Not The New Scientist

Ye Olde Trip to a Pub Built in 1189

2010-10-08T15:55:00.000Z

Post 37th Birthday Party Party (and that's not an accidental repetition)

Worse for Wear

Which looks oldest: the cave wall or me?

Looking around an ancient pub, which is largely built in a cave, I thought about how much longer it would stand there and how much time I have left.

Recently, I started noticing things I didn't want to notice when I looked in the mirror. My skin has the texture orange peel, my eyes are all puffy and sunken, and I have this generally bloated appearance.

Having gone on a strict diet, exercising more, and quitting drinking (apart from on my birthday weekend) I don't appear to be looking any better.

And that's when it hits home - that's when you think your best years have gone.

But, after a period of reflection, you realise that looks aren't the most important thing in life. The most important thing is what we know and how we apply that knowledge and that we continue to learn and apply and that we pass on our knowledge.

And while passing on knowledge is easy enough, getting those we pass it on to apply it successfully is another matter.

Hope is all we have.

Link:
http://www.triptojerusalem.com/

According to some, the oldest pub in England.

Going to Seed

2010-07-28T17:54:00.002Z

Since there is no more Mrs Dan, I've found myself with far too much time than's good for me.

No longer restricted to where and when I can or can't go, at 36 years young, I'm a free man again. Almost.

I guess I'm not really the type for settling down, similar to Dean Moriarty from Jack Kerouac's On The Road. Only I haven't scattered my seed all over the place as he did. But that's another matter.

No. The only shackles that hold me down now, are those of work and commuting. And I only wear those for eleven hours a day.

Trouble is, my belly is liking freedom too. Perhaps I could go to the gym.

But then, that would be like more shackles.

Mindset

2010-07-24T07:11:00.005Z

The way I feel about a lot of things changes constantly.

And, not that I believe in astrology, I guess that makes me a classic Libran.

But frustration is borne out of indecisiveness. Not necessarily for me, but certainly for those around me.

I can't even decide whether I want to finish writing this or not. And if I do finish it, it doesn't matter to me if nobody ever reads it.

That's one thing I do know.

I can't say I've never done anything purely for popularity because I was a teenager once.

But nowadays I don't care for the popularity contest.

And that's about the only thing I won't change my mind about.

Everything is difficult...

2010-05-14T05:43:00.002Z

...until it becomes easy.

For years I struggled to tie my shoelaces.

Nowadays, fashion dictates it isn't even necessary. All that effort for nothing.

Goodbye Gordon

2010-05-03T07:49:00.005Z

Right, let me tell you how it is.

So, Gordon Brown got caught out this week. Although this was mainly, because he's such a fucking dipshit, he couldn't even remember he was wired to national television when he got in his car and started calling the woman he'd just spoken to a bigot.

He was probably the only person shocked by all of this. And he regrets the incident. Well, not taking his microphone off is what I mean he regrets.

No, I wasn't shocked at all. I've long believed that the overwhelming majority of polititians are motivated by selfishness, greed and power. Little old ladies going to buy a loaf of bread don't mean a fucking thing to them. The average prole is just there to be stepped on. Sure, talk to them nicely when you want their vote, them step right on them.

They're all the same.

In the word's of Montgomery Brewster, "Vote for None of the Above."

Fucking Bastard Twatting...

2010-04-18T11:17:00.000Z

VOLCANIC BASTARD ASH!

A State of Health

2010-03-29T17:14:00.008Z

We may not have the best healthcare system in the world here in the UK, but we do have one that doesn't discriminate between rich and poor...unless you choose to go private and get treated quicker by the same doctors and nurses as NHS patients.

So, is socialised healthcare a good thing?

It certainly works in Cuba.

It kind of works in the UK, once you can actually get your GP to refer you to hospital.

Last week I attended an emergency appointment at hospital, made by my GP - or his receptionist - which I had only six weeks to wait for. I was given a list of hospitals to choose from - as I am entitled - and chose the only one that was on the list.

Thankfully, the gastroscopy revealed nothing sinister inside my oesophagus, stomach and duodenum. But they took biopsies none the less. Just to make sure.

The consultant asked me my symptoms, which I've had for around a year, and was astounded that I'd only just made it to hospital after all that time.

Unfortunately, it would seem I had been sent for the wrong kind of test given my symptoms.

So, now the consultant is to write to my GP, suggesting I get some bloodwork done to see if I have gallstones. This will take around two weeks.

And in the event that the blood tests point to gallstones, I will only have to wait between four to six weeks before getting an ultra-sound, and then a further two to three weeks for surgery.

Those times might seem like a long time to some readers but my symptoms would not seem to be life threatening - at this stage - and given that the treatment is free - well, if you exclude income tax and statutory National Insurance payments - I'm quite happy to wait and keep what little money I have in my pocket.

I'll probably need it for prescriptions.

Rip Torn

2010-02-15T15:32:00.000Z

What a legend.

And more on the way...

2010-01-05T10:14:00.001Z

Just a Man on the Bus

2009-12-10T20:11:00.004Z

Public transport has become a way of life for me. It's a daily necessity.

And I don't look back on my days as a car owner with fondness.

No road tax to pay, no vehicle insurance, no fuel costs¹, no MOT², no breakdown recovery and repair and no service bills.

Certainly, you get the freedom: the freedom that is the shackles of all those financial commitments. And just when you think you have some extra cash saved for a holiday to the South of France, your gearbox explodes. bang goes the gearbox, bang goes the holiday.

Public transport - in the age of the Internet - is the best place to learn social skills. Forget that social networking shit. Catch a bus or a train.

The vagrants who occupy bus stations across the land, the ones who sit there with their cheap booze, and threadbare clothes: they're the ones who have the real stories, the ones who have led real lives. Just try talking to one, you might be surprised as to what you learn.

Then there are the same people you see, at the same stops, with the same glum faces. Somebody cracks a joke about Tiger Woods losing several advertising deals but landing a multi-million advertising contract with Durex, and the glum faces are replaced with smiles.

The sounds of complaint about the weather are replaced with sounds laughter. More jokes are told.

We mostly ever see each other on the station or on the bus. But we know each other's names. And when we chance upon on one another in a pub, we speak, and are introduced to each others' friends.

Now, this is real social networking.

¹At £1.10 a litre, this makes £4.95 a gallon. In us dollars, I estimate that to be around $8.00 US. It's not cheap.

²The MOT certificate. You don't have one, you can't get insurance, or if you have a certificate and it expires your insurance is invalid. But, of course, it promotes road safety.

Apologies for incoherence. Post skunk post.

Missing A Stop

2009-11-14T09:14:00.002Z

To say the day had been exhausting would not accurately illustrate the truth. Catching the train home from London, falling asleep and waking up in another country would.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with an unplanned trip to Scotland. But there's something wrong with cockroach infested B & Bs who charge forty-five quid a night.

On an Island - Lord of the Flies

2009-10-07T22:49:00.000Z

There are parts of the UK that seem similar to the island in Lord of the Flies.

The youth run wild, feral children of the night. No future, no prospects, no education. Just drugs, booze, burglary, prison and early death.

Cheered you up, have I?

Defining Moments: "I'm a grown up now"

2009-06-14T17:49:00.000Z

We can all remember, with a little gentle coaxing, one of the first times as a child that we felt like we were growing up.

The first one that springs to mind for me was the first time I ever crossed the main road alone. It was a route I'd travelled many times with my mother. And now she was trusting me to go alone. She trusted that I wouldn't end up like a lot of the hedgehogs, foxes and badgers did: squashed and very dead.

Not only did she trust that I would cross the road safely, she was trusting herself; that she had taught me well how to recognise when it was safe to cross the road.

She had taught me not to talk to strangers, accept sweets from them, or go and see puppies with them.

At last, I was an adult. At nine years old. I could cross the road on my own and mum trusted me with that, and all that stuff about strangers.

That stuff with strangers, you know, it changes as we get older. I realised this one night a few years ago.

****

I was sat in a pub when I struck up a conversation with this bloke who had a Marshall Amplification t-shirt on. Figuring he was a guitar player, or a fan of guitars at least, I kicked things off by asking him who the greatest player of all time was.

Unusually, he had the right answer. And I liked that. The answer? "You can't say that there is just one great player. That would be a load of bollocks. There are a lot of players who you could say are a lot better than average bedroom noodler."

Straight away, we were into a friendly, but not serious, conversation about music, which bands did it for us, who shouldn't have died from an OD, and all that other stuff.

Before I knew it we were buying each other beers and chain smoking and he said there was this great band on at a club tonight and that we should go.

It was at that point that I made a quick assessment as to whether I was going to end up dead in a basement after being violently sexually assaulted. It seems sensible to me, to make this kind of assessment, given how much my mum told me about strangers as a kid. And I decided I was okay.

After a quick phone call to say I would be out late (or early depending on how you look at it) we headed for the club. I'd already broken the first two rules: I had spoken to a stranger, accepted the sweets. And now I was breaking the third: I was going to see the puppies.

Turned out it was a good night and a good band. But what it got me thinking is this: At what point does it go from being unsafe to talk to strangers, take stuff from them, and go to a place where you normally would go with them, to being perfectly safe?

When does that happen?

Modern Medical Trepanning. Or Get Out The Electric Drill

2009-05-24T09:39:00.006Z

"A doctor in Australia used a household drill to bore into a boy's skull and drain it of blood clots as his local hospital lacked the required tools."

Source: BBC News

"How can we rip you off today, sir?"

2009-04-16T19:32:00.003Z

When are corporations going to get the message that we are fucking sick of being ripped off.

After work, I thought I'd check the local rag to see what was showing at the cinema, the cinema that is owned by a big fucking corporation.

Instead of finding cinema times, as are normally published on Thursday, I found an advert from them, stating that if I wanted to find out cinema times, I had to ring a premium rate phone number.

Fuck that. I'll wait until the film comes out on DVD.

25 Years

2009-03-07T08:01:00.007Z

Way back in 1984 I was eleven years old and the coal miners of England were on strike. Well, some of them were.

Those who weren't would have their homes targetted, windows broken, grafitti daubed on walls: "SCAB BASTARD" is the one I remember. I wasn't sure what bastard meant at the time, but I knew it was not a nice word. Now, I can't understand how breaking a strike would question one's legitimacy.

The children of scabs would have to have police escorts to school. I'm glad my dad was not a miner. I saw some adults do some pretty hideous things to each other, and worse still, to kids. Even kids did hideous things to other kids, throwing stones at each other, putting excrement in emptied crisp packets and throwing them at each other. These were kids of eight or nine, kids in my class at school. I didn't get involved. My dad wasn't a miner. I hated what was happening. I didn't understand any of it, but I knew it was all wrong.

The riots of that time have been well documented and I choose not to write about them here, since I didn't experience them first hand. But others did:

Never Been A Boat Yard

2009-03-01T18:25:00.004Z

No boats, just pipes. The whole yard was full of pipes.

Push Bar to Open

2009-02-13T07:54:00.003Z

"You can't stand there. You're blocking a fire exit."

Well, it's always my intention to stand blocking fire exits to ensure that everybody, including me, dies in the event of a fire. I would never simply turn around, open the doors,and leave, running faster than an Olympic athlete on performance enhancing drugs, in the event of a fire.

What steps would I take in the event of a fire?

Fucking big ones.

Britain: The Laughing Stock of The World

2009-02-03T17:10:00.001Z

Like several million other Britons today, I could not get to work. Why? Because a tiny bit of snow brought roads to a halt.

A man was clearing a path to the Town Hall, then he appeared to give up and went back to his pick-up. Can't say I blame him when very few people were at work.

The roads were getting better but still not many people wanted to drive.
This car park is normally full.
So, what country do you live in, and can you get to work when there has been a tiny bit of snow, and I mean tiny bit. Tell me how you get to work in 3 foot of snow, I know you can do this, where we Brits fail.

Is this a maths test?

2009-01-04T09:11:00.005Z

There must be something I don't know. Happen seventeen minutes is the ideal duration for checking email. Anyway, I didn't put myself through three hours of air travel to check my email. And why is the Russian tarif advertised per minute and not per seventeen minutes? Maybe they don't have as much to say. Or maybe they have more sense than to throw their money at telephone companies, unlike, oh, I don't know, the British.

When I originally tried to take this picture, a woman came out of the shop and screamed at me in Spanish. I couldn't understand what she was saying but am fairly sure she was going to ram the camera up the English pig's arse if he took a picture of her shop without first spending money. I scurried off and hid in a nearby tourist shop, which mostly sold the obligatory tourist crap, for a couple of minutes and went back to get the above shot, taken from a coward's angle. Nah-nah-ne-nah-nah.

While hiding in the tourist shop, pretending to be interested in paper-weights and pens which made the lady naked upon tipping, I noticed some t-shirts which told me, I *heart* Benidorm, and didn't buy one.

Spain Trip - Part 3

2008-12-28T17:15:00.000Z

Ain't Gettin' in No Glass Elevator, Fool.

Living in north England, I don't see too many buildings with more than three storeys. This is where my fear of heights may come from. As you can see, Benidorm has a lot of tall buildings, probably nowhere as tall as ones you might find in New York or Tokyo. But they're tall enough for this vertigo sufferer.

The boats in the harbour give a sense of perspective. Just looking up at the rooftops made me feel dizzy. Is it possible to get vertigo from gazing upwards? I think so, though this was the first time I'd experienced it.

The one advantage of talls buildings is that you get a good view, at least for the brief period you dare look out of the window. My hotel room certainly had a view, it had a view of lots of concrete. The water in the pool had the same appeal as an ice bath, thus, nobody ever went in it. Why bother when you can walk in the sea without the slightest chill. And the view is better.

Spain is a deeply religious country and there are beautiful looking little churches everywhere. This religious culture might go some way toward explaining why the Spanish are so hard-working. And they certainly are hard-working; they never once complain about anything during their extremely long working day and night. I couldn't help but think that both the Church of England and the RC Churches in England have not done much to accomodate the expanding population in England, and maybe this is why Christianity is failing here; the churhes don't have the capacity for the township. Well, that and there's a stuffiness associated with some churches. I'm sure that, even if God does exists, he wouldn't mind people turning up to Church in torn work jeans and paint spattered t-shirts.

In Inverted Commas #1

2008-12-25T09:49:00.004Z

"Sell a man a fish, he eats for a day, teach a man how to fish, you ruin a wonderful business opportunity." - Karl Marx (allegedly) rewords a Chinese proverb to suit the capitalist thinker.

Spain - Part 2

2008-12-03T18:01:00.010Z

We all know it's not unusual to go on holiday and have people trying to sell you genuine "Armani" sunglasses for the same price you can get a burger. Being offered counterfeit goods is part of the holiday experience; you make the choice: buy or don't buy. There are some things that you just can't resist, even though you know they're not genuine. Especially since the genuine thing in question doesn't even exist outside of an animated world.Turning down the opportunity to enter an animated cartoon world - after all, it was our first day - we decided to explore the town, without the aid of a map or a tourist information guide. There were certain clues which should have told us we were heading into the newer part of Benidorm rather than the historic part, the traditional buildings and culture. We missed those clues. Of course, they were easy to miss:

"Missing the clue"

One thing we were pleased about was the temperature, some twenty degrees celsius warmer than back home. One thing we weren't pleased about was how dangerous crossing the road could be. Especially after beer. It didn't matter if the little green man was lit or not. Those cars just won't stop. Fear of heights? Pah. Nothing. Crossing Avenida del Mediterráneo gave a whole new definition to fear.

Less frightening, but mildly annoying, were the bar promoters every ten yards or so in the street. They were mostly young British ex-pats who had moved to Spain, lured by the constant sun and the "good life." I don't envy these people. I admire them for their courage in taking up such a challenge. But I did tire quickly of being told it was a beer and a shot for one euro in this bar or that bar. It was pretty much the same price everywhere. Dirt cheap alcohol and a free pavement pizza later on. I didn't need anybody to give me a piece of paper to tell me. And besides, I wanted to go to authentic Spanish bars, drink Spanish beer, make an idiot out of myself trying to speak Spanish.

I was actually surprised by how many pubs/bars there are. In fact, I have never seen so many pubs in one place in all my life. Quite how they all stay in business is beyond me. Oh wait, it's not. They stay in business because of British beer monsters of all ages, who go there for two reasons: sun and cheap booze. Of course, our downfall as Brits is that continental lagers are much, much stronger than anything we brew in the UK. Proper head-fucking tackle. It leads to bad judgements...

You know, it does exist, it really is genuine. At almost four euros a bottle, I imagine it is genuine. It must be.

Spain - Part 1

2008-11-16T18:53:00.010Z

East Midlands to Alicante

If you enjoy flying you will know someboy who doesn't. There are a lot of people in this world who really don't enjoy flying. I'm one of them.

Boats and ships are fine. I can take the ferry to the mainland anytime. No bother at all. But when it comes to flying I'll start getting twitchy and agitated a couple of weeks before. As much as my knowledge of physics and accident statistics tells me that flying really is the safest form of travel my mind just won't have it. So my brother dragged me on a plane because ferries take to long.

With some alcohol inside me, I found myself travelling at around 500 miles an hour, 31,ooo feet in the air. THIRTY ONE FUCKING THOUSAND FEET IN THE AIR. People say there's no sensation of height when flying and I agree. But my mind still knows that I am 31,000 feet in the air and that this is not normal. I think my facial expression reflected that, even after beer.

When we touched down in Alicante I was elated. We were on the ground. There is no passport control or customs to pass through, we just headed straight out of the airport and went for the bus. I was glad, as I all nervous flyers are, to be on Terra Firma and heading for the safer transport of a bus.

Like all mainland western European countries, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of a highway code in Spain, and most of the cars that passed our slow bus were covered in dents and scrapes, even the brand new ones, cars weaved in and out of the lanes, narrowly missing each other and our bus.

Some of the landscape almost made me feel like I was in a Sergio Leone western. If it weren't for the modern fencing, I could have believed it. And there are too many mountains for a vertigo victim. I was hoping the bus wouldn't go on any roads which ran alongside sheer drops. Time for more beer. This wasn't so much a holiday as a test on my adrenaline glands.
An hour after landing we arrived at our destination. It made a change to be staying in a hotel instead of some dodgy hostel where thefts are a daily hazard. I was, of course, delighted to know that we were staying five floors up and had to get there in a glass lift (elevator). Still, it could have been worse, we could have been on the sixth floor. Soon it was time to sample the night life.

The Wonder Years

2008-08-21T12:49:00.010Z

Watching repeats of The Wonder Years lit that spark of nostalgia. The trouble with sparks is that they can start fire. And what was a pretty picture burns away to reveal the truth.

I like The Wonder Years for the same reason I like the film Dazed and Confused: it tells the truth.

And what is the truth about school days? Is it that most of us catch ourselves saying that we wish we could go back, and that this momentary desire is based on one tiny spark of nostalgia, one tiny event, we shared with someone?

When we think about events surrounding that one glorious moment we shared with someone, those before, and those after, we get a better scale of things. And really, while school wasn't that bad, it wasn't great either.

Looking back the entire education system, at least in this country, was absurd.

Let's take detention for instance; the single most useless form of punishment known to man. The first time you get detention, you're dreading it. But then, once you experience it, you realise that detention is easier than regular classes. In fact, it's a breeze. You don't want to be there, the teacher doesn't want to be there, and you're given something boring to do. And teacher knows you won't complete the task. Just as he wont finish marking homework. No, he'll read the sports section of his newspaper instead. And you, you'll spend most of the time looking out of the window, thinking "this isn't so bad." Definitely easier than getting the cane.

There's the morning assemblies. At the lower school site we had to stand in assemblies and would often take bets on who would pass out first when the heating was cranked up full. Some teacher would stand at the front, reading some passage from the bible, and then go on about morals and values, probably while wishing he hadn't bet the next month's mortgage on the 3:15 at Newmarket and wondering if he might get to fuck that sexy new German teacher who was fresh out of university and had tits the size of watermelons.

You'd see the metalwork teacher, who was always telling you about health and safety, and that you must wear your goggles, playing around with the carburettor on his car during lunch break, whilst he has a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips. Petrol and lit cigarettes: great combination. What a fine example, teacher.

Some break times, the Geography teacher might confiscate the cigarettes of some kids at the back of the bike sheds. Later on that afternoon, in class, she'd make eye contact with Mark, just as she lit one of the cigarettes she'd taken from him. She'd puff away at it at the front of the class, all the time, watching him, smirking.

And then there were the bullies. The bullies didn't need a reason to beat you up. You'd ask them, "Why me?" And the reply was often just a simple, "Because we want to." They don't realise that one day we all grow up. And that in most cases the bullied do far better than the bullies. Most bullies turn out to be actual cowards in later life. The whole business is sad. For both parties.

So were they The Wonder Years? Sure, they were. At least, I look back and wonder how I got through them. Most of us survived.

Eurovision - The Real Winners

2008-05-25T10:19:00.004Z

This year's Eurovision Song Contest protest talent like you have never seen, only the talent was more comedic that musical. Take a look at the entries from Spain and France. They should definitely have finished in the top three.

Spanish Entry

French Entry

I'm sure you'll agree that both acts were sheer class.

You Would Not Be A (maze) d...Just Relaxed

2008-05-18T17:40:00.004Z

Having no Internet, finding that the local library is open fewer hours than is good for the community, and having no expendable income presents all kinds of problems with what to do with my spare time.

After playing guitar so much that my fingertips actually started bleeding it was time to find something else to do, probably much to the relief of my neighbours who must have been sick of hearing the same scales, ascending and descending, over and over.

The weather was good enough to take a walk, over the fields and through the woods, to the park on the edge of town. In the park lies a true labyrinth, rather than a maze.
It's incredibly relaxing, walking to the centre, more relaxing than walking around a maze, getting lost as the light runs out. You know exactly where you're going, you're on a journey to the path's end. And I guess life is like that, we're all heading towards the end. What the end holds is different for all of us, and some will reach it sooner than others.

Clear Blue

2008-03-30T16:20:00.002Z

Something happened today. Of course, something happens every day, but something happened today.

A Full English Breakfast is only ever "full" if served with Black Pudding. And I woke to the smell of this treat being cooked. That smell alone adjusted the various chemicals in my brain to "normal" levels, making me feel balanced for the first time in months. But that's not what happened.

Making my way into the kitchen my eyes hurt from the sunlight which poured in, bouncing off of every reflective surface, washing away every bit of dark and gloom, bringing warmth and that special feeling we all get from time to time.

Today was the day when I could do anything. Well, not anything. Obviously I couldn't fly to the moon or bring about world peace by the mere act of releasing a pop record featuring best selling artists, but I could do anything within my means.

It was the first clear blue sky I had seen months. After yesterday's rain it seemed like Sunday might be another washout. But it wasn't.

After eating breakfast I washed my host's pots, as a way of thanks, and headed out. This was great. No signs of anything bipolar. No manic feelings, nothing depressive, no lithium washout. Today I was going to do something different.

I had no particular direction to head in, not even home. And besides, that isn't really my home, just somewhere to rest my head and store my things. So, I just went wherever my legs would take me.

Before I knew it I had passed through woods, walked through open fields, almost got trampled on by a cow (not the first time this has happened - cows seem to be getting aggressive these days), and I was by the canal.

There were many fishing the waters and as I passed each fisherman (there were no women fishing) I wondered how many times that day they would be asked if they'd caught something, and how they might react each time to that question, whether they would find it frustrating, or whether they'd indulge themselves by pulling the keep net from the water and showing off the products of their day's "labour."

Soon I was back on the road and passed by a park where there was a Sunday league football match. Most of the players looked hungover and some of them looked too old and fat to be running around for 90 minutes. I thought about how many times I'd read about people having massive heart attacks while playing Sunday league football. Still, if you die doing what you enjoy...

Looking at my watch and noting how long I'd been travelling away from where I ought to be ending up I decided to head back. But then changed my mind.

I wasn't too far from an important piece of engineering history. Engineering has a lot to answer for; some of it good, some of it bad. But for the most part, good. Humans were designed to be engineers, it's just that we got some of it wrong. It's not too late to put things right.

Something happened today. But I can't remember what it was. Something to do with the clocks?

Kitchen Art...or...

2008-03-23T08:19:00.002Z

...Utter Bollocks?

The Changing Nature of Exploitation

2008-03-06T08:31:00.004Z

Not so far back in history people did things differently, much differently. There was a real community spirit here in England, a spirit which appears to have been swept away by mindless consumerism, snobbery and apathy.

Last night I went to a local history lecture which focused on a local family who had brought much wealth to the area through exploitation of people, people they sent down mines, people they had working in foundries, people in other dangerous areas of industry. But there was something different about this family, something of moral fibre that today's rich people lack.

The founder of the company fathered three children, three of them boys. Before any of the boys took up roles within the company after completing their education he made them do a stint down the coal mines so they could see exactly what conditions the employees had to work in. Much to the father's horror, one of the sons, a keen sportsman who was destined to play cricket for the county, contracted pneumonia while working down the mine and he passes away aged 20.

So much was the father's grief that he passed away himself just a few months later, devastated by his loss, and feeling responsible for it. His remaining offspring learnt a valuable lesson from this experience and set about making improvements in the local area. I forget the exact quote but one of the daughters said something along the lines of...my luxuries are bound up by the hard labours of the men in this community.

One of the sons went to the mine at the end of one shift and stopped ten men before they went home. He gave them ten pounds each (which was a lot of money back then), a return train ticket to London, and ordered them to go as they were, immediately. The idea behind this was so that people in the city could learn exactly what these men did in the North of England and in Wales, to bring them essential coal. The miners got to stay in luxurious accommodation and were cleaned up ready for their return.

Around this time the family gave away a piece of land to the borough, land that today is worth millions of pounds, so a park and municipal golf course could be built. They also gave away one of their luxurious homes, which was turned into a school. Another school was also funded by one of the daughters as well as Britain's first mother and child clinic. The generosity of the family also extended to the local hospital where new wards were built.

The older son was shocked by the living conditions families had to endure in one part of the town and so he invested, what would be over 3 million pounds in today's money, in the redevelopment of the area, bringing better living conditions for workers.

There were testimonies from families who said that these people were very good to work for and treated all employees well though they would suffer no fools.

In contrast, today's capitalists in this region put nothing back into the community. All they do is drain resources and avoid taxes. I've always been slightly left wing in my political views but last night's lecture taught me something I should have known long ago: we really do need to learn from the past.

Yep, It Was An Earthquake.

2008-02-27T09:03:00.002Z

Just a few hours after a 5.8 quake in Indonesia, we had a 5.3 quake here in boring old England.

It was quite a significant quake for a region where we mostly get 2 pointers and I have to say it was an experience, a moment of "what the fuck is this?"

One woman emailed the news to say she had watched The Exorcist before going to bed and thought she had been possessed. I can understand that. For me it was like the onset of a seizure, I really thought I was having a seizure until I realised things were rattling and falling over.

Link: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7266136.stm

Thankfully, there are no reports of fatalities.

Earthquake?

2008-02-27T01:30:00.004Z

It is just after 1:30AM as I write this.

Around 1:00AM I was woken by a violent shaking, something that shook the whole house. Since England does not lie on any of the major faultlines it is very rare we experience earthquakes, though there have been a couple of things that barely touched 2.0 on the scale during my lifetime.

Checking the news sites there is nothing at present to say that it was an earthquake though I have had calls from people up to 100 miles away asking me if I had just felt it.

Updates to follow.

The Elusive Shower

2007-08-12T10:49:00.000Z

Okay, I'm not talking about the smelly bloke in the queue at the post office...or your neighbour.

Nope, I'm talking about the annual Perseids meteor shower. Every year the allegedly spectacular astronomical light show is ruined, in this country at least, by cloud.

At twilight last night I thought I say the odd speck of light darting in the sky in a split second before vanishing and, on whole, things looked promising.

Then, as every year, a big black mother of a cloud came over and that was the end of that.

Tonight, the shower should be at its brightest, hopefully the skies will clear of cloud. But since I'm going to a barbecue in a few hours, I doubt I'll get to see the Perseids, yet again.

Related articles:

If ever there were proof...

2007-07-22T09:34:00.000Z

...that what goes around comes around...then it is the life and death of Thomas Midgley.

Thomas Midgley was the bloke who came up with the idea of putting lead in petrol, or gasoline if you insist on calling it that, to stop internal combustion engines buggering up faster than usual.

As a result products of combustion from leaded petrol, sorry...gas, have had a dramatic impact on the environment. We all know lead is not good, unless you're selling it to a scrap metal merchant after stealing it from a church roof. C'mon; we've all done it.

After realising lead was buggering up his lungs, Midgley took on a variety of other projects, too lengthy to list here, most of which had detrimental effects to the environment and its inhabitants. One of his achievements he never lived to witness was the hole in the ozone layer.

Eventually, the inventor and general candidate for assistant to a James Bond super-villain contracted polio, but it was not this that would be his undoing, or at least not directly. No, what caused his death was actually an elaborate contraption he invented to help his polio-ridden body to get out of bed.

The device in question was made from ropes and pulleys and the poor bastard actually hanged himself after getting tangled up in the ropes. He was 55.

And the moral of the story?

Never make a device for lifting your arse out of bed.

Related links:

Most Annoying Fashion Accessory?

2007-06-13T13:06:00.001Z

Okay, so I own one as well. Guilty.

But in my defence, it's a very basic one. In fact it's rather old but it serves its purpose and unlike most of my peer group, I use it for one thing and one thing only.

There seems to be an ever growing trend and I don't like it for two reasons.

The first is that the people supporting the trend are being manipulated by a huge industry. The second is that these same people annoy me wherever I go. And sadly, some of these people are my friends (for how much longer, I don't know), sucked in by whatever the latest "viral" is.

Of course, I'm referring to mobile telephones, cell phones if you like.

At one time it seemed like only the affluent would ever be able to afford one. But then the capitalists being what they are pumped money into designing affordable options and communication networks for us lesser people. And there the seed was sewn.

As the market grew, contracts becoming more affordable and the "pay as you go" system being developed, the cancer began to spread.

Beep, beep.

"SMS received."

Usually it's some joke about the mother-in-law or the size of a man's appendage. Then the message gets forwarded to one or more recipients. And in turn it gets forwarded again. All at the expense of those gullible enough.

That was the beginning.

Next came ringtones. And lots of people seem to inists on letting everybody else in a public place exactly how many ring tones they have on their phones, and what those tones are. And it only cost a tiny amount to download. Me? I prefer brrrp, brrrp. And I don't mind if you call me a miserable bastard. I am a miserable bastard, but a miserable bastard who has better things to spend what little money he has on.

Nowadays the ringtones are in MP3 format, for those who have a modern device - mine is still the same old thing I've had for years.

Then came the camera phone. "Oooooo woooopey dooooo! I can send pictures to people." Mostly these pictures are really crappy and the recipient doesn't really want to see somebody sat covered in their own vomit after 18 pints of Kronenberg.

But pictures of such weren't enough. We just had to have video. And with the advent of video capture phones began the advent of "happy slapping."

Then there are the "comedy" videos. People bluetooth things around the pub as though this is healthy social activity. If I want to watch a video, I'll watch it at home. When I'm in the pub I like to play pool or darts, listen to the music...anything but watch a video on a screen so small it makes my eyes hurt.

Mobile phones are for one thing and one thing only and you don't need me to tell you what that is. But I'm going to anyway:

Annoying people.

And I do like some of those jokes.

Old Bridge, New Bridge

2007-06-08T05:49:00.000Z

Expert Wildlife Photography

2007-06-06T08:09:00.000Z

Taking pictures of wildlife is an art form all by itself. It requires years of training and understanding how wildlife behaves. I'm a long way from achieving any of that. But a few days ago I was feeling quite pleased that I got this shot. I like the reflection in the water, even though I know the light isn't great and my autofocus sucks.
One of the culverts gave way a few weeks ago and the canal is now considerably lower than it should be, which has led to wildlife being in more more convenient places for amateur photographers such as myself.

It was only when I got home and fired up the PC that I realised my hideous, yet quite amusing, mistake.

Barlow's Nightmare

2007-05-27T12:59:00.000Z

As Barlow Cavendish stepped out of the Moan-a-Tron the guards seemed quite relaxed. Few people ever gave them any grief, of the physical kind at least, after being subjected to the machine’s treatment and Barlow was proving no different.

‘Well, thanks a lot you bastards! You’ve done it now,’ he said. ‘Wait until I see my solicitor.’

‘Now, now, Mr. Cavendish. There’s no need to be like that,’ said Captain Bastard as he approached. ‘Everything is going to be just fine. You are now ready for release.’

‘Release! Ready for release! You can’t do that. I’m not going out there like this. I’m not ready.’

‘You’ll be just fine. Your punishment has done you good,’ said Captain Bastard as he turned to walk away. ‘Guards, take him to collect his belongings and release him.’

‘Yes sir, Captain Bastard,’ they said.

‘And what kind of name is that?’ Barlow Cavendish said.

As the guards carted him off Barlow continued to bitch about things in general: the décor, the general smell of the place, and how the artificial light made his eyes hurt and that it’s time they had windows installed in this building. After this last suggestion, the guards told him there was little need for windows eighty feet below the ground.

It’s worth pointing out here that Barlow Cavendish is not posh and does not belong to the aristocracy, not even as the most distant of relatives. His name merely sounds posh and his surname was inherited from neither his mother nor father, who had taken far too many drugs in their lives to remember their own names and thus resorted to calling each other, and just about anybody else, ‘man’ in order to simplify things.

The name Barlow Cavendish actually comes from a combination of geography and the name of a pub, the pub just happening to be named after a Lord. Simple as that. Although it’s fair to say that the surname belonged to the Aristocracy even if Barlow never did. And that was good enough for him. Indeed, he never admitted or denied his bloodlines when asked about his pedigree, or rather lack of it. He just left people to wonder, which is a partly to blame for the predicament we find him in.

‘He changed it by deed poll, you know,’ said one of the guards.

‘Who changed what?’ Barlow snarled. ‘And why should I want to know?’

‘Well you did ask about Captain Bastard. He changed his name by deed poll. One day he hopes to be a Major Bastard, although some people think he’s one already.’

‘You’re all bastards, major bastards, the lot of you.’

The other guard unlocked a locker, opened it and removed a box, peering inside the box as he turned. “Jeans, t-shirts and one wallet. We won’t be seeing you again.”

What Happens When You Forget Your Password:

2007-05-13T18:02:00.000Z

Thanks, Chris.

When Answers Come From Above

2006-12-16T09:32:00.000Z

It's a question that has baffled some of us for many years.

And now, I can tell you the answer, for it came from the sky. In case you think I've lost my marbles right now, I can tell you that I haven't. A lot of other people on my street saw it too. And what's more, I've got photographic evidence.

So, what's the question for which I found the answer this summer?

The question is: Exactly what kind of person flies in a Hot Air Balloon?

In the age of aeroplanes and helicopters, you'd think that an invention dating back to 1782 would be completely redundant.

But there's still a breed out there, a breed of people willing to spend 8 hours or more floating around in a basket, suspended in the air by a balloon full of hot air.

So, I say again, exactly what kind of person flies in a Hot Air Balloon?

The answer my friends, came from the sky:

Stand Back!!!!! It's A Monster!!!!!

2006-11-27T14:49:00.000Z

I don't look at porn on the internet.

There's no need when one has access to the extensive collection of Fiona Cooper DVD's I have access to. Just kidding...or maybe not...I am human (and a man) after all.

Besides, I don't have the time, money, or the bandwidth.

So, it begs the question: where do these spamming pricks (no pun intended) get my email address?

Being scientifically minded though...it is tempting to see what these torture devices must be like...

Ancient Stone Walls Between Bamford and Hope Valley

2006-08-04T07:51:00.000Z

The Three Controllers

2006-07-09T14:15:00.000Z

It's all about stop and go and changing path.