Weekend in Lille

Just had a blast on the Eurostar to Lille, Northern France. Journey pleasant and so was the city, mainly.

So what is there to say about Lille? OK, a few thoughts:

Good

Great food, wonderful Normandy and Breton cider. I could get seriously addicted to it. People not half as stroppy as Parisians, though even New Yorkers with their rep for surliness lose out here. Paris has got to have some of the least tourist friendly bods around, although I admit, it is a beautiful city.

Lille's Metro (or VAL) is one of the best in the world. Small, regular trains which have two speeds. Stop or full speed. They are automatic and if only London Underground could invest in some of this technology the tube would be a much pleasanter way to travel. I was deeply impressed with Lille's metro system, although it is only two lines.

Some lovely central areas not blighted by tourism.

The mad, bad Sunday market. Highly recommended for its size and scale. Very popular with the locals - make sure you come armed with your London elbow since no-one will move for you. This isn't out of a sense of rudeness (in fact, Lillians - or whatever people from Lille call themselves: Lilloise??) don't have anywhere to move either. The number on 'pardonez-mois' and 'mercis' put us Londoners to shame. My parents love France and they always stress how polite the non-Parisian French are. True in this case. Its VERY cramped. A great vibe there there. Nice to hear the barkers hollering in French.

Our hotel was in a central, sleazy area in what passes for the red light district - its rather titchy. This means all night fast food joints, noise of people yelling and much ambient noise generally, and sadly this brings us to the bad point. I its the guy who wrote 'A Year in the Merde' who mentions the copious use of street cleaning machines in Paris. Well I can testify to the fact that there were at least two as possibly as many as four of them circulating round our part of town for most of the night. How to Parisians sleep through this racket? Do they wear earmuffs? Do the machines travel through the suburbs as well or just circulate in the centre? I really need to ask someone familiar with French city life this question because I know that it would drive me nuts, being the insomniac I am.

The other reason to avoid Lille, and I'd include the whole of France, is that Sundays and French tourism don't mix. The only shops open on a Sunday are restaurants (and I'm being kind to them by referring to them as 'shops') and station based newsagents/tobacconists etc. Even Paris was completely dead the Sunday we travelled to it four years ago, and we incorrectly assumed that this particular Sunday was some kind of public religious holiday. Nope, its always like that. So, like Germany, unless you've got family over there and therefore have someone interesting to talk to in their abode, then don't bother touring France on a Sunday because unless you enjoy engorging yourself on admittedly some of the finest food any nation can offer, all day mind, there really isn't much else to do.

Would I recommend it? Yes, its a more representative slice of real France. Just don't go on a Sunday and if you are there over a weekend, buy all the things you want to bring back with you - chocolates, cheese and northern French cider in our case - then get it on Saturday or not at all.

Don't go to Leyton if you ain't a Muslim

I used to live not so far from Leyton. I spent six happy years in Hackney and always thought Leyton to be one of those parts of London that had not been poncified by outsiders too much. It has rows of terraced houses and although the parades of shops are filled with kebaberies rather than chippies as would have been the case before the 70s, it was still, in my opinion, a bastion of real Londoners. Places where people like me, born here, could afford to set up home and intended to. Just the sort of place for me.




Oh darn, I should really consider converting before going here


Well, we missed the housing market boat too and moved out to Dagenham instead. Cheaper, but at least on the tube, and again, a London-y sort of place, even though some residents are proud of its ‘Essex’ identity. It didn’t get a London telephone prefix until the 60s. But back in Leyton, it seems I’d got it wrong all along – silly old me. Yes, as Abu Izzadeen reminded John Reid, Home Sec, that it is in a fact a “Muslim area”.

Oh yes, indeedy.

It wasn’t done with any sense of pride, or in the sense that a ‘Jamaican area’ might be blessed with white sands and aqua seas. No, it was in the Arnie sense of “get out, asshole”. His words to Reid were “"How dare you come to a Muslim area when over 1,000 Muslims have been arrested?" I’d forgotten that London was in fact an open city and as long as you keep to the law and remove yourself from trespassing on private property, you are basically free to travel anywhere you choose.

I was also reminded by the same person that "We believe Islam is superior, we believe Islam will be implemented one day. It is very rich for you to come here and say we need to monitor our children when your government is murdering people in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

A few reminders to this chap:

1. He is right, our beloved and oh-so-in-touch political elite has sent innocent soldiers to be butchered in a war that isn’t wanted by the majority of anyone and whose complexities are understood even less, Muslim or not. My sister’s boyfriend is one of those soldiers and deserves better, or at least potentially more random way of needlessly dying, say, by being hit but a drunk driver.

2. If Islam is truly superior, then let me declare now that I disagree. I, being a fat, ageing, grumpy fucker, think fat people who give copious grumpdom to the world, and who never receive any thanks for it, and who happen to be heading to towards their forties and all the sag that entails, are in fact the most superior people on earth. So naah naah na naah naaah to you, sonny Jimal.

3. If you really don’t even wish to start considering the possibility that even at its worst, a British (or at least Western) way of life is better the hell-hole you left to come and incite your racist, anti-democratic shit, then (expletive deleted) off, for the good of all of us. If Afghanistan is the logical conclusion of what happens when Islam is “implemented” (I still can’t get my head around what this might mean) then give me a Godless Sodom on speed every time.

And then politicians scratch their poor overworked heads when the BNP are gaining council seats You heard it from me first, or maybe not, but I’m very much afraid the only thing which will be “implemented” is the growth in support of the BNP, who are getting rather canny at picking off not only the usual suspect underclass white voter (my fellow Dagenham citizens being a case in point – and I don’t use the word ‘underclass’ in a derogatory sense, because I suspect I’m one of them, at least in the eyes of tosspots like Izzadeen). Even those whose families came from overseas in the 50s, 60s and 70s are allegedly joining. Those who have chosen to try and fit in with a society which is slowly acknowledging their vital necessity, and in the case of ex-commonwealth nations, their every damned right to be here. It hasn’t been an easy ride for them or us Anglos, but at least both sides, on the whole, have felt a need for friendship rather than race-hatred. Not a perfect ride, but a slowly moving truck in the right direction. I think Izzy would be happiest watching the attempts of his moderate brethren’s attempts to engage in dialogue jack-knife at high speed.

Mobile phone jihad

Here’s an example of how to sell an idea. Honestly, it really works.

1) First, take a pop at the opposition who has made a careless, and that’s being kind, speech. We’ll use X-Mobile versus 03 as an instance. X-Mobile has just “dissed” 03, saying that 03’s is a heartless company who exploit children and their phones kill people by irradiating their heads.

2) 03 refute this. They say that X-Mobile have caused them grief, hurt, have been slanderous &c &c.

3) There is no independent evidence to prove that what X-Mobile says is true. But on the other hand, there is no evidence to prove that X-Mobiile don’t share similar shady business ethics since all the company records are stored in locked cupboards guarded by Steve Irwin-slaying stingrays and black African boomslangs. Amusingly, the stringray with the longest tail and the sharpest sting is called “Allah”. But hey, it’s a free country isn’t it? And you can say what you like unless what you say is obviously slanderous. Of course, 03 say that it is, but don’t do anything about it, such as take X-Mobile to court or launch a counter-attack of any meaning, pith or logic. They just publicly whinge loudly about how hard-done they’ve been by X-Mobile.

4) Instead, just to prove how kid-loving their company is and how well they treat children, 03 then launch a campaign of killing kiddies who use X-Mobile handsets and setting black African boomslangs on their parents. Just for fun, they also have the odd pop at an innocent bystander or two. Voddy-fone and Banana’s customers occasionally find themselves being executed on the street while telling their ‘birds’ they’ll be 10 minutes late or travelling through Liverpool Street, Edgware Road or being unfortunate enough to be on the no. 30 bus. 3 ½ ‘s customers don’t stand a chance as they are allied to the ‘evil empire’ of X-Mobile by dint of sharing the same network when roaming in the Ukraine. They just get shot at.

If you think this is stupid, then this is what I think of the recent outburst by the Pope and the reaction to it by Islamists who claim to be peaceful individuals whilst happily shooting nuns.

Like I said, this really works and I intend to fly over to my nearest X-Mobile mosque on the way home from work to sign a 24-month, aherm, no, year, contract.

Iraq was and is crap and wrong, and fuelled on rather transparent lies. Even Americans know that now. Bush and Blair are really not popular guys at the moment. The Pope was probably not so well advised when he said what he said. But the reaction to it does NOT justifying killing anyone. If being a “peaceful” Muslim means killing everyone who isn’t, then I’m a peace-lovin' Hindu, baby.

Maybe I’m just a frigging infidel. Or maybe whenever I hear about Muslims kicking off once more I think about how I nearly lost my wife who was on the train behind the one that got blown on during 7/7. A train which came in from East London and therefore had a high probably of being packed with, guess who? Fellow “peaceful” Muslims. If the 9/11 and 7/7 murderers don’t have the care to give a shite about their brothers in arms, then really, they were a lost cause anyway. At least the IRA, until Omagh, had the decency to discriminate as to who was the enemy.

Having near-death of spouse rammed in your face – well, it kind of affects one, you know. I really don't want to dislike the whole damn tribe of Islam - its the ole racist cop-out I know, but my best childhood friend, for nearly 15 yeasrs was a Muslim, and like American, I don't have much of an axe to grind with those who I've met in the course of my life. But some of the loudest, bitter ones; the kind with the "I'm more victim than you'll ever be" mentality REALLY PISS ME OFF.

Bletchley Park and 70s TV games

Mrs DD, myself and a few mates went to Bletchley Park on Sunday, home of the Enigma codebreaking facility. The people there did a lot more than this or course, it also housed for a while Britain and world’s uber-geek, Mr Alan Turing, a pioneer if ever there was one. Like the Kelvedon “Secret” * Nuclear Bunker, it was a place that wouldn’t necessary jump out on anyone’s ‘must-see’ agenda, but I’d recommend a trip up there just to sample the atmosphere alone. You don’t have to be a code or WW2 junkie to enjoy it, although if you are either, there’s even more a chance that you will.

The most enjoyable part of the trip was spent about 2 minutes before the place closed at 5, however. In Block B, one of the main exhibition spaces was a selection of very old computers indeed, including my first real computer, an Amstrad PCW8512. Yes, I said . It wasn’t a Speccy anyhow, and did “real” work, like get me through my A levels, and a good chunk of my degree. ‘Twas sad to see the back of it, though given a race between the spellchecker and a three legged, drunken tortoise, the jury would be out as to who would cross the finishing post.

Nestling innocently amongst the 80s behemoths, including the first IBM PC, Amstrad PCs (I failed my A level business studies exam on one of these as hard drive corrupted all my work before getting to print, leaving nothing but random crap and a befuddled PC support guy), a BBC Model B, VIC 20 and C64, was a silver coloured box. I stared at it. It stared at me. I questioned it as to where the hell I’d seen its brother before.

Then…

EUREKA. The orange label read ‘SPORTEL’. My childhood friend Andrew, the kind of person for whom ‘My Perfect Cousin’ was written about, only he wasn’t my cousin, owned one of these. We’d spent hours playing Pong-like games on it, huddled around the telly at his parents’ house in Greenford. Bloody hell, nostalgia struck me with the impact of a class 375 Electrostar as it reaches warp speed between West Horndon and Basildump.



Those TV games, the ones that go bip-bip-bip-BIP as you paddle a couple of over-large pixels into a “goal”. Who needs Fifa 2006 World Cup Stimulator when your ‘players’ could consist of two long lines and a variable angle? For that, ladies and gentlemen, bought up on the X-box, was how they did it in 1977.

These Pong games may have had the brain of a mongol child, (well actually their “brain” was a General Instruments 8700 chip, mostly) but boy, were they fun if you were of a certain age (under ten I suppose would is about the right level of maturity that best suited).

The model pictured above, nicked from www.old-computers.com, wasn’t the machine I had, which was a Grandstand ten-gamer, but it was that my neighbours owned, and one that I deeply, deeply coveted in ways which only an eight year old boy sans cash, can. It was available at the Southall branch of Woolies for about £16. It came with a riffle. You’d aim it at the telly and try to knock out a flying ball (a bigger square of pixels this time). I still haven’t a clue how the technology works – magic I reckon - but if you managed to get your sights lined up the ball and fired just the right time, it would disappear and your score would go up by 1. I think 15 was the max you could get.

The end of summer, energy and the North-South divide

Last week, apart from being the usual hectic chasing-of-tail dance-e-tron at work, appears to be the last unofficial week of summer, with campsites being booked to capacity, parks full of evening picnickers, as was indeed the hardly beautiful Mile End Park on Thursday when we sat by bank of the Regents Canal eating kebabs. It seems that collectively society senses that if it is to indulge in summery things, this is the last opportunity we'll have this year.

I was cleaning up the living room earlier on, an onerous task, and my attempt at Spring cleaning, only 4 months too late this year. When I ventured out for some lunchtime rolls, the air contained a slight, but distinct winter chill. Between now and the time just before we return to Greenwich Mean Time and the need for the SAD light becomes a reality, is my favourite time of year weather-wise: the temperature is perfect for doing all those things you really ought to do in the summer, but for which activities its just too darn hot to accomplish. As summers go, its been a mixed bag in Britain this year. A promising start in March with clear days and reasonable temps, then one month of rain. The a heatwave lasting a fortnight, ending with hot, cloudy days. I think days like these, with temps at 15-17C, clear skies and no rain are about as good as they get. I'm not a heat freak, but the old current bun doing what it does best in the sky doesn't half elevate my mood.

Farewell summer. Hello autumn. And may winter be cold and crisp the way it should.

Only thing is - crisp and cold winter means a good excuse for the Russians to hike our gas bills and for the New Tories, the arrogant fools, to pretend to us that there is nothing they can do about it. And for us, John and Jane Q Public, to pay the expenses of these halfwit politicians who become less and less attached to the society we pay them to govern while they care less and less about our concerns, while spinning the bullshit that of course they do care, and they are listening like billy-o (Blair whittering on about this very same concern this morning made by blood boil - sorry pal, but your chance for listening was three years ago and you patently failed to do so). Our gas bill has doubled since we moved to Daggers six years ago. If anything, we use energy than we did then. I'm just so glad we're not into the fuel poverty zone. I don't think it can be long before the average earner, and not just the financially hard-up who will be struggling to pay for the lecky.

Earlier this week, a writer's comment in the Grauniad's Comment Is Free section shrieked out at me: presumably she was from the north, and she was complaining that Nu Labour were a London-centric conspiracy and had lost any support and any connection to the people of the north. England should be politically divided with a north-south barrier, she suggested. I'm going to have to correct her: I was born and raised in London and I reckon I have more in common with any brother and sister from the north than with the Notting Hillbillies in Government. Sorry love, but there are two, perhaps three Londons. Super-rich London and Rich London has as much contempt for those way out East where I am, as they they do for anyone from Yorkshire, Lancashire or Northumberland. And what about Cheshire, the Surrey of the North? - shouldn't the citizenry there be considered token Southerners? I understand her point though. Its just that just as some Londoners reckon that the M25 is the border at which it all ends, Northerners are just as guilty at assuming that because you're a southerner, you have a certain level of wealth and a fixed mindset. Can we get back to reality and substitute North/South with rich/average-to-poor? In which case, I'm a Yorkshireman through and through (actually, my surname appears to be most concentrated around East Lancs/Pennines so I may be a northerner by bloodline in reality anyway. Find out about your name at:

http://www.spatial-literacy.org/UCLnames/Surnames.aspx

Her point was she was pissed off at being governed from a mentally distant London-based bureacracy with little connection to where she lives and the kind of society in which she finds herself. Our house is 24 tube stops east of Westminster, but it might as well be 300 miles up the GNER for all the impact the kind of people who live here have on the ruling political class. These idiots seemed generally surprised that 11 BNP counsellors were elected in my borough last may. I'm not. I can put my hand on my heart and say that I don't believe this has anything to do with racism. The opposition where I live was non-existent. When all the bosses look and smell the same and you want a change, then anyone offering an alternative wins. There wasn't a Green or freak party candidate in sight to register a protest vote. So guess what....?

From this day forward, and just to make things straight, I declare that Dagenham is now a suburb of Manchester, in fact, the whole of southern Essex is coming your way, oh land of pigeon fancier and betrousered ferret. Its a reluctant move we make, for the simple reason that pie and mash doesn't sit easily on the northern stomach and so, as a kindness, we'll keep the consumption of such regional food to an absolute min and only after the 'bab shop closes. In order to show solidarity to real people, the removal men have been phoned and are coming soon.

Ee up lad.

Travelling to Harlow

Me and Mrs Daggerdukc travelled out to Harlow in Essex, a new town I used to work in during my twenties - Piers Morgan and i apparently frequented the same college, though I was a teacher of sorts. Anyway, while I worked there, I kind acquired a liking for the place and every now and then I've been bored, I've visited it just to see what new thing are going down. I'm particularly taken with the layout devise for it by Frederick Gibberd (sorry if I've spelt his name wrong, I'm feeling too lazy to crossref). I like the sense of green space all around the centre, and, although it is unashamedly car-centric, out of the all the new towns I've visited, this one seems to be built on a human scale. Though it has its fair share of blight and decay, it has stood well the test of time by comparison with say, Craigavon, where Mrs D'D originates from. Of all the planned-for utopias our governments have indulged themselves with creating for us proles, Harlow seems to have come out of the potential for dystopia rather well and old Gibberd can congratulate himself for having the foresight to plan the spaces so well, in harmony with the countryside around it and for refusing compromise when the government was urging new towns to cram as many citizens in as they could.

So - things to like about Harlow:

The sense of space.

The contrast between the green landscape and planned city feel - eg, the tower blocks planted in the middle of town which look out over green hills. The Lawns, built in 1951, is Britain's first tower block and now a grade II listed built, deservedly so.

It feels like a proper community has grown up. This is perhaps because the original settlers were picked from the North London boroughs of Islington, Edmonton and Harringey. Peterborough never felt like much a community when I spent a good deal of time up there.

The way it has had good times, bad times, but never so bad that it has tarnished the residents' in the same way that happened in Corby.

The fact that it has some great civic architecture without allowing middle class artists' indulgences to get the better of it. The Passmore pavilion in Peterlee, Co Durham, for example, is a building I rather like, but it was plonked into a working class district, probably in a well meaning gesture to 'better' the lives of the scum who live there (I'm not saying that Peterlee residents are scum, but they, like 99 percent of the rest of us, are seen as such by the great 'n' good. Harlow experienced nothing in a way of vanity art, but it did get a massive and very gorgeous town park which really does feel like the grounds of a manor house and must be considered one of the most well laid-out in Britain.

The fact that it is a town. With boundaries, which end. So all the sprawl is planned for sprawl - it hasn't just drifted outwards and outwards, being filled in with execu-homes when and where the big building companies decree that they'll spill them there.

Bad things about Harlow:

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE WATER GARDENS AT THE SIDE OF THE HARVEY CENTRE? Could a Harlolw resident please answer me this question? This was my favourite bit of civic architecture OF ALL TIME and now the pisswits have killed them. Twunts. I almost cried when i saw the oh-so-average flats that now occupy the space. City centre flats are great and all that, but not at the expense this beauty.

The quite awful transport excuse-for-a-system. Not so much the transport links actually, which are up the crapola standard of any given provincial town in the South East, but the almost complete lack of information available. Like timetables on bus stops, you know. And the fact that its so close to London, but so inhabits a different world transport wise. My thanks must go to the chap(ess) who maintains the saucily named but essential www.harlowride.co.uk website. Despite it sounding like the punchline to an Essex girl joke, without the information which he or she must glean from thin air from what I can tell from looking around, a public transport user is screwed. Too many companies - no link, co-ordination or indeed anything between them. Typical mentally impaired Tory transport policies still in action. Kenny Livingstone, for making London's buses sane, for that in itself, I salute you.

In praise of Deptford - and Cuisine a la Leke

Mini plug for an area and a restaurant. A few weeks ago we went to a wonderful African restaurant in Deptford, SE8, called Cuisine a la Leke. Yep, ‘African’ is a bit generic but that’s how it describes itself so who am I to disagree. No dog trouble that is always a good start. Then after sipping some large bottles of Afro-beer, the food arrived. It was spicy (watch out for the ‘chilli gravy’), well cooked and came with a ‘rice cocktalk’ including joloff beans, peas and that brown rice beloved of Nigerian restaurants everywhere in London. Happy, smiley, genuinely NICE service. A restaurant I’d be happy to recommend to anyone. Go there and thank me later. Its at the top of Deptford High Street which has been voted the ‘UK’s most diverse High Street’ (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4292533.stm) and really does have a great atmosphere, a fantastic range of shops, and houses some of the finest urban eateries in the whole of London. Special mention must be made of the Orient Chinese, which I would happily vote as London’s best, certainly within its price bracket, which is budget-budget – and I’d say that even some posh restaurants would struggle to match the quality of the food here.

Take it from a Londoner – yes, one who admittedly spent three happy years living here as a student of nearby Goldsmiths’, but don’t let my bias put you off. An area for real Londoners, whose businesses are run by real Londoners. Long may it remain the scuzzy, colourful, delightful, diverse, dirty place that it always has been. Forget the touristy East End, take the train to Greenwich instead, but get off one stop too early. Then enjoy the exuberant, clotted heart of the real capital where clone-brand shops fear to tread. My only gripe? Where have all the pubs gone. The Noah’s Ark – RIP. The Scent of Urine (Centurion) – RIP. I recommend the Deptford Arms on the High Street, and also the White Swan, formerly Mamie O’Leary’s (which serves Thai food at the back). The Bird’s Nest in nearby Church Street isn’t a bad watering hole either. But it’s a far cry from its heyday when there were around ten pubs on the High Street alone. Still, much to recommend it.

Dagenham's new low point

If Croydon is hovering around the Man U/Arsenal area of the Premiership, Dagenham must surely now be in the Sunday league of chav towns.

When the local paaaaahnd shop is forced to close then you know a community is facing hard times. I took this while on my way home from work.

I like the rather optimistic message implying that this would be summer clearance. Oh yeah, right? That's why its truly closed.

Hot phone sex

Lest to so foolish as to believe the the office toy porn was a mere one-off, then how wrong can you be? This tasty clip shows who you are dealing with when you call one of those expensive 0906 numbers promising a good time. Be told, oh optimistic user, that are you not getting an overexcited student babe who needs to top up her grant. You aren’t even getting a grandma in Bangalore. No, you are getting this fella. There’s nothing he likes more than to give pleasure over the phone. And pleasure is what he’s experiencing to the max in this photo. Just remember him, next time you fancy a quick monkey thrash, and use the good old internet or a paper-based product from the Paul Raymond empire. Cos he’s never been on ANY guy’s mind.

Shankill Mural

What I understand about Northern Irish politics you could write on a postage stamp. My views, such as they are, are obviously informed by having in-laws with deeply held proddy beliefs. I was, however, quite pleased to be driver up the Shankill by my sister in law. I like Belfast - its a city I think could live in, anyhow, and it has all the features required by a London exile apart from maybe the tubes, the manic crowds and so forth. Socially, when compared to London, my wife's family's best estimate though is that NI society is about 20 years behind that of England; which can be a good and bad thing depending on how you look at it. Society there is pretty traditional, and there hasn't been the same level of immigration as say, to Dublin. But all this is changing fast and with the huge mostly untapped potential of the province up for grabs, I suspect that NI society is going to change faster than just about any other in the UK. Give it five years and Belfast will be the new Dublin. House prices have risen 25 percent in the last year alone, while the rest of UK's only managed eight. Investment for meaning projects would be a great benefit to the place and to the UK as a whole.

The future's bright...though not necessarily orange.

Fantasy babes

Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm into fat girls - I married one didn't I? No complaints, in fact, the bigger (and preferably taller) the better. On Channel 4 this eve, at 9pm, there is a fat girls' beauty pageant. I have high hoopes for this programme, and in the spirit of semi-pornographic beauty shows all over the world, here's my contribution - a description of my fantasy candidate:

"Deirdre is 34 and lives in Cheltenham with her parents after splitting up with her stupid, thin Peruvian boyfriend Zanaxxio. She has a 44 inch waist, 50 inch hips, weighs in at approximately 20 stone and 3 pounds and stands at 5 foot 11 inches. Dee has a delightful complexion of pale pink with freckles, large, green eyes. She sports russet brown hair cut short to her shoulders and is wearing the Stella McCartney tank-style bathing costume in powder blue, which reveals the ripples on her thighs to perfection. Deirdre works as a dinner lady in a local primary school, and performs stand-up comedy part-time, and her two wishes would be to alleviate child poverty in Africa and increase the size of her double-pneu."

PS, the programme was a pile of shite. Lots of shouting from a Northern Irish chick and not much else.

Harmondsworth - traffic hotspot

Harmondsworth is a village to the west of London near to where I used to live. I travelled over there to take a picture of the Hillingdon Hospital wall, a cacophony 1960s stained glass madness which captured my imagination as a very small child during a period where I seemed to be spending most of my days. The wall, as feared, has been PFI'd out of existence and its replacement is a rather miserable affair which I shan't dwell on. I'll try and get an old picture of the old Hillingdon Hospital wal though, it really is gorgeous.

But never mind - I trekked off to Harmondsworth on a 223 bus for a walk along the back roads to Harlington, a place where I once lived and enjoyed a great deal. Harlington, Sipson and Harmondsworth are places that time has left alone since the 70s and are all the better for this.

I like the picture - well not so much the quality of the snap, taken on my Nokia 7610,, cos its crap. This was taken on Harmondsworth Lane, not a spit away from Heathrow Airport. Its a quiet, almost country backwater. And yet, half way along it, are these set of traffic lights, which appear to be a fully configured set in that there is potential to control traffic both east-west ad north-south. But why? Firstly, the road going across the road leads to nowhere, unless you count a cornfield as a destination you'd be likely to visit.

Even better is that the traffic lights are turned OFF. The scene reminds me of the Depeche Mode album cover for Music for the Masses which feature red-painted air-raid sirens up the sides of mountains. Not as sinister I guess, but kinda nicely surreal.

Oops, wrong helpdesk

As well as being a computer slave, one of my jobs is to monitor the helpline for the database we use where I work. One of the users wrote this unintentionally amusing message this morning, which was meant, for site services. However, I couldn’t resist blogging this – or replying.


From: Anonymous user
Sent: 04 August 2006 08:54
To: Database Helpline

Subject: FW: Its still v e r y cold in our department



Good morning

It is very distressing that we come in early into the office and it is very cold. Yesterday you said it will take a little while, I stayed upto 6pm and it was still cold in then, nothing had changed, if anything we were all more cold. No one has come up here to check if the temperature was correct.

Also the vending machine does not work as I used to have hot chocolate for 20p, hmmm, I am sorry to complain but am sad about these matters.

Please help

Thanks
ANON USER


-----Original Message-----
From: daggersdukc, on Behalf Of Database Helpline
Sent: 04 August 2006 09:26
To: Anonymous user
Subject: RE: Its still v e r y cold in our department

Dear ANON USER

I'm sorry to hear about your complaints. We have been working hard to make Pivotal work for all our customers. However, although the main server has been working its little heart out attempting to process our many customers data, it is obviously not pumping sufficient levels of heat to make the office a comfortable place in which to work. We will try to remedy this by doing even more work, thus ensuring a climatically neutral office environment.

Also, while you will find that [name of database withheld] abilities are many and varied, I'm afraid that nobody asked us to spec in the ability to sell cold drinks and food.

PS - I think you need to email site services!

Yours, ironically

daggersdukc

Hot office action

What happens when you’re bored, at work, and are surrounded by cuddly toys?

This.

Here is my first picture of spontenously performed office porn, as demonstrated by the soft toys which congregate around mine and my colleagues’ desks.

In this picture, Clanger gets done by Green Dog. Zippy, the old prevert, ogles the lustful two in a lecherous manner. Just give him a plastic mac and h’d be a happy bunny – well, Zippy. Don’t worry, Zippy got his pecker out later. The shagging and lewd sexual acts were extreme and I know you, dear reader, wait with baited breath. Tomorrow’s dirt-packed entry will prove to be just as exciting. Just you wait and see.

A joy report - special edition

We moved offices to Kings Cross last weekend, and believe me, this is cause for celebrations in the daggersdukc household. i shan't be missing Neasden. i refuse to feel even the slightest inkling of sadness for removal of myself permanently from this shithole. See previous blogs for my feelings on it. - believe me you do won't be reading anything new. A generally pleasant week having moved in. All the computer systems worked and we were doing 'real stuff' within ten minutes of arriving. Very efficient move from Bishops Moves. I've been exploring the area between Kings Cross station and Russell Square looking for new eateries, and can recommend Panini D'Ora for a start. There's also a new Waitrose just opened at the Brunswick Centre (Catherine Tate's childhood area).

Very happy to be there, and settling in well.

However, what the fuck happened to the tube on Thursday? Me and Mrs Dukc were meant to be meeting Carly in Slough we she's been on a piece of work experience for her Physio degree. We didn't get further than Baker Street as EVERY LINE was screwed. Even the ones which were reported as having a 'good service' eventually conked out. Rather ominously, we were sitting on a westbound Picc Line when the driver announced, having had the train stop at the station for 10 minutes, that there was now a code amber alert. I'm not sure what this means but it sounds rather onerous - shades of 7/7 all over again. Even more ominously, the news that all of the tube was virtually stood still, and several mainline stations, including Paddington, were closed, never made it to the London news either that evening or Thursday. Even the incredibly informative Going Underground blog by Annie Mole (from whence the picture was filched - sorry) was deafeningly silent as to any reasons, both for the stoppages and for the lack of news coverage. I do rant on about the TfL Politburo, but in this case, I think I have a point.

TfL, as I mentioned last year, were pretty wise in NOT scaring people when asking them to evacuate the underground by telling us white lies. But by claiming 'severe communications problems' over all lines, which seemed to be the excuse de jour on Thursday, is blatant rubbish, and seeing as as we've been there done that, somewhat irresponsible. Each line's communications systems are self-contained and therefore only effect single lines or affiliated groups of lines. For many years now, delays caused by an 'incident' has meant anything from a driver being taken ill, to a 'one-under' - itself a metaphor for passenger suicide - to a major punch up amongst passengers. Are we to believe that a 'major communications problem' is a euphamism for a suspected terrorist attack? The problem is that once a lie has been told, anyone who was there will instantly assume that given the gravitas of closures, will be looking for a mysterious code word indicating something entirely different - sheep on the line at North Greenwich meaning, perhaps, a broken down train at Amersham. Not as ridiculous as it might sound. Anyone heard an 'inspector Sands' message? They have been broadcast on station tannoys for the past five or so years and simply mean "this is a fire test". Tourists and casual travellers might not know this, but any seasoned users will.

Enjoying the sunshine

No rants for once, just my thanks to the weather god for providing us with a sunny, breezy day. Perfect weather for doing nothing. I was meant to be mowing the lawn with our super-high-tech pushalong mower, but after yesterday's barbecue in Tottenham, and the resulting over-inebriation on the part of yours truly, the word "motivation" is not high on my words de jour. Slobbing around listening to the Freak Zone on 6 Music instead, joined at the hip with this sort of weather. One of the most innovative and least mainstream radio prog there could be and about as close to the Peel ethic that non-internet only radio manages. But the FZ is one of those progs that makes you feel proud to be British, having, fortunately, a broadcast system that isn't strictly commerical, and hence by necessity playing to the lowest common denominator. I bet a lot of fellow freaks and weirdos from SanFran, NYC and LA might 'get it', but most American radio I've received online doesn't get close...

Going for a carnivore's convention of befridged leftover barbie meat this evening.

And tomorrow, my place of work becomes civilised once again. Life is beginning to reveal some sorely missed good parts again. At last.

Healthy grub for those on welfare

When you are on the dole, you should really try to economise. Food is expensive you can easily blow a week's welfare cheque on rubbish soda pop, fags, beer, chips, 'babs and KFC. Beat those doley woley blues and buy a breakfast cereal (which of course soaks up the old White Thunder cider at any time of day or night). You can buy it at your local Aldi, where this photo was snapped, and as you can see, not only are they cheap by dint of being sold at a 'deep discounter', they ar also very healthy. And to help you find them, they even mention your lifestyle.

Wedding in York

Our two fine friends Graham and Tracey were married at the weekend. they are a lovely couple and they deserve many happy years together. I'll post a photo when I download the lot I took at the wedding. We went up to York (thanks GNER for the two broken down trains), but trains - and grumpy hotel manager - aside, we did have a wonderful time. Many weddings feel like a production line process, but not theirs. Their friends are many, and wide-ranging, and the fact that lot of Christians were there helped since it was a church wedding after all. Funnily enough, our own wedding which also should have been a Fordist affair, being in Gretna Green, wasn't either - many people we know, independently, have mentioned that they were almost in tears during the ceremony.

Back in York though; the service was fab, the reception lunch was large and thoroughly enjoyable, and Lynn and I got to meet Mel for the first time, who I've been emailing on the cafe list for the past couple of years. Nice to put a face to the name, and she's nothing like I envisaged (far less 'northern' than I expected and quite well sorted out head-wise - I imagined a slightly flakier bod).

The stars of the show though, were G and T, who met on the very same list, and met up in person in March 2005 - apparently it was love at first sight, though seeing as they are both bacon rind, it was possibly love at first sniff. Tracey's quite ill and by 10pm was feeling rather bombed out. After they left the disco, we all blundered off home.

And the next day, we managed a quick ride to Acomb on the ftr tram-bus thingy which is rather like a glorified bendybus.

Movin' out

The photo says it all. But since that won’t mean much, I’ll explain. Five years ago, several teams at the place I work, including mine own, were shipped out, for purely political reasons – though few of us realised THAT at the time - to a bunker in Neasden, North West London. This was inconvenient for me since:

1) it is in the wrong side of London for easy commuting, not that commuting anywhere in London is either easy or pleasant. The direction of town would be OK (ish) if that place had been, say Golders Green or St John’s Wood. But it wasn’t…

2) …it was in Neasden, NW10. Anyone who knows anything about this godforsaken shithole knows that the best thing about it is the North Circular Road, which takes you east or west out of the place. It is as grey as an elephant’s arse and even the sun seems to skip the area entirely on its westward course across town. It has the charm of a Russian service station c. 1976. And that’s being somewhat unfair to Russian motorways. I may even leave a picture of the place when I leave this org so you can get a full idea of the extent of the nastiness of the place. I don’t want to ID my employer yet, I still need to pay the mortgage.

Now that the political side of things has been sorted out, my less-and-less beloved employer has decided that “oh, yes, there was enough space at head office after all”). That’s VERY GOOD then.

So, we are moving back to where we should have always been. In the thick of central London, near shops, fooderies, pubs (Neasden even lacks THEM – well it lacks any that you’d care to actually drink in).

When we leave this building, I’ll be baring my arse at it, then taking the Jubilee Line, not taking a backward glance. Goodbye, oh cancerous rot-fester of my life.

I am still applying for jobs elsewhere anyway. I am losing any sense of respect for and even benevolence toward my employer. Sooner I leave, the happier my state of wellbeing.

Hungarian holiday

We have just returned from a week in Hungary which was excellent and which I may blog later properly with some pix, though knowing me, this entry will end up sufficing. Needless to say we did the usual tram-fest (lots of old beauties there) and ate lots of goulash at a restaurant about 10 minutes walk from St Stephen’s Boulevard (sorry, can’t remember what its called in Hungarian, but that’s a good-enough translation), which was phenomenally good, both in terms of the gargantuan portions and the recklessly cheap prices, and which we visited 5 times, the food was so scrumptious. We tried a more expensive one for reference, but nah, the cheapo eatery was both better value and for food it was the dog’s danglies. I don’t know how they do it. Best thing about Budapest though was although he was a very touristic sort of town, it wasn’t touristy. Unlike Prague, where you feel there is ‘you should do/see/buy/go to this’ agenda, Buda seems to be a sort of city with enough going on not to have to force you down a well-trod route. “Go on”, it seems to say “there’s so much here for you to find…come and play”.

Hungarians, if our stereotype aerials were working properly, seem to be a very chilled out bunch, lacking both the poverty that their past history has bought – we’re talking relative wealth of course, since buying stuff over there is dirt-cheap mostly compared to the UK – and some of the national bitterness that seems have remained in certain ex-Iron Curtain countries. Lovely, hard working people and gorgeous women, too. They reminded of the Dutch in some respects, who are equally pragmatic and tolerant, and with equally attractive women (question to self, am I turning into a middle-aged Eurobabe horn-doggy saddo? Those German and Polish women, now then, yummeeeeee….).

The she-wife decided we would stay in a four star hotel this time, rather than our usual ex-Ukrainian mining overseers wayzgoose refuge (£8 per room per night, one or two star concrete communist era bunker favoured by moi – as was the Daggersdukc trip to Krakow), so this was not a cheapo’s holiday, but we managed to only spend £400 between the two of us living pretty luxuriously considering our joint tightwad nature. And Sleazyjet only charged £120 return for a very late-booked flight – and only screwed up the outward flight with a four hour delay, so overall, not bad.

Spam. Why?

Can anyone tell me what spam is meant to achieve?  Yes, I know its annoying in its attempts to flog things you don't want, but, while I can understand the 'junk mail' ethic of blitzing you, there is very little point if the telephone number on your junk mail menu is for a pizza delivery service in Jakarta (unless of course you live in Jakarta).  

I have tried to reply out of sense of experiementation usually with words of abuse or mockery to these spamming fools knowing full wel that I could well be opening pandora's box to a whole load more - so its usually been done on an email account I no longer wish t use.  .  And yet, none of the email addresses connect you to anything.  I just get bounced mail messages.  

If my friendly Chinese delivery menu's contact number was constantly non-available, I'd give up.  

If any spammer wishes to contact me personally and tell me how I can lengthen my SAD TH11N D1Cc or actualy allow me to acquire a cheap copy of WINOZ XP then I'll be glad to find out just what it is they are actually selling.  Because in the unlikely, nay, impossible circumstances that I do need such services, then all I'm hearing is a dead line.

Mood:  OK - just OK
Book:  Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell
Moozik:  Random iPod moments

Sad and ignoble end of the Joy Report

....and I've just noticed that my Joy Reports weren't exactly a screaming success.  Truth is,that other than the odd incident involving, say, dead people, or perhaps power failures across London, the tube has been a sweetie for weeks now.  

Oh well, the Big Girl tells me to spark up a bus stops to encourage the bus's arrival.  Now I've told the world how crap my journey is, suddenly it is no longer crap.  So it worked then.  Sadily I don't believe in that sort of crud, but if I did...

i kid you not though, in my teens, I could predict almost to the second when the next bus would appear in view.  Being the sceptical man of science that I am, I would like to dismiss it as mere coincidence, though it did happen far too often for my liking.  And if I'd been blessed with a true psychic gift, why couldn't it be something useful, like predicting lottery numbers.  Didn't help Mystic Meg, mind.  

Funky widget

I've just downloaded a widget for the Mac which allows quick and easy blogging.  So I hope to start posting micro blogs whenever the mood takes.  

Should be much easier.  Anyway, time to give it a try.

Three Joy Reports in one - and a word on orange

Oh gosh, I’m stumped. Joy reports are joyous. There weren’t any problems on Thursday, yesterday or today, and on Friday I worked from home. Perhaps District Line chief executives are prowling the line this week.

Has anyone noticed just how bloody cold the refurb’d trains are on this line by the way? Don’t get me wrong, I generally approve of the redesigned carriages, especially the less harsh on the eyes internal lighting. The un-refurb’d trains went from having pinky coloured tubes, chosen when the trains were new in 1979, making them seem rather warm and inviting, to a rather harsh blue shade meant, I think, to emulate daylight, or at least the grey British version of daylight, placed there, virtually overnight and with no prior warning, in 2002 or so. They are actually the same colour as the tubes used in an S. A. D. lamp I have at home. Maybe TfL were doing their bit to combat passengers’ winter blues. When they were first installed, I felt rather nauseous, especially as the internal panels of the trains, and seat coverings, were a rather delicious orange. The two colours didn’t mix well though. Unhappily, the nice orange panels have been replaced with a bland grey. I’m sure this makes the trains harder to vandalise, and I guess they don’t show up dirt so well, but I liked the orange, and salute the genius who chose the colour, and double-salute the person who signed it off for the contract. I reckon I might be in a minority though. Remember the glory of 70s kitchen appliances and you’ll know the kind of orange we’re dealing with. Orange Smartie orange. Scrumptious. Heck, once I can make my camera produce the colour properly I’ll bung a picture of a door panel in so you can see that I’m truly not getting over-excited about it.

The refurbs’ lights are more a neutral yellow colour. But alas, the heat seems to have been turned to half power on these trains. Not quite the refrigerated meat lorries that are the C stock Hammersmith & City/Circle line trains, but a good attempt.

The light fantastic

We went to see the Dan Flavin retrospective at the Hayward Gallery yesterday.

I think this is the first time the exhibition has been shown to such an extent in the UK - there were 90 pieces there yesterday, including his line drawings and ideas for future sculptures.

Dan Flavin was a New Yorker who designed sculptures made of commercially available neon tubes, and some of them are plain beautiful, as well as being stark, fluorescent light never being that flattering a media. The first exhibit you see when entering is a grid of about 200 squares made up of bright green neon tubes. Others are smaller. One I liked particularly was made up abou 120 circular flouresecent tubes, the kind you used to find regularly in 70s designed kitchens.

Apparently many of the bulbs are hard to pick up now as fashions have changed and gases and gone up on value. Apparently, some of the rarer Philips tubes have had to be scoured from various old warehouse stock. I would hate to have to be the person to turn them on each morning - I'd dread the sound of a now-valuable tube popping.

Worth a visit, and look out for the array of 18 bright green tubes laid vertically to form an eight foot high wall. Its like the gateway to heaven. In fact, there is a yellow version too, but the green one seems far more dramatic to my eyeballs.

Despite being given a ticking off from one of the Hayward's staff, here is a rather bad picture I took with my mobile phone which sort of gives you an idea of what to expect. The picture is rather blue, where the real sculpture was actually made of multi-coloured tubes and is far more stunning and gorgeous than my poor old Motorola can deal with.

Mood: Bit bored, but in an OK way
Book: The Lost Cosmonaut - Daniel Kalder
Music: 6Music's "Freak Zone"

Joy Report

Left home: 8.40
Tube arrived: 8.48
Arrived at work: 10.05

The exception which proves the rule. Problem free – but how long can it last?

Not doing much today. Mick is over for the week as his flat is be redec'd.

Ate a nice lump of duck and apple pate for lunch. Hmm, maybe a lunchtime snack breakdown report is also required until the daggersdukc newsworld becomes populated with, er, news. Oh bugger it, here goes then.

STOP PRESS: THE DAGGERSDUKC LUNCH REPORT

Pot Asda duck and apple pate (9/10)
"Pick up a pie" pie from London Bridge station. Variety: Lamb and rosemary. 8/10 (not enough meat, otherwise, perfect)
Pack Golden Wonder cheese puffs (8/10)
Pack Doritos (Cool Cheese variaty)
Cadbury's Bourneville (small)

I'm not going to rate the common foods out of 10 - why bother? Most have tried them and will have their own grading. Sadly, I've eaten this healthy repast. Tomorrow, if you are lucky, I'll post a picture of my lunch in its full, uneaten glory.

Mood: Evil in humour
Book: Women in Love - DH Lawrence (audio on iPod)
Music: Various shuffled selection on 'pod

Tube Joy Report

In the light of not having much to write about – or at least not wishing to write about much at the moment – I’m going to post the time it took me to get to work on a daily basis. This will be for my own amusement, so don’t expect a giggle-fest.

Numero uno: I swear my journey times are getting longer. This will prove this to be the case, or otherwise.

Numero duo: I want to point out all the faults and tribulations. Many of these are unannounced by the Chief Disseminator of Information employed by the Transport for London Politburo, and so, being a public spirited chap, I want to put the record straight and possibly present this diary to said politburo chief.

For a while after Tim O’Toole took over and put up a ‘how we’re running’ board at each station, the information was clear, as well as spread far and wide by driver and tannoy alike. But they are slipping back to their wicked ways. I’m sure they don’t tell us in order to un-exist the problem, making their stats look better. Well, I for one, am not convinced. In a world full of Animal Farm style crows, let me tell you that Sugar Candy Mountain does not exist. So when we are told, sheeplike, that the service has improved by 3.3756 percent, don’t believe the hype. In fact, don’t believe anything these arseholes say, because it was all written on the back of a fag packet while the chief mechanic was being shagged by a sheep half way down the Old Kent Road on a 453 bendybus.

Today’s journey Joy Report

Left home 7.33. 6 minute walk to tube station
Train arrived 7.44 (good)
Delays on Hammersmith and City Line (reported on tannoys)
Very slow service from Whitechapel to Baker Street. Lots of pauses. No Met Line running Aldgate-Baker St, so slow, crap change required.
Arrived to work at 9.38 (38 minutes late)

Limp wrist action

I have a secret collection. My wife knows about it, but I doubt many, if any, of my friends have noticed. It’s nothing pervy or offensive, but I am partial to collecting the odd watch or three. Lynn collects clocks, and has a noisy, rather obnoxious cuckoo clock which stutters the hours and half-hours whilst ticking somewhat inefficiently. The last time we did a count, she had 58 clocks, including a caseful of miniatures and a clock made of industrial tools bolted together.

I only have eight watches, which admittedly, is pretty pesky for someone who calls themselves a collector. An automatic, a conventional windup, an extremely ugly LCD, which is my most worn watch due to its indestructibility, and several analogue quartz watches. I’m not much taken with fashion or price (one of my favourite, sadly deceased watches was a purple dialled baby I bought in Spandau Market, Berlin, last year. That only lasted 3 months, but it looked fantastic – cost was 5 Euro).

I had been looking for an LED watch – one of those watches whose numbers glows ruby-red when a button is pressed. These are relics of the seventies and I fondly remember my “BIONIC MAN” WITH SIX FUNCTIONS (!!) LED watch. Presumably the Far Eastern licensee was not wealthy enough to pay for proper Six Million Dollar Man branding or the watches they made were too crap for the holder to associate themselves with the manufacturer. It was cheap and generic, and didn’t last long. But this toy fascinated my eight-year-old self. About a year ago I started to look for one which used the same time delivery technology as my BIONIC wonder. There seemed to be plenty of old ones around for sale, including some wonderful Pulsars, but to be honest

1) they were bloody pricey for an old watch, and more importantly

2) I like to wear my watches and the technology was pretty flaky in the 70s. I wasn’t sure how well any item I bought would stand up to the rigour of actually being worn. After realising I’d be out of pocket, I gave up and forgot about it until a few weeks ago.

Then I found a site which sold watches with that same 70s design, but which were new and contained updated 00s LED technology and power management (the 70s originals ate batteries like sharks eat fish). And here it is on my rather hairy arm. If you are interested, some better pictures can been at www.led-watch.com. You can buy one as well – mine is the TX5.

Baby, you can drive my car

Lynn puts her foot down



Yesterday, Mick, Krissy, myself and Lynn took our first driving lesson - remember, we are all blind and partially sighted, so for us, all in our 30s and 40s, this was a very big deal.

The lesson took place at an airfield somewhere in Northamptonshire, a place called Brackley, and run by a company called Driving Ambition (www.driving-ambition.info). We divvied ourselves into two dual control cars. Mine and Lynn's driver was Ian, and with Lynn behind the wheel, they set off learning the gears, clutch and steering. They then moved on to slow practice runs around the airfield and the last half hour was spent riding around the perimeter, getting up to speeds of 50mph. Lynn had a massive smile on her face throughout, and was a careful, methodical driver. Ian guided her steering vocally and, despite her lack of sight, I didn't feel as if we were in dangerous hands once. Given a full deck of sight, I'm sure we be driving carefully and safely all over the place.

Whereas I just wanted to do a Schumacher. We got up to speeds of 60mph. While I was happy to get as much speed out of the car as I could given the pot-holey state of the road. Our instructor would, I think, have preferred me to have taken things more relaxed, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and I wasn't going to waste it on the niceties of polite, considerate driving when the chance tot take the Playstation rally game into a real car (a nice little Honda).

This is an experience I would recommend to any blindo who hasn't driven, and isn't likely to, legally anyway.

Another experience I would recommend is a trip to the Great Nepalese restaurant, at the side of Euston Station, which is where we rounded off our very tiring and exhilarating day.

A fantastic way for Michael to celebrate his 40th.

Mood: Chipper
Book: Saturday - Ian McEwan
Music: Sparks - Hello Young Lovers

Thank Allah

A moderate Muslim is heard. Cor.

I'm not saying that these views weren't present all along, but its nice to have it confirmed. Half the problem is our sensationist press presents stories about angry, rioting Muslims as though they were the only kind - rather like the Muslim press presents us as Westerners as all, Bush-loving infidel lackeys.

This man talks a lot of sense about the reaction of Muslims in the Middle East to the Danish cartoons and compares it to the non-reaction of those in South East Asia.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/15/opinion/15raslan.html?th&emc=th

Pictures of the Prophet - but not a cartoon

Following my last entry about the cartoon which doth offend, I thought I'd add this little fact I found out this morning whilst listening to The Today program on Radio 4.

There is an image of the Prophet Mohammed which has been sitting doing no-one any harm in the University of Edinburgh's art gallery. It was painted by 13th century Muslims and is the oldest known portrayal of the prophet. Now one could say that whereas the painting is reverent while the cartoon pokes fun, this was not the point I've heard. ANY portrayal of Mohammed is counted as un-Quranic. If that's so, how has this picture been hanging for decades without anyone being blown up or worse still, without there being a boycott on Scottish products? You know how much the Pakistanis and Egyptians just love their haggis? No, there isn't any pork in haggis.

Therefore I'm led to believe that there is a story behind the story. Nothing is what it seems is it?

I believe that the real behind the scenes tale will come out within the next few weeks, though I strongly feel you can't take away Iraq and the war with the Texas Yokel and Mr Blah out of the equation.

And while I am an ardent advocate of free speech, the fact that the French satirical magazine who initially published in France, have decided to publish the cartoons again, I think this is s step too far. Free speech is one thing, but deliberate antagonism, merely for the sake of doing so, is another. Time to move on, we know we can publish in Europe.

The cartoon doth offend

I’m nominally a Christian with critical opinions, regarding both Christianity, and life generally. Religion has been at the centre of more wars than just about anything else, including famine. I also believe that science, vested interests aside, is generally a ‘good thing’ and that the Enlightenment n Europe set us apart from the reigns of the spiritual and this is why we are mainly both wealthy and tolerantly pluralistic. The Catholic branch of Christianity didn’t hold all the moral or physical answers to our burning questions about how our world works, and because we are humans, and by our very nature curious, a few of us challenged the status quo. Long may we go on learning about our world – it is human to study, absorb and change our behaviour based on what we know and what we might find.

Of course, just because we think we know something, doesn’t make it truth, hence Thomas Kuhn’s “Paradigm Shifts” occur, these being major changes in the ways we examine the world. From Newtonian theories of Physics to Einstein’s. And isn’t that a jolly good thing? Religion, if left unchecked, does nothing positive in the name of progress other than hold us as a race back from scientific progress. I’m not saying all scientific progress is good progress, but it means that any superstitions (eg, “witchcraft”, and other so called heresies) don’t keep their foothold here for long. Religions aren’t bad in themselves – who could realistically say that Christ’s basic tenet that we should treat those in ways we ourselves would like to be treated is anything other than a positive statement about how we as humans should live? But absolute power, held by those with a vested interests in maintaining a religious status quo, are as easily corruptible as those with power in other realms. Religion isn’t created by God, but by corruptible humans.

So the cartoon was let out of the bag and all hell (or at least the promise of hell to us infidels) was let off by the more extreme Muslims. And this anger was over what exactly? Showing 12 ‘derogatory’ images of the prophet, so I’ve been led to believe, in fact pillorying him. Oooooh, what a shocker!

Sorry, but Jews have managed to get through a holocaust and have continued to develop what was already a useful tool – self effacing humour. My dad (who is a real Christian rather than a plastic one like me) can’t watch TV without hearing a stream of blasphemous words, as he regards them. Plenty of Christians feel as though their opinions have been steamrollered, or at least disregarded by mainstream UK politics and civil society. So in the face of being ridiculed, Jews laugh at themselves and Christians have developed thick skins, or have just switched off as much as possible from worldly society. Anyone who calls themselves a Christian in public and hasn’t developed metaphorical calluses has either got so much charisma that they can just brazen their way through the tirade of abuse, or can articulate themselves out of a situation decisively through argument. Regardless, Christians have learnt that to consider browbeating of their religion as a personal attack achieves nothing more than allow others to escalate at best criticism, at worst a kind of nagging mocking, levelled at them and their beliefs.

So what do extremists Muslims do to sell their beliefs as viable in a modern age? Oh yes, threaten to firebomb a Danish newspaper office, wave guns around, hysterically cry for the death of Europeans – hey, haven’t they learnt that us Euros stopped believing in God 80 years ago or more? Well, that’s rational isn’t it? That’s going to generate a shedload of converts. Do they believe an omnipotent prophet is going to need such puny assistance from the likes of mere mortals? And do they seriously believe that their actions will please the prophet? Perhaps they do. If so, it sickens me to think humans find this kind of action attractive.

Well I’m not a Muslim, though I have a great deal of time for those who are serious about what they believe in, eg, have thought about it and questioned some of the wilder actions of people associating themselves with the label. What I don’t have any time for is for childish playground antics (unfortunately the materials used aren’t just fists and feet, but guns and bombs – the mentality is the same and sucks equally). And I would argue to the death that almost* no-one has the right to censor any belief that another may hold. Argue with them until you’re blue in the face. Debate until neither of you can stay awake. Fight your cause with words, not violence.

The reason we in the west have progressed, made things, changed our ideas is through debate and by proving that even the most seemingly ingrained rules can and should be challenged. Debate and the freedom to do so. This is why God no longer “appoints” our monarch and the church is unable to put people to death for brewing up a few roots in their living room.

This extreme version of Islam takes us right back to the dark ages. No thanks, you’re welcome. Give me free speech every time.

***

Yesterday, to the surprise of many, Nick Griffin from the BNP along with his cohort was not charged with allegedly inciting racial hatred – I think most pundits thought he’d be at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for quite some time.

Good.

Its not “good” because I love the BNP and all they stand for. It would take the threat of facial surgery performed by an angry gorilla armed with a machete before I ever put an X in their box. It IS, however, a victory for free speech. Griffin and his nasty army may be talking complete guff, and, if they are, the best thing they can do is hang themselves with their own logical rope. I’d rather be shown how my plans will fail rather than be told that they simply will, “because I say so”. To be told he is a ‘racist’ is (let’s face it) probably true, but I find it heart-warming that a jury, who know the case better than me, can dissent and let him off. The question of Griffin isn’t the seemingly obvious one “is he or isn’t he a racist”? Of course he is, and by their own terms, I find Griffin’s views reprehensible, and I trust that the British public, by not voting for his party en masse, despite the piss-poor opposition until Cameron appeared, agree. Of more concern to me is “knowing that Griffin IS a racist, does he therefore have the right to openly enunciate his opinions”?
To suggest that Griffin’s views can be silenced by putting him away simply gives ammo to those who believe he is a hero of our times. But unlike many of our politicians of the increasingly nannyish times we live in, I do believe we are not entirely stupid. I questioned the logic of the NF when they were active in the area near where I grew up – Southall – in the late 70s when I was 12. I think the average voter can do likewise with this lot.

Let them speak. Then let’s mock them for the dangerous nincompoops they are. As the Tories found out during the 80s all the press slagging about their sleaze changed nothing. It took Spitting Image, a satirical puppet show of all things, to cause ructions within the party. Humour in the face of war really is the second best weapon. But the worst attack any can make (OK, with the exception of say, nuclear attack or having a piranha on the end of your finger) is to ignore your attacker. Works for me.

* When it comes to censorship I’m a good honest hypocrite here. The only exception to my rebuttal of censorship is on those materials which affect, or involves kiddies. The only right you have to watch filmed sex involving real children is the right to have your balls cut out with blunt garden shears. Slowly.

Job interview update

I did not get the job I mentioned a few entries back.

Bummer.

Back to manic, pointless bordom then. At least at the moment my job is run at full throttle. The other condition it can degenerate to is stop. Anyway, more on this when I get round to the annual summary.

Romfod - amusiing fact (it amused me anyway)

Been off the blogging for a bit - busy little me hasn't got time, or rather there are always more pressing matters. I'll try and write a summary of my 2005, if and when I get a few magic minutes. (Ha ha).

Anyway, this little fact amused me. The town of Romford's name was not, as you might imagine, named after a river Rom which could be forded here. This is the logical conclusion, right? Wrong. The town came first, the river was (and is) a stream originally known as the Murkeyditche. The name is a back-formation.

And having tried to cross it at various times while wandering through Eastbrookend Park, which runs behind our house, I can testify to its murkiness.

And that's your lot until I can be arsed to write again - which will hopefully be sooner rather than later.

Music: Lots -updating iPod so putting lots on and hearing most of it.
Books: Martin Lewis's MoneyDiet
Blog I like: Diamond Geezer's (Google-able), particular his somewhat obsessive diary of Bow Road station refurbishment which reminded me the Curious Tale of the Dog and the Night Time in its minute detail - find and read (warning, its long and you have to get into the spit or else it just seems a bit OCD-ish.

Party victim

After a rather so-so party held in the Green Man in Euston on Saturday, a few of us travelled back from central London to Daggers for a little drink and a post-party chat about shite all. We found this specimen having a well-deserved post-party snoozette on the Central Line.

Sadly, he was removed by a (very pleasant, I have to say) member of the British Transport Police who asked him where he was going. “Walthamstow” he said, somewhat blearily. Despite the train pulling into Liverpool Street where he could have picked up an overground connection, he insisted on going back to Oxford Circus. The copper asked him if he had been with anyone earlier.

“Well”, he said, “my wife was here when I fell asleep”.

So…the question – what on earth happened to his wife? Gave us something to speculate on while we travelled the long and well-worn path to the burbs.

The meaning of 'scundered'

I just realise that I used a word in my last entry, 'scundered', which most people won't have heard of.

Simple: its from Northern Ireland, and according to the BBC's "Voices" website, specifically from Belfast, where coinidentally, my wife hales from before her family moved to Craigavon in the late 60s (my mum-in-law has an old proddy "Shankill" accent).

It simply means 'embarrassed'.

You can have a look at other Northern Irishisms here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/northernireland/voices/atilazed/a.shtml

Chav versus opera singer

The picture was blatantly swiped from Sha Crawford’s blog and illustrates to the uninitiated what a female chav looks like. Go and have a look at her site, it’s a fun read.

http://sha-crawford.blogspot.com/2005/05/chav-for-night-sleezy-men-free-drinks.html

A little story that warmed my heart:

Three or four chavs were gathered round a phone on the train back to Dover from Charing Cross. The phone was blaring some undoubtedly “lush” music. Annoyed at having her journey interrupted by this musical equivilant of shit, she put herself next to these fools and burst into song. These chavs found it very amusising indeed, giving her abuse for her efforts. But the good lady was neither intimidated, nor an amateur, in fact she was a pro opera singer on her night off. She delivered a full aria to the carriage, which then gave her a standing ovation.

The chavs, truly scundered, sulked off.

The world's saddest place

During our trip to Krakow, we visited Auschwitz 1 and 2, also known as Birkenau.

I can’t do this topic justice so I won’t try. Everything, which can be said, has been about the concentration camps of Germany, Poland, etc. There is no need to say any more. Plenty of information, should you want it, on www.wikipedia.org.

In my opinion, like I guess many others’, these camps are some of the saddest places on earth. The day, as you can see, was not the warmest – heaven knows what I must have felt like without the luxury of winter clothing, and for Krakow, this was not a freezing winter’s day. Credit due to the country of Poland for keeping the three camps in fairly good shape, for generations such as my own, to pay our respects to the slain and mutilated of the Hitler era. More importantly, for neither glorifying it by giving the “Experience” treatment, though tourism is inevitable. And for leaving them, as much as possible, in their bleak and mostly undisturbed state.

This is a photo I took from the watchtower overlooking the camp. The quality isn’t great, with reflections from the windows behind the camera, but the second part of the tour was rather rushed and, therefore, so were my pictures. It gives an idea of camp's scale - this was one quarter of the "accommodation" - the gas chambers were demolished two days before the Allies took over the camp and many of the buildings were demolished or have rotted.

Despite the necessary herding, I was more disturbed than I though I’d be, as were the rest of the coach. The journey back to Krakow was almost silent. That night, I contemplated on the atmosphere of the camps when everyone had gone home and the place remained bleak and silent. If you were a ghost-hunter, then surely this would be the ideal spot to detect the spirits of the painfully departed.

The word I think I'd describe my experience here is "awestruck", pure and simple. Here, in your face, is the evidence of death - not a death to a statistical body of people in a history book but real flesh and blood humans. In the main concentration camp, there were displays of belongings taken from the inmates as they arrived - hair, shoes, clothing. The dolls' clothes were somehow the most disturbing.

My great grandfather, Philip Jacobs, was a Jewish exile who moved to London in the 1920s, so I don’t think I can start to contemplate on what might have been if he’d stayed. You'd not be reading this, because I would undoubtedly not be here to write it.

Secret Santa

Nearly finished Christmas!

Bought the final Christmas present, for our Secret Santa do at work. Its for a guy I don't know at all, and since its secret, though a copy of "You Are What You Shite", a book I bought in Books Etc on the way home, appropriate.

For myself I bought a book about Lifestyle Envy by Alain de Botton and Merde Actually, the follow-up to A Year In The Merde.

Too tired to knock up a curry, so had turkey drummers (the adult version of Turkey Twizzlers I suspect) in macaroni cheese.
Yum.

Job interview

Four weeks ago I took an interview for a job at the civil service - name of dept etc withheld until I know more.

Why has it taken four weeks...and counting....for them to answer? I know I'm still a prospect as I get an email from them once a week asking me nicely to keep waiting and apologising for same. But I'd really like a firm reply, the waiting is doing me in.

The job is centred around two things I'm passionate about and so I'd almost eat my right testicle to get this job - which makes waiting twice as hard. Come one guys at the Department of Tr... oops, tell me I've got it. The interview was a two hour grilling, I think I answered the questions fairly robustly and even though I'm not a snivil servant, you know I deserve it.

Discovered!

Unrelated to the previous post - hence the entirely new entry - my blog has been discovered! Not by one of my many anonymous fans, but by a person at work, in fact one of my immediate work collegues. Frig me, I'll have to be VERY careful what I say now. This person informed me at the office Chrismas party (not bad as office xmas parties go) and the revelation thoroughly whacked me.

This has been an entirely private affair up till now, written for the entertainment and illumination of my good self in future years, and for any other unfortunate soul who stumbles into it via Google.

My sis Natasha came across a diary she'd written when we were flat-sharing in 1987 in Harlington, near Heathrow and it reminded her that her life then was interestingly shit. Its this kind of rose-tinted remindering I want to do. In fact, looking at his blog, I probably give the false impression that my life is far shitter than it actually is - mostly I go around with a sense of bewildered amusement mixed up with doses of boredom which unless you live the life an A list sleb is inevitable. So for the record, life ain't too bad, but I want to remind myself of the particularly good, bad or merely funny parts of it. So this dmn blog will just to reflect the bias of what I consider interesting. There are moments of sadness and regret and I include them too when I think its appropriate though often they are too personal for me or others for me to comfortable revealing all.

As to whether you find my Rants & Burblings interesting dear readerkj....well if you don't there are 10 squllion other diaries to find on the net, so find them and enjoy.

Piers Morgan's political commentary

We've just returned from Krakow, and there will be a few blog entries relating to this trip. More on that later, when I get the pictures from the camera.

I am reading "The Insider" by Piers Morgan and oddly enough he has just shown up on Question Time. I found his diary informative and it really gives you an insight, in a rather tabloid way, what is going on behind the scenes in civil and political society. For a £3.73 Tesco cheapo bestseller, a good read and one that cuts through a lot of the media bullshit. I'm increasingly looking for the news behind the news, and hisi diary is a pretty interesting glimpse into that hidden world.

He may be out of an editing job, but watch this space - a commentator who I think we'll be seeing a lot more of in future months, especially as the Tories, under Cameron, look like they might be almost worth of taking on Blair. He knows Blair better than most, and unlike politicians in the Labour party, don't have the same very skewed points to make. He's a sort of working man's Paxman I'd say.

Mood: Pretty mellow - the mellowest I've been in ages
Book: The Insider by Piers Morgan
Sounds: Madonna's new one and Stephen 'TinTin' Duffy's Greatest Hits which is an excellent slab of 80s nostagia which has aged well. And how could I forget, re-discovered Scritti Politti's commerical successese. Nicely aged too.

How accessible are Apple Macs? A subjective review

A friend asked me whether I'd give an opinion of the Apple
screenreader, Voiceover. I don't actually use voiceover as my main
access technology, being partially sighted. I do use it to read large
chunks of text, something I quite appreciate as backup, especially
when using the trackpad on the laptop, as this means I don't have to
constantly move my index finger to focus text. This blog entry is a review of what I know about Voiceover, and Applemac access technology generally.

Here's my general opinion of Voiceover.

Manual - you get an MP3 version on the Mac and you also pick up a PDF
version on the net. This explains things quite well and you should be
able to learn the basics of voiceover in about 2-3 hours if you go for
the MP3 version.

Compatibility. There are issues here. While many packages included
on the Mac's standard sales package work well, some don't work at all
and others need some serious tweaking by Apple. I'd like to hope that
these issues are cleared up with later versions of OSX. This depends
on whether Apple seriously intend to integrate Voiceover into their
operating system or are just offering it as a sweetener for the
massive American education market. Before Voiceover, Macs weren't ADA
compatible, so they could have lost out on a lot of sales if they
hadn't pulled their finger out.

Works well with:
TextEdit (the Mac's default word processor - not a bad one, but
lacking a few bells and whistles, but perfectly acceptable for 95
percent of all writing/documenting tasks. Also works with a third
party WP package called Nisus Writer Express which I like as as its
pretty well-featured for a package costing £35 or thereabouts. Nearly
as good as MS-Word.

Safari- works well with the standard Mac web browser, Safari. Does
not work with Firefox, a good alternative.

Mail - pretty obvious what that does. I don't use Mail a lot because
the Zoom cursor does not track with it (its worth bearing what tracks
and what doesn't if you/your users are partially sighted and likely to
use speech as a backup rather than using VO as their only access tech
solution). I use Gmail with Safari and this works well. However, VO
*does* work with Mail, and pretty well apparently.

iTunes. The Mac uses iTunes for a number of processes including CD
copying, MP3 ripping etc. Not accessible to voiceover - this is a
MAJOR failure on Apple's part. The script used to write the program
isn't Cocoa compliant, but as far as a user is concerned, we don't
care. It just don't work.

Appleworks - does not work fully. Another major failure since this is
their main "MS-Office" equivalent. I' ve heard rumours that the next
version will work properly, but wait for the fat lady to sing on this
one I think.

Navigating items. Apple's desktop, "dock" (a list of easily
selectable programs) and the "Finder" - what Windows calls Windows
Explorer, works very well and its easy to navigate with the voiceover
keys.

For and against:]

For
Apple Mac stability. Very reliable, mine has never crashed. You can
throw bricks at the operating system and the worst thing does is
briefly shrug. From my experience of Voiceover, I'd say this extends
to this. Voiceover is part of the OS rather than being a bolt-on
which makes it feel and act integrated.

What works, works well. While later versions of Windows have become
much more stable, the Mac way of doing things still makes quite a lot
of sense, though as Windows gets better, the "Mac is superior" feeling
which used to be espoused by Mac users is no longer applicable. I
like elements of both OS-es. Windows is just more familiar and stuff
is more likely to work with WindowEyes/JAWS out of the box.

Its included in the price. If cost is an issue, then a Mac Mini costs
£339 with Voiceover and Zoom included. A new copy of JAWS alone
costs twice that. If you are just into a bit of word processing,
email and Internet, then work it out for yourself

Voiceover is not a "special" technology. You don't get the
ghettosiation ethic that some PC products have. Every new Mac sold
can be used by a VI (within the limitations I've mentioned) out of the
box. This is a wonderfully liberating feeling. Also, means that
issues of the absolutely ridiculous (OK, I could use expletives here
but won't) lengths Windows PC access products are copy protected (and
all the user-related bureaucracy which goes with it) don't apply.
Keys, dongles, license rights? They just don't apply to Macs.

Against:

User might need to relearn access technology. My tech-savvy,
JAWS-using wife can't be bothered to learn Voiceover. If the user is
not familiar with an existing system, unlearning a familiar system
won't be a problem though.

The PC versions are industry standards, Voiceover is a new kid on the
block. There are much more support sites and VIs with JAWS/WinEyes
experience. Also Macs are comparatively rare in their own right with
5-7 percent of the overall PC market. GW Micro, Freedom Scientific et
al have been making and supporting their various access tech products
for years and know their stuff. While you might get lucky and find a
member of staff in Apple who knows about Voiceover, I'd imagine their
support team isn't half the leviathan

Third party Voiceover training might not be that easy to find. Hmmmm,
I feel a new niche for my good self here!


Should I or should I not....?

A few basic ground-rules.

Feeling adventurous? Go for the Mac but don't expect an easy ride.
The MacVsionairies user group is a great source of support and some
of the users on it are extremely knowledgeable. If you need to use a
particular Windows product, then obviously go for Windows and JAWS
etc.

Education purchaser: If classmates are using Macs by default then
also go for it.

Cautious buyer?
I'd stick to buying Windows PC and JAWS. You'll have to pay much more
you will have the sort of experience familiar to most blindies on
learning a new package with WinEyes, JAWS etc. This means good
support and availability of training. If Apple are serious about
Voiceover though, give it a few years and Windows based access
technology will have to serious drop in price (or SHOCK! HORROR! be
included as part of Windows, because if Apple are serious, Voiceover
will be giving the likes of Freedom, GW Micro and the rest a run for
their money. The Mac could in three to five years time, be the VI's
first choice of computer, simply on price alone.

Stay sane, avoid Watord

What do you buy for the woman who has everything? (That's her on the right). We are talking 40th birthdays. We are talking WIFE’s 40th birthday. And yet, after 6 mainly happy years of marriage, I’m still none-the-wiser. She’s a gadget freak, a technophile and, like me, thinks Asda contains all the fashion she’ll ever need, so clothes are not an option and she has all the technological whiz-bangs you could throw a stick at. I may have go down the jewellery route, but then she’d have to be there as its such a personal thing.

I suppose I could buy her a Mac. At least then she’d have a computer which works for more than five minutes.

Customer service at Watford Electronics, also known on the web as …no, if you want their site, go find it. I’m not going to help you as their service is the worst I’ve come across from a company, ever. It makes 02 seem like a company of semi-evolved simians.

Our Aries computer, a nicely spec’d one, with good components, packed up a month after we bought it (see previous excited blog entry). I’d guess it was the main motherboard taking leave of itself because it only got as far as showing us the BIOS info screen.

We called.

They said they’d pick it up (even after we reminded them we’d paid for onsite: they didn’t care). Having waited in three times for Amtrak to turn up, each time Watford then regretfully informed us (after waiting 20-40 minutes on hold for an answer) that Amtrak weren’t going to arrive that day because Watford hadn’t given them actually been decent enough to ask them to drive over to our house!). I could go on. If you are interested in getting a diary of all we went through, which fortunately Lynn kept as she didn’t trust their customer reps from the get-go, I’ll send it to you. We then tried to claim our money back. Either no replies to emails or constantly evasive customer service reps. We have had to involve Barclaycard who were so appalled after reading the log, that they couldn’t see how they wouldn’t be able to claw the money back on our behalf. We’re awaiting their further reply.

Now for anyone not familiar with Watford Electronics, they are one of the better-known independent PC manufacturers in the UK. They have 20 page adverts in Computer Shopper. They have been around since I was a kid, in fact our school bought loads of their kit. The company I work for, before going for Dell kit, kitted their offices with Watford computers. They are not, or sorry, were not, a Mickey Mouse organisation. They are also cheap without compromising on quality. The fact that our PC’s motherboard packed up doesn’t really count against them as all computer components might fail, even the best ones. That’s why you buy onsite maintenance.

Keep your head. Avoid them. Your sense of sanity will love you forever. Thank goodness for the reliable, trouble-free world of the Mac.

Mood: Lazy
Sounds: The magic of Radio 2 – I’m in the office, just about to leave so don’t have much choice about this.

I'm still blogging

I’ve avoided blogging for a bit because there has been nothing worth getting excited about. My job is as bad as ever and apart from that things are ticking along quite nicely. The Mac is working well and customer service from just about everyone we’ve had the joy of dealing with has been universally appalling.

I’m going to write a separate rant about this when I feel more motivated, but as its fairly late, Question Time is on TV and I’ve had a knackering week, me being the only person on the help-line, which should have five members of staff covering it, plus working a five day week when I have by right two working from home, I’m not motivated enough to do it. I’ve met an interesting bunch of yanks on a chat list called Blink Link, another blindy bunch o and we getting our rocks off talking about American politics and their relationship with the UK.

This always comes as a surprise, especially the reckless way the government of that country took it to war, but the Americans I’ve met on the net are far more clued up than us Brits give them credit for. So why is it that these people, who I would otherwise consider intelligent, likeable people, are only waking up to the fact that they were conned by Bush. Not that we did much better with Blair, but at least we plebs had the decency to disapprove of his warmongering.
I’m covering well trod ground here so will stop.

I’m writing this in Nisus Writer Express on the Mac, and so far, my favourite WP package. I just wish that MS-Word would talk to Voiceover then I’d use that. Oh yeah, it costs about £200 for the cheap version. Maybe not then. But Nisus is a friendly and competent package and there’s a good chance I’ll buy a proper licence since I’m only using the trial.

And finally, if you are wondering why there is a dog on the top of my page, its because Kizzie, Lynn's guide dog has retired. This is a picture placed in her honour on her last day as a working beast and demonstrates to the world that she isn't forgotten. Not bad for shot taken on the mobile. The tray was loaded with a full English breakfast, definitely deserved. She is now living the high life with a lovely family in commuter belt Surrey.

Gone but never forgotten, Kizzer. I never thought I'd be sentimental about a dog which wasn't even mine - just a pet. But they grow on you.

Mood: Tired
Book: Sight Unseen by Robert Goddard
Soundz: Madonna, Scritti Politti, rediscovered