Mamma-mia! That Fitzroy, he talka too much. Wassa da point offa me atryin' to be all subtle, assayin' I'ma away assortin' outta some 'family business', when he'sa ablabbin' to da whole world that I'ma in Sicily? Cretino! Even Leo aworked it out. Non posso crederci!
That Fitzroy, he hassa no respect. Da horse's head is inna da post.
Oooh, look! Lots of photos from my recent trip to Sicily.
A big thank you to my mum for my birthday present yesterday: a cardigan. That made me feel a lot younger.
The sad thing is, it's actually rather nice.
We forget, you know. We Brits forget that we didn't invent civilisation. We forget that Johnny Foreigner might have something to offer us when it comes to matters cultural.
This time last week, I sat in an amphitheatre built almost two-and-a-half-thousand years ago. While the Ancient Greeks (who were in charge of Sicily at the time) sat and watched plays and poetry recitals with Europe's largest active volcano as a picturesque backdrop, the equally ancient yet illiterate Britons were still living in huts, daubing themselves with woad. Politically correct cultural relativism notwithstanding, I know where I stand in the poetry vs woad debate.
Even today, as you walk through the streets of Taormina, things feel very different to back in Blighty: there is no litter; there is no chewing gum polka-dotting the pavements (presumably because everyone still smokes); even on Friday and Saturday nights, there are no drunken louts and loutesses yelling their heads off and vomiting—people simply go for a walk down the main street, windowshopping; the coffee is superb (although the tea, it has to be said, is dire); the food is proper food; people are courteous and friendly (although I did wonder whether they don't go a bit over the top with all their male-on-male kissing); the shop-fronts have retained their individuality, and have not degraded into the standard, British corporate monoculture; there are no in-your-face street hawkers (apart from the occasional flower-seller); there are no advertising hoardings; there are no broken paving stones; everyone seems relaxed and totally unstressed. Yes, you think to yourself, this is all very civilised. Maybe there might be something in the continental lifestyle after all. Maybe, just maybe, we Brits might be able to learn something from our European cousins.
And then you go back to your hotel, and you look down at the bidet, and you think to yourself, Those dirty, dirty bastards!
I met Carolyn for coffee this lunchtime. She turned up with a belated birthday present for yours truly: a helium-filled balloon. She had brought it to work with her on the train. She made me walk through the streets of Liverpool, trailing it behind me. Carolyn said people were laughing at me behind my back.
I got some funny looks in Starbucks, but I'm used to that.
It's the thought that counts.
Stense became an auntie today. Her niece, Sian Rachel Something (she did tell me the third name, but I forget) was born in the early hours of this morning. Congratulations to Stense's sister (The Doc) and her brother-in-law, Rob.
By a strange co-incidence, today (5th April) is the date that Stense has consistently yet mistakenly believed to be my birthday. She finally got it right this year, even though my presents didn't arrive until this afternoon. There was a definite Seventies ring to them. Stense was evidently getting her own back for all the hippy jibes.
Auntie Stense, eh? That's going to take some getting used to.
Jen and I were sitting at a Sicilian coffee table last week, drinking (as seemed only appropriate at the time) coffee, when we noticed a whole pile of Italians behaving very strangely. Nothing unusual there, you might think, but this lot kept rushing out of their shops to look into the sky. I deduced (correctly) that we were in the middle of an alien invasion a partial solar eclipse.
What to do? Caught during an eclipse without any dark plastic to view the sun through. So I borrowed Jen's sunglasses and looked through them at right-angles to my own sunglasses, hoping that the polarised filters set at 90° would cut out most of the light. It's a trick I used with polarised camera lens filters to take photographs of another partial solar eclipse in 1986, but the sunglasses' filters were clearly of inferior quality, so the trick didn't work.
Like I said, what to do? Then I had a flash of inspiration and whipped off my rather dapper Akubra hat. Carefully angling the hat so that the sun shone through the ventilation holes, I placed a copy of that morning's Guardian newspaper in the hat's shadow. As if by magic, a near-perfect image of the solar eclipse was projected on to the paper. It was, in effect, a slighly lower-fi version of the trick I used in 2004 to document with great accuracy the transit of Venus.
…I must say, I was rather pleased with myself, re-inventing the telescope in the land of Galileo.
I've been putting two and two together:
BBC: Swan tests confirm deadly virus
A swan found dead in Scotland has tested positive for the deadly H5N1 strain of bird flu.
BBC: Gene Pitney found dead in hotel
American superstar Gene Pitney has been found dead aged 65 in his bed in a Cardiff hotel…
The cause of death is not yet known but is not suspicious.
This one has cover-up written all over it. Remember, you heard it here first.
Conversation with Jen last week:
J: You are so predictable!
R: Onions.
J: …OK, I didn't see that one coming.
This article misses the point:
BBC: Alarm over shopping radio tags
…We are all familiar with barcodes, those product fingerprints that save cashiers the bother of keying in the code number of everything we buy. Now, meet their replacement: the RFID tag, or radio frequency ID tag.
These smart labels consist of a tiny chip surrounded by a coiled antenna… While barcodes need to be manually scanned, RFID simply broadcasts its presence and data to electronic readers.
The article goes on to explain how these RFID tags will introduce all sort of (legitimate) privacy concerns, whereas the big supermarkets simply want them to help automate the transport of goods to the shelves.
That's as maybe, but the real reason why the supermarkets want to introduce RFID tags—the one you never hear them mention—is that the tags will save them the bother and expense of employing hundreds of thousands of low-paid checkout and shelf-stacking staff, thereby increasing their already massive profits.
And will we be prepared to stand for that? Of course we will, if it makes our tins of baked beans a couple of pence cheaper. Even more so if it means we don't need to go to the supermarket at all.
I was just thinking, if there's an Orange Prize for top fiction, shouldn't there be a Lemon Prize for bad fiction?
Talking of oranges, when I was in Sicily the other week, I spotted a bloke selling oranges from a stall. He had set it up under an orange tree which was full of fruit.
I'm no businessman, but I reckon that guy needs to do a bit more market research.
Nature is still red in tooth and claw in Hebden Bridge. Well, in beak and claw at least:
I had just settled down with a cup of tea and the latest LRB at the dining room table this morning, when I glanced out of the window and spotted a male sparrowhawk underneath our bird feeder, dismanting (rather appropriately) one of our sparrows. I must say, he was making a bit of a meal of it: no finesse whatsoever.
I watched him for about half an hour before I realised it would probably make sense to try to get a photo of such a rare spectacle. So I grabbed my camera and took a few shots through the window before sneaking outside to try to get a bit closer. It proved to be disappointingly easy: I managed to get to within five yards of the bird, firing off dozens of shots through the driving snow, before he finished his meal and took off. The light was extremely poor, so I'm pleased with the result.
Our journey home from Sicily last week was eventful. There were three pissed Mancunian louts with silly haircuts being loud and obnoxious across the aisle from us on the flight from Gatwick to Manchester. The steward had a quiet word with them, not that it did any good.
They were so obnoxious that I spent the entire journey confined to my iPod. Bloody tossers, I thought to myself. Who do they think they are, Oasis or something?
It turned out they were an Oasis tribute band.
Anyway, being on an aeroplane game me the perfect opportunity to play both of my aeroplane games:
Aeroplane Game 1:
When the captain comes on to the P.A. system and begins with words along the lines of:
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain John Mitchell welcoming you aboard flight BA1234 to Manchester…"
…you should turn immediately to the person next to you (who, in my case is nearly always Jen, and, therefore, fully familiar with the game), and blurt out in an alarmed voice:
"Not Captain John Mitchell! He's rubbish! He's the one they struck off last year, isn't he? How the hell did he get his licence back?"
But, as the captain continues his announcement with words along the lines of:
"My co-pilot on today's flight will be Andrew McTavish…"
…you (or, if they are familiar with the game, the person next to you) should sigh with relief, saying:
"Oh, that's good! Andrew McTavish is great! He'll look after us OK!"
That's it, basically. A harmless bit of fun which greatly amuses your fellow passengers.
Aeroplane Game 2:
As you are disembarking from the aeroplane, either down the steps or walking through the tunnel, you should call out:
"Hello, Cleveland! Rock and roll!"
(It's a quote from This Is Spinal Tap, and is, therefore, extremely funny.)
Wouldn't the Beaufort Scale be better named the Blowfort Scale?
For some inexplicable reason, the hotel we stayed at in Sicily last month had a rather magnificent reproduction of this 1886 map of the world, depicting the extent of the British Empire:
It's a real Ripping Yarns-type map, with gathered natives and animals from our conquered/discovered lands standing around the edges, looking remarkably happy with their lots. The imperial territories are marked in red: the British Isles (including Ireland), the Falklands, Canada, India, Southern Africa, Australia, New Zealand…
After studying the map for several minutes, an interesting thought occurred to me: how jolly clever of us only to conquer countries that speak English!
"That's an impressive-looking camera," said the security supervisor politely.
"Thank you," I replied.
"…Only, for future reference, we don't allow those sorts of cameras in here."
"What, Canons?"
"It's very professional-looking."
"You mean it has a telephoto lens?"
"That's right. We don't mind small cameras, but nothing professional."
"Why on earth not?"
"I don't know. It's just the rules."
So I put my camera away.
I wouldn't have minded, but it's not as if had been acting like an embarrassing uncle at a wedding, getting in the way of the pros or anything. I had been sitting quietly in the seat I had paid £20 for, taking some snaps for a bit of fun.
A bit later on, I collared the security supervisor again and pointed to one of the official photographers standing behind the try-line with a two-foot long lens: "For future reference, that's a professional-looking camera," I advised. The security supervisor laughed. Then, when he was supervising the other way, I pulled out my very amateurish-looking cameraphone and took his picture. That's within the rules, apparently.
I think the Powers That Be are being rather pompous and unreasonable, saying it's OK to take photos at London Irish rugby matches, provided you don't take any good ones. So, if you are a fan of The Irish who has just Googled your favourite team and found this page, and if you'd like copies of some of the photos I took, please feel free to dowload them from my Flickr pages, print them out, send them to your friends, put them on your own websites, use them as your computer wallpaper (the Digger one is rather nice), make them into T-shirts or mugs, do what you like with them (apart from make money out of them). If you'd like higher-resolution versions of any of them, please let me know. Enjoy.
(It wasn't even a particularly good game, was it?)
From an email to Stense yesterday:
Have you seen the new King Kong movie? Well don't: it's rubbish. Major disappointment, in fact, because I expected it to be really good. But it wasn't. Not even a dinosaur pile-up could help it out. And it was waaaaaay too long. Far be it from me to give you any career advice, but don't ever remake a classic movie will you? No matter how much money they offer you. And, if you do ever remake a classic movie, whatever you do, don't faff around, making it waaaaaay too long. We're talking a remake of King Kong here—how sophisticated does it need to be? Think about it: what do the punters want from a remake of King Kong? Do they want a whole pile of faffing around developing character in New York before the boat sets off for Skull Island? They do not. Do they want yet more faffing around with further character development and the start of a love interest on board the boat? Nope, they're not at all interested in any of that rubbish, thank you very much. No, what the punters want is to see Kong fight a few dinosaurs, peel off Ann Darrow's clothes, and fall off the Empire State Building. That's all. And Peter Jackson couldn't even get those simple requirements right: Ann Darrow stayed disappointingly clothed throughout the entire film. I mean to say, it's not as if Naomi Watts is above getting her kit off for the camera, is it? I've seen Mulholland Drive, for Pete's sake! (Although I still haven't a baldy clue what the hell it was about.) Forget packs of dinosaurs, it would have been far more apt if they had made Kong do battle with one enormous turkey. Not good, mate. Not good at all.
Every petrol station forecourt you pull into these days has signs telling you to turn off your mobile phone. Have you ever seen anyone turn off their mobile phone on a petrol station forecourt? Me neither. And exactly how many petrol stations have you heard of that blew up as a result of a still-turned-on mobile phone? Same here. So what's that all about, then?
And, come to think of it, how many people's lives have been saved, do you reckon, by paying attention to flight attendants when they demonstrate how to don a lifejacket? In fact, have you ever heard of anyone surviving a plane crash into the sea and actually getting to use their life jacket? I'm sure it must have happened at some point, but I've never heard of it.
It seems to me you'd be much better off with an airbag.
Or a parachute.
Oh how mildly irritating:
BBC: Elections get their own equation
Forget swingometers, opinion poll numbers and turnout figures, now there is new maths for elections: an equation on why people bother to vote…
Psychologist and motivation expert Cliff Arnall devised the formula as part of the Electoral Commission's attempts to encourage people to vote in the 4 May local elections in England…
Dr Arnall said: "There are many factors which affect why people do or do not vote, including demographics, attitudes and experiences.
Bingo! You have hit the nail on the head, Dr Arnall: what you have identified are some fairly obvious factors which might influence whether people vote—factors such as personal contact by party and perception of how safe the local seat is.
But what's all this about an equation? How on earth am I supposed to multiply (as your equation says I should) my perception that my vote will count by my sense of voting as a duty? What is the S.I. unit of sense of duty, and what instrument can I use to measure it?
Two factors that influence my general feeling of happiness are day of the week and amount of beer drunk. How the hell do I multiply Saturday by six pints? Answer me that.
I've just been reading through the visitor statistics for Gruts, and was both surprised and alarmed to learn that this website currently holds the number one Google ranking for the phrase pick shit out my pants.
I hope they found whatever it was they were looking for.
Some simple fun for all the family:
You will need:
- one 7"x5" print of this photograph (hi-res version here)
- one piece of A4 card
- two stick-on wobbly eyes (available in most good craft shops)
- one Pritt Stick™ or similar paper glue
- one tube of superglue or similar
- one pair of tweezers
Method:
- fold card neatly in half
- glue photograph to centre of folded card (with fold at top) using Pritt Stick™
- holding stick-on eye with tweezers, place a small blob of superglue on the back of the eye and carefully stick it over the left-eye on the photograph
- repeat with right-eye
- et voila!
Stense professed herself delighted with the card I sent her. Well, that wasn't the exact word she used, but I knew what she meant.
I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was in a university lecture theatre, where someone was giving a lecture on The History of Buns.
Even in the dream, I thought it was pretty weird.
I took part in my first ever Instant Messaging conversation last night. So did Carolyn. We chatted with each other. It was a great example of the blind leading the blind. I think Carolyn was especially confused, because she loaded the I.M. client software some days ago, and a message suddenly popped up on the screen out of nowhere:
Richard: Hello, how are you?
Carolyn: What's going on?
is he now! [I think Carolyn was responding to the status update informing her that "Richard Carter is typing".]Richard: That messaging thing I told you about is working. I've never used it before either, so I haven't a clue what's going on
…
Carolyn: I'm getting in a right pickle here.
…
It'll never catch on.
email to Fitz on Saturday:
Subject: Turn of phrase
…Well, not so much a turn of phrase as a new word I coined while I was pissed last night, which I will use to describe whatever is the current paradigm when it comes to crap theories, etc:
shitegeist
Rix
(I thought I'd better put this on the record before Fitz steals it—although a quick Google search reveals that, as usual, plenty of other people got there first.)
HOLY CRAP!! Get this: I am fifteen-thousand days old today. Fifteen-THOUSAND! That's over 127 giraffe years. Jesus!
Think about it: if you counted from zero to 15,000 at the rate of one number per second (i.e. one second for every day of my life so far), it would take you four hours and ten minutes to get there. Four hours and ten minutes: that's 58 minutes longer than you would need to watch the interminable new King Kong movie.
That's a shed-load of seconds.
Washington Post: Going Nuclear: A Green Makes the Case
In the early 1970s when I helped found Greenpeace, I believed that nuclear energy was synonymous with nuclear holocaust, as did most of my compatriots. That's the conviction that inspired Greenpeace's first voyage up the spectacular rocky northwest coast to protest the testing of U.S. hydrogen bombs in Alaska's Aleutian Islands. Thirty years on, my views have changed, and the rest of the environmental movement needs to update its views, too, because nuclear energy may just be the energy source that can save our planet from another possible disaster: catastrophic climate change…
And I am not alone among seasoned environmental activists in changing my mind on this subject. British atmospheric scientist James Lovelock, father of the Gaia theory, believes that nuclear energy is the only way to avoid catastrophic climate change. Stewart Brand, founder of the "Whole Earth Catalog," says the environmental movement must embrace nuclear energy to wean ourselves from fossil fuels. On occasion, such opinions have been met with excommunication from the anti-nuclear priesthood: The late British Bishop Hugh Montefiore, founder and director of Friends of the Earth, was forced to resign from the group's board after he wrote a pro-nuclear article in a church newsletter.
Last week, mum was telling me how, when she was a girl, all the local dogs were referred to by their name plus the surname of their owners. In her neighbourhood, there were:
- Towser Green
- Bob Dorricot
- Raff Jones
- Spotty Johnson
(Yes, that's right: people really did used to name their dogs Towser.)
It seems to me that giving dogs surnames acknowledges that, unlike cats, they are an integral part of the family. I'm all for it.
So what's your dog called?
Q: What's more dangerous than a crocodile?
A: A crocodile with a chainsaw.
If this doesn't bring the Googlers in, nothing will.
