This must surely be one of the most uplifting (no pun intended) images of recent years: Stephen Hawking free from his wheelchair and free (in his frame of reference at least) from the effects of the force that has so intrigued him over the years: gravity. The apple was a nice touch too: I'm sure he appreciated it.
But…
Now I know it's wrong to think of a person as being defined by their disability, but in Hawking's case, you have to admit, it's very hard not to. Yes, he's a talented physicist who has come up with one or two nifty ideas—I'll never forget first reading about Hawking Radiation in A Brief History of Time and thinking, "Wow! That's pretty obvious! How come nobody else thought of that?"—but can you honestly tell me you would ever have heard of the chap if he hadn't been confined to a wheelchair and speaking through a voice synthesiser? Me neither. Let's face it, he didn't get trundle-on parts on both StarTrek the Next Generation and The Simpsons because of his physics; he got them because of his wheelchair, his voice and his physics. It's the three things combined that make him into a great British icon.
…Which is why I kind of wish they'd taken a photo or two of him weightless while still in the wheelchair.
Yes, I realise the whole point of the exercise was to let Hawking escape his wheelchair for a few precious moments, but can you imagine the impact of a photograph of the iconic Hawking apparently defying gravity in his wheelchair? The juxtaposition of what science can achieve (make a wheelchair-bound man float in the air) and what it cannot yet achieve (make that wheelchair-bound man better) would be incredibly poignant. It would become, along with the iconic photos of Aldrin on the Moon and Einstein sticking out his tongue, one of the great images of science.
And then there's that voice: doesn't Hawking's trademark, computerised, American accent seem a bit incongruous in someone who is supposed to be a British icon? Engineers at Sheffield University have developed a voice synthesiser based on the voice of Yorkshire poet Ian McMillan. Shouldn't they upgrade Hawking and give him a Barnsley accent? Of course not (although it would be one hell of a hack): Hawking's strange, impersonal, slightly robotic accent help make him less of a national icon and more of a world icon.
A bit like Nelson Mandella.
Irish Mick caught the train to Hebden Bridge on Sunday, and we went for a seven-mile walk which took us up onto the moors, then down into the valley, then along Hebden Water to The White Lion in Hebden Bridge. I've put a few photos from the walk on Flickr.
At one point, we were overtaken by a woman with unnaturally red hair walking what I took to be a greyhound, but which I later learnt was a lurcher.
Isn't lurcher a great name for a breed of dog? It's the 'er' at the end that does it. The 'er' makes it sound like the dog actually does something: lurcher, terrier, pointer, retriever. You see?
Anyway, about 10 minutes later, we spotted the same woman (the hair was a dead giveaway) apparently trapped in a stile on top of 10-foot-high drystone wall. As we got nearer, we realised what the problem was: the stile was one where you have to climb up stone steps projecting out of the wall, pass through a narrow gap at the top, then climb down similar steps on the other side. The woman had tried to lead the lurcher over the stile, but it had got half-way up and lost its nerve. The woman was now leaning back through the gap on top of the wall, trying in vain to coax the frozen dog forward with chocolate drops and gentle tugs on her long lead.
Richard and Irish Mick to the rescue!
I tried to get behind the dog and ease her forward onto the next step, but she wasn't having any of that and jumped back down to the ground. So I suggested the woman come back down and I go over to the other side of the wall and pull on the lead.
The woman and Irish Mick somehow eventually managed to dog-handle the terrified creature into the gap on top of the wall. Then I had to climb up the steps on my side of the wall and somehow try to pick it up on my own. The problem was, one of the steps was missing from my side of the wall, so the dog's feet were at my eye-level.
After a bit of general faffing about, I thought what the hell and just lunged at the dog. I'm not quite sure what happened next, but somehow the dog ended up on top of my head. I have absolutely no idea how I managed to climb back down the steps with the dog on top of me, but I did it somehow. Then I realised I was supporting the dog with my hands above my head, and there was no way for me to adjust my grip so that I could put her down. So I did the only thing I could do and fell over.
The dog landed neatly on all-fours, and I ended up flat on my arse, looking like a total idiot.
I wonder how they managed to get back home.
Pulling up to the M6 Toll Plaza (as they insist on calling it) on Wednesday, I spotted a car in another lane trying to move into mine, so I let it in.
Without even a wave of thanks, the driver pulled up to the barrier, leant out of the window, and threw his four pound coins at the collection bucket. Miraculously, every single coin missed its intended target and rolled underneath his car.
"Congratulations, you missed the side of the barn," I muttered to myself.
By now, there was a queue of cars behind me, so I couldn't reverse. So I sat and watched as the man got out of his car, had a chat with one of the unhelpful barrier attendants, then started groping around under his car to retrieve the coins. Having rescued three of them, he had to get back into his car and, through a series of about 20 backwards and forwards manoeuvres, slowly work it sideways until he could reach the fourth coin. Then he was off in a rage of smoke. Hooray!
Needless to say, I took extra-special care dropping my coins into the bucket.
Marty DiBergi:
Many of you have probably noticed that the polar ice caps are melting. Well, when I coined the term global warming, this is the kind of world-wide devastation I was referring to.
So, to spread the word about what they're now referring to as global climate change, the folks at Live Earth have decided to hold rock concerts all over the world to spread the news—and they've asked me to reunite Spinal Tap to help with the cause.
You can watch the whole (15 minute) Spinal Tap mini rockumentary here.
Jen and I helped our friend the farmer chase cows today. We'd got them out of the field and they were heading in the right general direction, when the farmer suggested I head them off at the pass in her LandRover Defender.
Yeeees!
I'd never driven a LandRover before. I almost fell at the first hurdle, trying to start the bloody thing (handy hint: the ignition is on the left side of the steering column), then I was off down the rough, dirt track at a blistering 10mph.
After a short while, I got a bit cocky and changed up to second. Easy-peasy! But then I came to a slight bend in the track and…
Nothing happened. I turned the bloody steering-wheel and nothing bloody happened!
I was about to scream and slam on the brakes, when the LandRover suddenly turned as I had wanted it to. Then another bend came along and exactly the same thing happened. It turned out there was a two-second delay between turning the steering wheel and the message getting through to the wheels.
I reckon I'll stick with Murphy.
I stayed at my parents' house last night, and they wanted to watch Midsomer Murders. "You don't look too impressed," observed my dad, observantly.
Jen and I only have two rules about what we can watch on telly: (1) no soaps; (2) no Midsomer Murders. We came up with rule 2 having watched a few episodes and noticed a common weakness running through every single plotline:
"No, it's OK, I'll watch it," I said to dad, "but I'll tell right now you who did it: the nutter with the totally ridiculous motive."
That's the big problem with Midsomer Murders you see (apart from the acting, I mean): it always turns out that the person who dunnit has a motive you could never have seen coming in a million years, because they are, it transpires, totally bloody nuts. Like the time the murderer turned out to be the leader of the bellringers, who was killing off the opposition so that he could win the bellringing competition. As if. (And, yes, we did make the obligatory dead ringers jokes, before you ask.)
Two hours later, and the murderer was revealed: the Welshman with a pathological hatred of doctors.
I kid you not.
A man on the telly just said, "There's no such word as can't."
I think you'll find he meant to say, "There's no such word as frintlebury."
Meanwhile, in other news, Boy hatches chick from shop egg.
BBC: Pro-family groups call Rome rally
Pro-family groups are holding a rally in the Italian capital, Rome, to protest against legislation giving more rights to homosexual couples.
Pro-family: is that what they're calling themselves these days?
Well, it does sound so much nicer than homophobic god-bothering bigots.
Just when you thought the intolerance couldn't get any more extreme:
Observer: Now drivers face ban on smoking at the wheel
Britain's senior road safety campaigners are calling for a ban on smoking while driving, in an attempt to cut the number of crashes.
The Department of Health said last night that it would seriously consider a ban, which is also being looked at in Germany, Australia and America. The move was backed by anti-smoking campaigners but drew criticism from others as an attack on personal freedom.
Presumably, they will also be calling for a ban on other driver distractions, such as car radios, roadside advertisement hoardings and passengers.
No, somehow I don't think so either.
Hmmm… Hundreds of thousands of motorists deprived of the calming effect of nicotine. Expect a lot more road-rage.
For reasons I can't go into right now, I saw these in Hebden Bridge this morning, and they made me think of Stense.
Not that Stense reminds me of a pair of old boots, you understand.
Well, not very much.
They both have tongues, I suppose. And heels. And they're both very well built. And they're both very reliable. And they can both be rather straight-laced at times (you know what I'm talking about, Stense, oh yes you do!).
Actually, come to think of it, Stense does remind me of a pair of old boots.
The top five countries in last night's Eurovision Song Contest final were:
- Serbia (268 points)
- Ukraine (235)
- Russia (207)
- Turkey (163)
- Bulgaria (157)
OK, hand-on-heart now: if you'd had to write down a list of European countries, how long would it have been before you thought of any of the above?
Me too.
We are living in a new era.
The UK came joint next-to-last with our old buddies, the French. Good to see our European pals have forgiven us for Iraq. But the real shock of the evening was the Republic of Ireland's last place, with a measley cinq points.
Like I said, a new era.
Commenter 'dont like people like you' (I don't think that's their real name) writes:
youre hecker freaking stupid. you people who just mess around with stuff like that are hollow butts and XXXX. didnt get it. didnt like it. go to HxLL, maybe they'll appreciate it.
Very well put! If only all Gruts commenters were of such calibre (no offence). But why on earth would I want to go to Hull?
You can see what provoked this constructive bout of criticism here.
Guardian: MPs back 'squalid' curbs on FoI
MPs today backed a controversial bid to exempt themselves from the Freedom of Information Act—a move described by opponents as "squalid".
The Tory private member's freedom of information (amendment) bill secured its third reading by 96 votes to 25, a majority of 71.
This from the people who exempted their own bar and club from the forthcoming anti-smoking law.
That's it, I've started an online pledge:
"I will refuse to vote in the next UK general election if members of parliament make themselves exempt from the Freedom of Information Act but only if 10,000 other UK registered voters will do the same."
— Richard Carter, disillusioned voter
Click here to sign the pledge, or text pledge FOI-4-Parliament to 60022 (UK only).
(Remember, you only need to refuse to vote if MPs make themselves exempt.)
Conversation with a friend's wife yesterday:
Me: Do you know, I would never have recognised you in those new glasses: they make you look so different.
She: People keep telling me they make me look really intelligent.
Me: EXACTLY!!
Guardian: There is a tunnel and there is light, and I will get there
… [Sir Paul McCarney's] divorce will cost him tens, possibly hundreds of millions of pounds, and has already cost him his place in this year's Sunday Times rich list—with £725m, he fell from 65th richest person in the UK to 102nd. It has been estimated that [Heather] Mills could get as much as £200m.
Two-hundred-MILLION pounds! I know they're estranged and everything, but that's practically an arm and a leg!
I was at a conference at a hotel yesterday. They tried the standard trick with the buffet lunch: very small plates. But I wasn't having any of that nonsense and piled mine nice and high with ham sandwiches, quiche (it's not true what they say), spring rolls, and those things that look like chicken but which always turn out to be fish.
Then, as I got to the end of the table, I found a woman serving potato wedges and curry. They had concealed her very well. So I pushed my sandwiches to one side to make a bit of room and handed her my plate.
Good on her, she piled up the potato wedges in the gap I had made, and then ladelled the curry over the top of my ham sandwiches.
Curry and ham sandwiches: I'll tell you what, it's the future!
John Scot Cree has asked me to convey his thanks (see comments against this item.)
Isn't the interweb cool?
There is a distinct possibilty that Gruts might die temporarily in the next few days. I have just been looking at the stats for the gruts.com domain, and was frankly amazed to see that it has exceeded 99.5% of its monthly bandwidth allocation. My Darwin site is to blame—it's taken a serious hammering over the last week.
I haven't a clue what happens when the domain hits 100% of its bandwidth allocation, but it might well stop working. If so, be good, and I'll see you all in June.
(I am currently taking steps to try to ensure that this doesn't happen again.)
OK, I admit it: I'm a royal pain in the arse when it comes to watching detective shows on the telly. I don't try to work out who dunnit, you see; I'm far too busy looking for mistakes.
It all started when I was a kid in the Seventies. "Back projection!" my dad would call out, whenever they showed a close-up of Telly Savalas supposedly driving his car in Kojak. Once I discovered what back projection actually was, I started to join in.
Then along came Columbo: "But there's just one thing I don't understand…" Peter Falk would begin during the denouement scene. "MI-CRO-PHONE!" dad and I would shout in unison, as the overhead boom sneaked into shot. And I couldn't help noticing that whenever my heart-throb, the delightful Cheryl Ladd, did anything dangerous in Charlie's Angels, she suddenly grew a lot less petite and lost her totally mesmerising 35-23-34 figure: it was a bloke in a wig!
Spotting mistakes in detective shows was a fairly harmless hobby until time-shift TV came along. Now that we have Sky+, I have developed the annoying habit of placing the programme on hold, rewinding a bit, and asking Jen if she can spot the mistake. It must be totally infuriating.
"Look, there! UPVC windows in 1940s Brighton!" I will declare during Foyle's War. Or, while watching Inspector Morse, "Somebody has done a wonderful job of polishing Morse's Jag: look, you can see the reflection of the entire film crew in the door!"
On Saturday, I surpassed myself. We were watching an old edition of Rebus. I had already paused the picture several times to show Jen how immaculately clean people keep their car windscreens in detective shows: "It's so they can film through them without dirty smudges' appearing across the actors' faces," I explained. Then Rebus and his detective mate (who would die shortly afterwards) decided to get filthy drunk: "No way is that Laphroaig," I objected, as Rebus's mate uncorked a new bottle: "look, it's totally the wrong colour—it's way too dark! That's cold tea, that is!"
Mind you, when it comes to Laphroaig, I consider myself a bit of an expert.
Laphroaig, you say. Don't mind if I do…
Ann thanked me for my text message on Saturday. I didn't know what she was talking about, as I hadn't sent her a text message. It turned out I had: last November. It had taken 6 months to travel all the way from Liverpool to Berkshire.
That's an average speed of 0.045 mph.
A garden snail travels at 0.03 mph.
