather unexpected 'result'. I won't explain why I believe this photo to be funny, on the basis that those who are pure of mind won't be offended and can't complain to me about it.
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(it's worth opening the image up as the text is quite good as well)

Novel thoughts about fridge magnets

Fridge magnet-powered inspiration

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After many months of dithering I have vowed to finally pull my finger out and start, and finish, a novel. I'll be signing up for Blogspot national novel writing month, with the express intention of completing something by the end of November. OK, it's US-based and not an international novel writing month but let's not be picky on this one.
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My biggest stumbling block to date has been my failure to come up with a plot that I find interesting and that doesn't involve ripping off Homer or Shakespeare. As well as being a hard task, this is also dumb.
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I know what I want to write about and the style I will adopt. I could fashion something out of a story set in a fish and chip shop or a taxi ride. The context, the setting, even the plot are secondary issues.
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But I cannot help myself. I need to come up with something I like.
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Tracy tried to help the other night. She came home, whipped out a notepad and pen and hunched down in front of one of our many bookcases. The plan was to analyse my favourite novels and synthesise a framework for my own effort out of all the best bits. Poor lass, she's been working with accountants for far too long.
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After offending her by saying that she had been working with accountants for far too long, I explained that I didn't think this plan would work. I suggested that a better way of coming up with original ideas was through free-form linking of random thoughts, concepts and images. For some reason, I suggested that the contents of our mantelpiece or our extensive collection of 'fridge magnets from around the world' could be fertile source material. So ...
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Half an hour later we were sitting in the kitchen examining a random selection of fridge magnets, arranged in a grid. From a distance the scene could have been mistaken for a tarot reading. Fortunately, our kitchen is small and narrow. Tracy started strongly by coming up with a story about a Florida-based puffin farmer called Elmer who moved to Cyprus to work with sheep; then the tale of a coal miner from West Virginia who was afraid of the dark so he quit, sold up and became a sheep farmer in Austria; then a story about a fat Russian woman who couldn't climb up hills and decided that Louisiana was the place to live. After that we worked vertically along the grid; Elmer was a coal miner from West Virginia who married a Russian woman, their pet names for each other were Buzzy and Pingo. A puffin who was afraid of the dark had one of its' eggs stolen and served up on toast in a Bangkok Cafe. Once upon a time there was a sheep who wanted to build a funicular railway in Louisiana, but was sad because there are no mountains in Louisiana, so he decided to build a mountain with all his sheep friends.
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I soon realised that this game has virtually infinite possible outcomes. At the last count, we had something like 140 magnets adorning our fridge. The only weakness in the plan is that, because of our tastes in holidays and farm animals, something like 60% of all our fridge magnets relate to Southern American states or sheep. So, stay tuned for November 1st and Stef's tale of Mary the Merino and her noble, and woolly, fight for White Sheep-Black Sheep equality and ovine rights in the humid Deep South in the 1960s

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'What do they call ewe boy?'

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'They call me Mister Flossy'
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… working title? Something like 'In the Sheep of the Night' or 'Mississippi Bleating' or 'The Big Fleecey'

Bilbo bullshot

Two missing evolutionary links prior to fossilisation

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Saw a headline on the news wires yesterday

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Hobbit remains found in Australia

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Mmmm, probably a story about some missing film props thought I. But, no, it was the news that scientists had found bones of 18,000 year old, 3ft tall ape people, along with suitably miniaturised stone tools.
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In many ways, this is a classic contemporary scientific news story. The bones were found on an island off Java, not Australia, and, no, they don't belong to hobbits. Above all things, even truth itself, most scientists are devoted to pursuit of that most Holy Grail of Science, research funding, and little bit of PR spin goes a long way.
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Historically, the 'science' of anthropology has been anchored firmly on a bedrock of hard evidence and speculative bullshit; with the bullshit contributing something like 98% to the total mix. Picking through the story, it's clear that anthropologists are still up to their naughty games. A few of the very many choice quotes accompanying the news:

'the scientists believe that Flores Man is a direct descendent of H. erectus'

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'we believe their ancestors may have reached the island in bamboo rafts'

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'The clear implication is, despite tiny brains, these little humans were intelligent and almost certainly had language'

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'A male Homo floresiensis may have looked something like this ...' (cue the standard, totally made-up picture of the hairy, upright monkey man)

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'The scientists suspect the new species became extinct after a massive volcanic eruption on the island'

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'Homo erectus may have arrived on Flores about one million years ago'

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'the long arms were an intriguing feature and might even suggest H. floresiensis spent much of its time in the trees'

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So, no hard evidence to support the bulk of their conclusions then. No change in form there. However, this clearly was a good exercise in finding how many different ways you can say the scientists have made things up, without putting it quite like that. This story reminds me of the classic discovery of Nebraska Man in 1922. On the sole evidence of a single tooth, anthropologists declared they had found the missing link and published detailed, illustrated accounts of the life of Nebraska Man. They had known for years that he existed, all they needed was a fragment of evidence to hook their beliefs onto and away they went. Unfortunately, a few years later someone found an identical tooth rooted firmly in a fossilised pig's skull, oops.
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bigquestion.htm#fakes

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Actually, the hobbit story is interesting. Like Neanderthals they lived at the same time as 'regular' humans which means, even if you believe in evolution, that the Hobbits are either not related to us or they ARE us. Yup, every single fossil 'human ancestor' found to date is either a) a monkey or b) a human. After 160 years of of fruitless searching and many, many discredited discoveries, scientists are still looking for that postulated human ancestor and they will keep looking until the end of time.
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OK, most non-scientific types believe in all this stuff largely because they are told to but in some cases also because it's good ammo for use against institutionalised religion and priests. I can understand that but people should still care about whether what they are told is factual or a fantasy and not just grab hold of it because it supports their dislikes or prejudices. The evidence supporting a lot of the evolutionary tales we are told is so sketchy as to make parts of the Bible or Koran look like technical manuals in comparison. The evidence is really, really thin, often incredibly so, and that is deliberately kept from us.
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When reading stories like the one about the Hobbit Man we should never forget that there is incredible variation between different human ethnic groups. Using the criteria adopted by anthropologists, skeletons of say, an Eskimo, a pygmy, and an aboriginal would be classed as different evolutionary human species; if only those groups didn't have the bad taste to still exist and be able to reproduce with the rest of humanity (now that's video I'd like to see). Actually, forget different ethnic groups, I used to work with a bloke called John who would DEFINITELY be classed as coming from a different species if future scientists just had his bones to work on. Come to think of it the skeletons of a couple of my neighbours could prove the basis of a veritable horde of PhD papers. Then there's that bloke in the corner shop, and my Dad's Uncle, and my Mum's 'peculiar' cousin, and …

CSI Miami is pants

Cast of CSI Miami keeping well clear of each other's collars, cuffs and flares

.
With the demise of shows such a Seinfeld and Frasier there's been a lot less in the way of quality American TV comedy around lately.
.
At least I thought so until I caught an episode of CSI Miami this week.
.
I'm not a great fan of the rise of Death Porn as a form of titillation. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for wanton titillation and I'm certainly not averse to fictionalised brutality and violence; if done tastefully and to a bass-heavy backing track, Hong Kong style. What I disapprove of is the gratuitous depiction of dead bodies as entertainment, justified on the basis that it's somehow educational.
.
However, within the Death Porn genre there is good and bad. The movie, Manhunter is good. Hannibal is bad, so very, very bad. The original CSI is well made, well scripted and well acted and would therefore be good if it wasn't for the frequent shots of suppurating wounds. CSI Miami, on the other hand, suffers from all the vices of the original show but none of its strengths. It also stars David Caruso.
.
But CSI Miami clearly is educational. Just from watching one episode I picked up the following:

• fuzzy recordings of kidnapper phone calls can always be processed to highlight the background noise of a unique local landmark e.g. 'I know that sound! That's the 7th street bridge. I walked past that every day on the way to school. Nothing else in the world sounds like that'
  .
• digital images always include key clues that pass undetected for several days until the star of the show walks up to a PC and utters the word 'enhance'
  .
• when short of clues, simply confront every person involved in the case with the words 'so, that's why you killed ...' in the hope that they will spontaneously break-down and confess. e.g. Suspect: 'Yes, we used to play tennis together'. Caruso: 'So, that's why you killed him!'. Suspect: 'Yes, yes, I confess! How did you get onto me you clever swine?'
  .
• in situations where you are born with ginger hair, have a narrow acting range and little in the way of good dialogue; put on a pair of sunglasses and stand with your hands on your hips, your thumbs hooked into your belt. When talking to people, walk up to them in a sideways, crab-like fashion and stare at them over your left shoulder, permit your sunglasses to slide half an inch or so down your nose. At times like these it is always a good idea to start the conversation by saying 'So, that's why you killed him'
  .
• it's OK to show people playing with corpses' eyeballs or jamming pencils into bullet wounds in close-up. It is not OK to let any nipples stray into the shot. Presumably that would be giving the game away. So, when portraying autopsy scenes, keep the camera on the ghastly wounds and obscure any breasts with artfully positioned pathologists' elbows.
  .
• Miami CSI forensic staff always wear sunglasses, even indoors, which explains why they go to work dressed as extras from 1970's aftershave adverts. Once at work they are severely hampered by their sunglasses and flamboyant clothing; struggling to see into microscopes, tripping over evidence boxes, inadvertently scooping up loose body parts and key clues into their huge cuffs; constantly stressed-out by the fear of the weekly dry-cleaning bill.

Apparently, the CSI franchise is stretching out to include New York. Now if I draw a simple graph of program quality on one axis and sequel number on the other axis, then plot CSI Vegas and CSI Miami on that graph, draw a line connecting the two and extrapolate that to include CSI New York, what can I conclude?
.
With the notable exception of The Shield, I miss proper violent television. Can we please bring some of that back, rather than this badly made corpse-ridden junk.

Royal Navy recruits Goat of Mendes in War Against Terror

Warship worship The Lord of Misrule here

.

OK, so two days after I make a post about Satanic symbolism in UK advertising I see this headline on the BBC news page

Navy approves first ever Satanist

.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/3948329.stm

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Yes, the Royal Navy now allows Satanic rituals to be performed on board its vessels. That's really going to play well with those Islamic fundamentalists preaching against the Western Alliance. The BBC reported the news in a 'ho ho isn't life funny' tone, like one of those stories about Mexican peasants finding The Virgin's footprint in a buritto. Al Jazeera might take a slightly different line.

.

So, of the two largest coalition powers occupying Iraq, the largest has occult emblems all over its currency and controls its armies from a five sided, pentagram shaped building, located in a capital city built on five sided, goat's head geometry, centred on a 6,660 inch tall pagan obelisk, and the second coalition partner allows worship of the Dark Lord on its fighting ships.

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Top quotes in the BBC story include

"Satanism is wrong. Obviously the private beliefs of individuals anywhere, including the armed forces, are their own affair but I hope it doesn't spread."

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"Following such tenets and working them out practically in your life seems to produce a selfish person not a member of a team"

.

"God himself gives free will, but I would like to think that if somebody applied to the Navy and said they were a Satanist today it would raise its eyebrows somewhat."

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and best of all, from a Royal Navy spokesperson, clearly seeking media immortality

.
"We are an equal opportunities employer and we don't stop anybody from having their own religious values."

.

http://www.biscuitgame.com/loony/geometry/geometry.htm

Jeff Goldblum-style nacho lasagne

'Forgive us Lord. We were hungry. And weak'

.

We're currently rotating the contents of our freezer. It's an interesting time as we're discovering, or shall I shall finally confronting, certain items in the coldest part of our fridge that we've chosen, like one or two uncles, to pretend didn't exist.

.
Tonight's repast comprised a Tesco's frozen lasagne and not just any Tesco's frozen lasagne at that. This one had tortilla chips on the top.

.
Yes, a combined lasagne / nacho meal for two. Like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, the mad food scientists at Tesco's placed a plate of nachos and a tray of lasagne in an experimental matter transporter and both came out at the other end with their DNA completely intertwined. In keeping with The Fly motif, the result was scary, really scary. Is food supposed to terrify you? I appreciate that's an admirable quality in a secret police force but a frozen ready-meal?

.
What next? Refried pizza? Spaghetti a la guacamole?

.
I have been trying to eat properly lately, that's one of the reasons why we're working through the freezer. Aside from the nacho lasagne, my second worst recent food experience was with a Tesco's 'stone baked' frozen pizza earlier on in the week. Out of the oven that thing was sweating enough cheap vegetable oil to grease a small army of women wrestlers, or whatever other Herculean lubrication fantasy task comes to mind.

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It's difficult buying decent food in London these days. Many small, independent shops and markets have been knocked out of business; so you have to deal with the big supermarkets. They charge artificially big bucks for the decent quality food; which means, unless you're planning to take out a second mortgage, people mostly buy from their standard or budget ranges. So there you are wading through fluorescent vegetables, anaemic eggs, fish-tasting chickens and ready meals spurting geysers of vegetable oil wondering what all went wrong.

.
The truth is that if there is one thing you can be certain about it's that big business can, and will, always find a way of producing things cheaper and nastier. I picked up a pack of minted peas in a supermarket last week and noticed that the manufacturer had found a way of making minted peas without using mint. Mint clearly is a fabulously expensive commodity that needs replacing with artificial flavourings. Next stop, new improved minted peas without the mint, or the peas.

.

Of course, the changes are gradual. It takes years to corrupt a nation's diet. I only really notice after spending a few weeks in somewhere like France or Italy. After a fortnight of actually tasting your food and enjoying pleasurable bowel movements, the return to good old Blighty and its supermarket-peddaled junk hits you in the face like a hammer.

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When I was a kid, London was full of street markets and independent shops. Fresh food was cheap, vegetables so fresh fresh they cowered in fear and meat so organic it came to town on a bicycle. Many of these outlets are long gone; forced out of business by regulation, taxes and parking restrictions. These factors don't seem to inhibit the big supermarkets, which seem to get as much in the way of road alteration and building permission as they require. Presumably their PR people take local councillors to the same hump hump bars that the casino lobbyists take government ministers to.

.
The influence of the big supermarkets is all-pervasive. I was watching a documentary about a run down town in the North East of England, Grangetown. It's a derelict dump. Aside from hordes of delinquents tearing apart anything they can, it's a boarded up ghost town. Most locals are trying to kill themselves as quickly as possible with whatever comes to hand; tobacco, alcohol, heroin, paving stones. Cue the councillor responsible for regeneration of the area ...

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'What Grangetown really needs more than anything else is a really modern, large supermarket'
.

That's Britain in the 21st Century for you. Mmmmm, how to tackle unemployment, poverty, misery and despair? I know. Build a superstore. That'll help. Yeah, and why not throw up a casino while you're at it.

The Madness Hamsters

www.edwardmonkton.com

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Tracy just received her first birthday card of the year, from Christchurch.
.
It features the madness hamsters:

Every night they visit you
Every night they come
And bit by bit
They steal your brain
And feed it to their MUM
.
It must be a New Zealand thing ...

The Great Escape

anyone know html?

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This week there was a little publicity surrounding the opening of a new exhibit about prisoners of war at the Imperial War Musueum. A couple of veterans of the Great Escape were trundled in front of journalists to give the exhibition a plug.

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Many people are familiar with the story of the Great Escape; 76 Allied prisoners escaped en masse from a German Camp in March 1944. Three made it back to Britain and 73 were recaptured; 50 of whom were murdered by the Germans.

.
What made the story and the later film so interesting was the meticulous planning that went into the escape. Most of the prisoners were conscripts, rather than professional military men, and they used their civilian skills to prepare for the breakout. Engineers dug the tunnels, tailors made civilian clothing, printers forged documents, linguists taught the escapers rudimentary French and German.

.
Now I got thinking, after 60 years of soft living, I couldn't help wondering what skills would a cross-section of contemporary British civilians bring to a modern day escape attempt ...

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'I'll design a multi-lingual web page!'

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'I'll start a direct mailing!''
.

'I'll organise a protest march!'
.

'I'll draft a mission statement!'
.

'I'll write some parking tickets!'

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'I'll turn the escape into a reality TV show!'

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and then they'll all get some illegal immigrants to dig a death-trap tunnel and do the escaping for them: £5 a day, not a word to the taxman, no questions asked ...

God Bless America and sod off Britain

God Bless America and sod off Britain

.

The right wing of the web was buzzing this week with incensed Americans complaining about The Guardian's ill conceived stunt of asking its UK readers to write to voters in Clark County, Ohio to Vote for Senator Kerry rather than Dubwa.
.
The gist of the responses was that British people should keep their noses out of another country's elections. Many of the responses also included references to 1776, 1812, The Potato Famine, The Highland clearances and the fact that it is widely known that Brits are fags.
.
Yes, the stunt was stupid, insensitive and arrogant which is why I laughed, loudly, when the Executive Editor of the Guardian, Albert Scardino, defended his newspaper on UK television. He spoke with a rather strong American accent.
.
Besides, ask 90% of the literate UK population and they'd advise you that believing anything you read in the Guardian is about as sensible as using the National Enquirer for stock tips. But, hey, even if the idea came from an American edited newspaper, which is a joke to the majority of the UK, why pass up on a good chance to jam a finger into British ribs?
.
What really struck me was the rubbish spouted by right wing Americans, directed at the UK. Mmmmm, if that's what they think of their only significant ally is it any wonder the conservative US administration feels so friendless around the world these days. At the last count 68 British soldiers have died in Iraq supporting the American attack and occupation; smaller than US losses but we have proportionately fewer forces in the region. Every single one of those ignorant web-based nuts indulging in anti-British rants is spitting on the graves of those dead men.
.
I shouldn't be surprised though. America is full of people claiming descent from people who where wronged by the British in the past. When there aren't genuine grievances Hollywood will make them up; which is why I'm such a fan of all those 'historically accurate' American films like the The Patriot, Braveheart or Titanic. Need a psycho in a movie? Cast a British actor. This ignorant anti-British hate has dried-up a little since 9/11 but reading the response to the Guardian story proves to me that its still there; lurking at near surface level, as strong as ever. During numerous visits to the US I have only ever met one person who owned up to English descent (for most Americans English and British seem to mean the same thing) but countless people who make big of their Irish or Scottish backgrounds.
.
Yeah, yeah. The Potato Famine was a terrible thing. It was however 150 years ago. My ancestors were living off lichen polenta on top of a godforsaken mountain in Italy and Americans were merrily exterminating native people and working slaves to death on plantations. Come to think of it, until only about 3 years and 1 month ago some East Coast Americans were funding IRA baby bombers through NORAID. Time to let it all go I think.
.
American democratic institutions and the concept of America liberties and freedoms are English in origin; they're not Irish, Scottish, Spanish, Dutch, Swedish or German. English settlers came to America and set up the framework of a society that drew oppressed people from all over the World. The first boatloads came from the part of London where I grew up. When 1776 came around most British soldiers, sailors and commanders disagreed with fighting people they saw as their kinsmen. That's why the British lost that one. Their heart wasn't in it. So why don't you Americans cut us some fricking slack for a change?

and the hostage video of the week is ...

Fabrizio Quattrocchi

.
and the hostage video of the week is ...
.
Margaret Hassan pleading to Tony Blair for her life.
.
After several weeks of the whole Ken Bigley thing, including several video pleas and the extended media post mortems, we were given a few days off before it started all over again.

.
THE F*CKING MEDIA IS ONLY ENCOURAGING FURTHER KIDNAPPINGS BY GIVING THIS SH*T AIRTIME!!!

.
I am no fan of the war, or Tony Blair, but we only compound a bad decision by making a dog's breakfast of its conduct. The US and UK should, and will, leave. This is an unwinnable war. Our governments broke the golden rule of any conflict or arguement, from a playgrounnd scrap through to all out war; only fight when you have a clear, achievable objective and only when you are strong enough to make winning that objective a certainty.
.
Sadly, it will be a Vietnam style exit. Our governments will negotiate a face-saving agreement and the puppet Iraqi regime will collapse about five minutes after the last coalition soldier leaves. Cue the shots of all those 'democratic' US-sponsored Iraqi politicians and their families flinging themselves and suitcases of cash and consumer electronics onto the last helicopter out of Baghdad.
.
Having said that we shouldn't be playing into the hands of lunatics in the meantime. Any non Iraqi national in Iraq must know by now that they are a target. If they get kidnapped that's a direct result of a risk they chose to take; not Tony Blair, not George Bush. Ken Bigley should have known that. Margaret Hassan should have known that. So what if she's a care worker. The Red Cross got the message last year and pulled out after taking casualties.
.
I feel a lot more sympathy for Margaret Hassan than Ken Bigley, whose only reason for being in Iraq was to profit directly from the war, nevertheless, she is living with the consequences of her decisions. Maybe she thought she was safe because she holds Iraqi citizenship and is married to an Iraqi. If so, she's not doing her cause much good by sobbing to Tony Blair and the British government on home movies. By associating herself with one of the occupying powers she's tying her own noose.
.
And the BBC, CNN, Fox News, Al Jazeera, all of them, are playing the terrorists' game. We saw plenty of Ken Bigley's last moments ...
.
"Here I am again, Mr Blair . . . very, very close to the end of my life,"
.
"You don't appear to have done anything to help me. I'm not a difficult person. I am a simple man who just wants to live a simple life with his family."
.
Yup, his last two minutes on this Earth and he chose to lay into Tony Blair. No last message for his wife or family. No call for an end to the madness. None of the clarity that supposedly comes with the certainty of an imminent death; just the bleating of a lamb being led to the slaughter.
.
Contrast this with the last few seconds of Italian hostage Fabrizio Quattrocchi back in April. He yanked at his hood and cried defiantly, 'I will show you how an Italian dies!' before taking one in the back of the head. He ruined the movie for his killers. That's the video we should be shown round the clock. That's the man we should have held a two minutes silence for.
.
But, as television, it's nowhere near as good as watching people whimpering for mercy. A man showing courage and snatching victory away from his murderers in the face of death doesn't play well in our cynical world. As a race, we get our kicks from watching people worse-off than ourselves. Fabrizio Quattrocchi's death did not serve the purposes of either the pro or the anti-war lobbies. Bush and Co. want us to fear terrorism so that they can play their games. The anti-war brigade wants to sicken us with the sight of pathetic, squalid, ignoble death. At the time of his death, a few US and UK commentators tried to play the 'heroes like that show us all what we are fighting against' card. Yet another sleazy attempt by repellent reptile politicians to legitimise their actions on the back of someone's corpse. Quattrocchi wasn't fighting the war against terror. He was trying to make a few Euros so he could buy a house and get married. He rolled the dice, lost and took it on the chin. He didn't die for or against Bush or Blair. He died as an adult, taking responsibility for his own destiny.
.
Cynical as I am, I feel an almost overwhelming feeling of sadness that a man like that should die without living a full span and bringing a few kids into the world. We are all poorer for that kind of strength being taken from us. Rightly or wrongly, Ken Bigley's demise left me no such feelings. When it mattered, Fabrizio displayed no fear and a staggering degree of nobility. He showed us all up; the terrorists AND the fear-manipulated, passive consumers of Death Porn in the West. That's why you haven't seen that particular video.

More Chinese Elvis

Chinese Elvis

.
Chinese Elvis has updated his web page to coincide with his appearance in a series of AOL UK ads.
.
The updated page includes a picture of Chinese Elvis and a Ferengi (good), a shot of Chinese Elvis meeting Cherie Blair (not so good) and one with Ken Livingstone (getting cold now) plus many others. Fortunately, all these extra pictures haven't displaced the one of the obscene looking object being carried by those monks.
.
A highly recommended website and a supreme example of consumate graphic design ...
.

http://www.chineseelvis.com/

Be careful out there

Be careful out there ...

.
Tracy received an email circular at work yesterday offering her a flu jab. The jabs are provided by 'Capita Health Solutions' and the email included an influenza information sheet provided by 'Masta'. I only mention the names of the companies because my life now seems plagued by anonymous conglomerations sporting meaningless names ending in 'a' that have all appeared out of nowhere over the last few years; Capita, Equita, Aviva, Consignia, Centrica, but that's another post.

.
Anyway, Tracy got this email that started with the line

.
FLU IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATHS OF 3000 – 4000 PEOPLE IN BRITAIN ANNUALLY!

.
And finished with
.

DON’T EXPOSE YOURSELF TO THE RISK OF FLU
- ASK ABOUT VACCINATION TODAY!

.
The words in between explained that sick people over 65 were the ones at risk but that anyone could be struck down by this plague.

.
What was going on here was a combination of two factors; our growing compensation culture and the use of fear to stimulate revenue. Tracy's employer is covering its rear end by making the service available and the service provider was trying to bump-up its customers by scaring the bejesus out of people. Of course, lawyers still have an angle and can claim that the vaccine made people sick and sue on that basis. That's why the US doesn’t produce its own vaccines any more. No domestic producer wants to run the risk of a class action down the line.

.
Anyway, we've had socialised medicine in the UK for the last 56 years so we're not really accustomed to being pressure-sold medicines. Sure, UK medical sales are big business and most GPs can usually look forward to one or two free golfing holidays and a desk full of coffee mugs every year but, as patients, the British people are still pretty much virgin territory. Direct marketing of drugs is, of course, old news to Americans and after many, many visits to the States I still marvel at the sight of TV commercials for heart medication or branded insulin cropping up between ads for Budweiser and collect call services.

.

And you can buy so much of this stuff over the counter. In the UK any product stronger than cough drops is firmly under the control of a qualified pharmacist but Tracy and myself have spent many a happy half hour cruising through Walgreen's or Eckerds, awe-struck by the potentially self-destructive potions and lotions on offer. A few years ago we picked up some absurdly cheap diet pills in Walgreen's for a joke. They promised radical results and I remember Tracy saying something like 'let's try them for a couple of days, that can’t do any harm'. Normally, we return from a typical two week visit to America 10 -12lbs heavier and the prospect of reducing that impact appealed. We bought a pack. Later, in our motel room, I examined the contents; each pill was a deep shade of scarlet, shaped like a rugby ball and a little less than one inch long. Were we supposed to eat something so large? Had we bought a pack of suppositories by mistake? Was the pill intended to be some kind of physical barrier to ingestion or excretion rather than having a pharmaceutical effect? I checked the back of the packet and read the health warning for the first time …

.
Caution! Possible side effects include restlessness, nervousness, and difficulty sleeping or dry mouth. In rare cases extreme side effects may also include heart attacks, acute hypertension, strokes, dizziness, fainting, paranoia, psychosis, depression, respiratory depression, coma, or death.

.
Paranoia? Psychosis? Death? This stuff offered all the downside of Angel Dust but without the upside superhuman strength and sense of invulnerability. I carefully repacked the box and took it back to the UK with me for scanning. It’s still around somewhere but I can’t remember where I put it; probably buried in the garden under six foot of earth with a stake through its barcode.

.
Maybe, I over-reacted. Maybe, this pills weren't that risky and warnings like that are an integral part of a compensation culture. Sooner or later some lawyer is going to point out that consumption of oxygen is the primary cause of cell oxidation and that breathing can, in certain cases, can cause ageing and death. I'm not sure who he would sue though. God could presumably employ, or create, a pretty strong defence team.

.
But, hey, where America leads we Brits slavishly follow like a devoted spaniel. I'm looking forward to the day when I see a decent selection of sweeteners available in London eating establishments. For now, we have to content ourselves in most places with a choice between boring old brown or white sugar. What we need is a for a few restaurants to get nervous about being sued so we can all have the opportunity to choose between sugar (obesity), saccharin (cancer) or aspartame (brain tumours); all handily arranged in a neat integrated dispenser in those dinky colour co-ordinated sachets.

.
I'm curious though. Does offering a choice of life-shortening sweeteners really work as a legal device? Has anyone actually tested The Nutrasweet Defence in a real, or American, Court?

.
'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Like a modern-day Alice in Wonderland, the claimant did not have to sweeten his coffee with the contents of the light blue sachet. He could have used the pink sachet instead. The pink sachet would have given the defendant cancer and he would not be here suing my client over his brain tumour. I rest my case, thank you and goodnight'.

.
Why oh why didn’t I get into the legal profession …

Ironing machines ...

Fully qualified ironing machine with trainee ironing machine

.
I'm an anti-evolutionist.
.
Big time.
.
Which at first sight may be surprising. I hold a masters in Geophysics and did a Geology degree before that. I do not come from the Deep South, am not called Bubba and do not chew tobacco, well not deliberately.
.
I oppose evolution on several grounds; there's no real hard evidence to support it, it sucks on a philosphical and moral level and last, but not least, it's just plain nonsense.
.
Evolutionary thinking is rammed down our throats largely because it presents a view of an essentially pointless, material universe. This suits companies as well as governments because if we believe in this world view then it is oh so much easier to control us through those popular favourite human weaknesses; greed and fear.
.
On a deep level most people don't buy what they've been told. If we really, and I mean really, thought of ourselves purely as temporary collections of molecules put together by random forces in an essentially random universe we would all behave very differently. Murder? Why not? It's not like you're doing anything wrong is it? The Universe is destined to suffer cosmic heat death in a few billion years anyway. What difference would it make if you returned your boss or that guy who pushed in front of you on the train this morning to his component parts a year or two early? What really is right or wrong anyway?
.
No, most people in the enlightened, developed world don't really believe in the implications of evolution. We mock religious thinking but happily live in societies only held together by principles derived directly from religion. Doubethink is an essential requirement of successful modern life.
.
Anyway, The Theory of Evolution tells us that all living things are the product of random mutation and the natural selection of those mutations which are somehow beneficial. Living things may look like that they're been designed but that's only an illusion arising from ignorance; a tiger's eye, a bird's wing, human self-awareness itself, are mere products of blind luck and competition.
.
If that's the case why can't I buy an ironing machine?
.
My first ever ironing machine, my mother, is a true multi-purpose random collection of molecules. Not only can she iron, she cooks, sings (badly) and worries about me. My second ever ironing machine, Tracy, doesn't cook quite as well, has an even worse singing voice, worries about me less but, in her favour, she does use that little ironing board attachment to do shirt sleeves, that my mother never bothers with.
.
But, hey, if modern science can explain the unintelligent 'design' of koala bears and courgettes why can't it apply the same principles to designing me an ironing machine that I don't have to buy birthday presents for or beg to do the ironing? Surely, it would be a simple case of writing a straightforward design program with a few target parameters, entering in descriptive data of, say, a paperclip and running the package on a supercomputer somewhere. The program would replicate billions of random mutations to the paperclip, select those which adapted it to the objective parameters and, over a large number of iterations, come up with the final blueprints for a supremely adapted ironing machine. Once that baby was out of the way we could then move onto a virus resistant version of Windows and a script for a Star Wars or Matrix sequel that didn't blow.
.
Don't hold your breath and keep buying birthday presents for whoever does your ironing
.

bigquestion.htm

My name is Bond James Bond. Fill my plastic cup with quarters ...

Tunica, Mississippi

.

I've been mulling over the final draft of the UK's new Gambling Bill, published a couple of days ago. The justification for the Bill is that UK Gaming Laws haven't been revised for 35 years and the growth of Internet gambling means that the regulatory environment needs to be updated.
.

Mmmm, so the new law will permit US-style mega casinos, holding up to 1,250 fruit machines with unlimited jackpots. It's not entirely clear to me how that can be considered a response to the regulatory needs of internet gambling. But there you go. And, OK, it is a bit strange that a supposedly socially-conscious government is undoubtedly paving the way for a massive increase in gambling addiction and that scarce Parliamentary time is being spent on this, rather than sorting out the totally messed-up reform of the House of Lords. We can all guess what's going on. A few pounds here. A free holiday or two there. A bit of jig-a-jig somewhere else and, lo!, MGM get their new casinos. This is all part of the order of things these days in the UK.
.
My biggest problem with all of this is that US style casinos are rubbish. I should know. I've visited more than a few. People in the UK don't really understand what's coming their way. When people here think about casinos they picture Brett Maverick or James Bond; high stakes games of poker, baccarat or roulette, played by impeccably turned-out men with an elegant, jewellery-encrusted femme fatale draped over each shoulder. Existing UK casinos are a bit like that, maybe with more Indian restauranteurs and Chinese wholesalers than secret agents or gunfighters but they do, sort of, follow the classic movie model.
.
American mega-casinos, on the other hand, are about slots, lots and slots of slots, plus the occasional video poker console. I've boarded Mississippi river boats so laden with fruit machines that the river is almost lapping over the deck, casinos so packed will small change that the delta mud or desert sand are teetering on the verge of tectonic collapse. And inside always the same scene. How cool would James Bond look if we saw him was sitting on a tall stool, a plastic cup filled with quarters between his legs, his lapels covered in unnoticed cracker crumbs and cigarette ash, mindlessly feeding coins into a fruit machine in a windowless room at 4.00am, a thin sliver of drool trickling down the side of his mouth?
.
How would those classic encounters with Blowfeldt play out?
.

'So Mr Bond. You have three cherries and the fruit-loop jackpot multiplier. Your famous good fortune has not eluded you. Shall we adjourn to Mr Porkies $10 Eat All You Can 24 Hour Bar-B-Q Buffet for some domestic beer and a plate of Mr Porkies world's famous ribs?'

.
And if that style of casino seems lame set somewhere like the Mississippi Delta how lame, how very very lame are they going to be in Blackpool or Leicester?
.
oh dear, oh dear oh dear, oh dear

Is it free?

The McDonalds at Holborn; just like eating hamburgers in a large public lavatory

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On one of our recent photo walks Ian popped into a Starbucks (they've become as common as lamp-posts in London these days) for a latte. Just before taking his money, the assistant asked in a chummy tone:
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'Would you like an extra shot of coffee in that?'

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As is the way with many corporate outlets these days, a blatant sales pitch was being wrapped up in the language of friendly hospitality. In times gone by a question like that would have been taken as an offer of a complimentary something extra. A token of custom well-appreciated. Many of us retain the programming from these bygone, innocent days and the likes of Starbucks and McDonalds exploit that. Quite ruthlessly. Clearly, all these thoughts passed through Ian's head in a nanosecond because he replied:
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'Is it free?'

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The assistant looked confused, laughed nervously and said 'no' the extra shot would cost one pound twenty, or something like that.
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In a stroke Ian changed my life forever. I now had the perfect riposte for all those times in McDonalds when some gimp has asked me:
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'Did you want the meal?'

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or

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'Did you want to Supersize that?'

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My usual response is to get annoyed that some acne-ridden twerp was implying that I was too stupid to order properly or that an insincere offer of 'clarification' would trick me into buying 2p's worth of Coke syrup in a cup for £1.10. Yes, I would normally be rude.
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But that's all in the past. Thank you Ian. You have empowered me beyond words. Well, three words actually:
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'Is it free?'

(as an aside it might be useful one day to know that 'acne', like 'taxi', 'pizza' or 'papa', is pretty much an international word that sounds similar in a very large number of languages. The challenge is, of course, to try and come up with a useful sentence that incorporates several of these words without the use of verbs)

It's yellow. It's got writing on it. It's not a Post It

It's yellow. It's got writing on it. It's not a Post It ...

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Some people fill their blogs with pictures of flowers, or birds, or their extensive collection of chocolate bar wrappers. I live in South London and therefore have to make do with pictures of signs put up by the police appealing for witnesses to serious assaults.
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When not guarding empty multinational office buildings from bogus terrorist threats, the Police have been pretty active in their drive against serious assaults in my area lately. Most significantly, they have taken to handing out leaflets to people advising them not to wear watches, possess mobile phones or carry anything else worth stealing on their persons. If this tactic fails to deter muggers, young women are advised to run as fast as they can to the nearest fried chicken shop and take shelter there. Several local fried chicken shops have been specially designated as official 'Safe Havens'. Yes, there's nothing like tucking into a Bargain Bucket of counterfeit Special Recipe Chicken to take your mind off the thought that hooded men are waiting for you outside with their hands in their trouser pockets.
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My burgeoning gallery of yellow witness appeals and Safe Haven signs can be found here ...

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/stefz/sets/199218/

The Goat of Mendes! The Devil Himself!

Mmm, curious ...

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Quite a while ago now I wrote a brief page on Satanic corporate logos than was 98.5% sceptical; hidden 13's and 666's in McDonalds, Microsoft and Disney logos and the Euro Coin, that sort of thing.
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I blew it all off whilst still being quite amused by a couple of the stories.
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However, a couple of recent UK advertising campaigns have resulted in a large number of peculiar posters being slapped-up all around London. These posters are peculiar because they feature a certain gesture, presented in the guise of being something to do with telephones.
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Fans of Dennis Wheatley novels and former members of the Bristol University Druidsoc know this gesture well, as the greeting made when fans of the Horn-ed Beast happen upon each other. Sadly, Dennis Wheatley died as a result of excessive port and stilton consumption in 1977 but the gesture is still popular with acolytes of the Naughty One and, erm, George Bush ...
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My occult logos page, revised in the light of the apparent imminent return of the Horned Beast, is here:
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http://www.biscuitgame.com/loony/logos/logos.htm

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A website devoted to the life and works of Dennis Wheatley can be found here:
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http://www.denniswheatley.info/denniswheatley.htm

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Even though he was massively, massively popular in the 1960's and 70's and sold millions, his books are quite hard to come by these days. Largely because he was breathtakingly posh, believed implicitly in the superiority of the Anglo Saxon race, praised Mussolini, enjoyed writing about misogynistic sadism and was quite certain that all socialists worshipped Lucifer. He was definitely his own man.
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Even as a 12 year old, reading a copy of To the Devil a Daughter, I can recall thinking that a story centered on Satanistic Communists plotting to drain the sexual potency of the Free World by breeding legions of succubi she-demons in glass jars was just a teensy weensy bit deranged.
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Several of his books were turned into Hammer Horror films (with slightly less emphasis on the fascist misogyny side of things), including the awesomely tacky masterwork 'The Devil Rides Out'. A story of dim, but plucky, English Upper Class types battling with the disciples of Beelzebub in a series of country houses; featuring several of the finest lines ever uttered in a British Horror film, including ...
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'It is The Goat of Mendes! The Devil Himself!'

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I guess you'd actually have to see the film to understand the genius of this line and the special effects that went with it. On any rational level this is an atrocious movie, yet it is still somehow strangely compelling. I defy anyone not to burst into incontrollable laughter during the final, climactic scene where the Angel of Death himself rides onto the screen and a five second loop of film is repeatedly rewound and played jerkily backwards and forwards, okey kokey style. If the Dark Horseman really looks as laughable as that, none of us need fear meeting him; unless he pretends to be a friend of yours on a socially critical occasion.
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Dennis' works definitely deserve a come-back, purely on the basis of spoof material alone without any need for reworking at all, and this is one of the many projects I will undertake once I become independently wealthy.
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Of course, if any random readers of this blog have any practical suggestions as to how I can become independently wealthy and devote some time to the promotion of the works of Dennis Wheatley and other noble projects, please do not hesitate to contact me. Don't hesitate at all.