Kenny here. Stan left the door a little ajar and I've been toying with breaking in for a while.
In keeping with the musical vibe that Stan has echoing around in a Portishead-esque manner, I thought I'd drop in and embarrass myself. I made the absolutely fatal mistake of buying an iPod Touch about 6 weeks ago and it is not an exaggeration to say that it really has changed the way I deal with music. Rather than having to remember what it was that I heard a few bars of and then spending hours in record stores, I just bob onto iTunes and voila, I can pick and choose.
The amount of money I have spent on digital music since the iPod acquisition far outstrips the amount I have spent over the previous two years. If record companies fear the digital age, they could do worse to secure their futures than to make sure that every 14 year-old in the world has an iPod for free. Seriously, that would be "job done". Sales of online music would go through the roof. The kids get to pick their music and carry it around, there are ways of getting around the DRM so they can swap tracks (much like we used to tape albums) and music industry margins will soar to preposterous percentages. Everyone wins. Except the parents, but they never did anyway.
The real power of iTunes, when unleashed on a thirty-something geek, is that as well as sitting in really boring technical meetings and downloading cheesy "those were the days" CDs or individual tracks (to alleviate the ennui), they can pretend that they're hip by having a quick preview of the latest [insert famous person here] CD.
For example, I've downloaded Lou Reed while discussing MySQL clusters. I kid ye not. I've pulled down random tracks that I like by forgotten one-hit wonders such as Lisa Loeb, Edie Brickell, etc. while designing networks. On the other side, I've been pulling down videos (that I would never have got my hands on in the UK) by Fiona Apple, Barenaked Ladies, etc.. The other evening I was surfing the music channels -- I had heard of Shakira in passing but had no idea whether I liked her or not. From the TV video I thought I might (strange as most her catalogue appears to be happy little dance numbers and I'm more prone to psychotic pianists). I downloaded the whole video and then test-drove a few other tracks. I now have the whole CD. This evening, I've done pretty much the same thing with Gabriella Cilmi.
Two months ago both Shakira and Gabriella Cilmi would have long have escaped my mind by the time I found myself in a record shop. And if I had remembered, chances are I'd have weighed up the one track I had heard and passed because I couldn't guarantee I would like the rest.
I insist that all Stan's disciples and constituents (remember, vote Stan) equip themselves with an iPod Touch. Not only will your music habits change forever, but come the revolution you'll be able to download Stan's coded podcasts giving you instructions on which public figure to assassinate next.
--
I had meant to review Gabriella Cilmi, rave about Shakira's dancing and predictably reinforce the rumour that I'm absolutely in love with Fiona Apple's voice. Maybe if Stan ever gets around to the "Mad Men" post, I'll oblige.
Showing posts with label Kenny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kenny. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Invasion of Stanistan
I've just been out for lunch with the parental units. It involved invading Stanistan (okay, the next town away, Knutsford). The restaurant is extremely good but a little (cough, under-exaggeration) on the expensive side. It's part of a chain of restaurants called Loch Fyne which specialise in fish of all descriptions (but not Sashimi -- mumble, bugger etc.). Six oysters, a bream filet with seared scallops, a crème broulé and several Americanos later, I stumbled back to the car stuffed to the gills (no pun intended).
From 'oop 'norf, take the M6 South. Exit at junction 19 and take a right at the roundabout at the top of the slip-road. About half a mile down, turn left towards Knutsford center. Pass the green on your left and at the roundabout, take a right. Take the first left that you can and park in the carpark on your right. From the parking lot, turn right on the main street and walk up about 50 yards. It's on your left.
Mrs Stan, Stan informs me that he has never been to said establishment. I suggest that you harangue him into a trip there as soon as his hectic social calendar (sic) permits. Hint: on March 13th, they are having an anniversary special where one of the starter options is Sashimi; if their Sashimi is selected as well as their cooked fish are, it should be something to behold.
Nota Bene: Stan, apparently there was one of these on Verulam St in St Albans -- how did we miss it?
From 'oop 'norf, take the M6 South. Exit at junction 19 and take a right at the roundabout at the top of the slip-road. About half a mile down, turn left towards Knutsford center. Pass the green on your left and at the roundabout, take a right. Take the first left that you can and park in the carpark on your right. From the parking lot, turn right on the main street and walk up about 50 yards. It's on your left.
Mrs Stan, Stan informs me that he has never been to said establishment. I suggest that you harangue him into a trip there as soon as his hectic social calendar (sic) permits. Hint: on March 13th, they are having an anniversary special where one of the starter options is Sashimi; if their Sashimi is selected as well as their cooked fish are, it should be something to behold.
Nota Bene: Stan, apparently there was one of these on Verulam St in St Albans -- how did we miss it?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A prosperous ripe old age awaits us...
...well at least some us.
This one is tad political so I thought I'd post it here rather than chez moi. It's a bit shoot from the hip but then again, when don't I?
I had the misfortune to catch Woman's Hour on Radio 4 this morning. Normally I would not say misfortune as there is usually a cacophony of common sense pouring forth from the wireless, but today common sense was replaced by the sickeningly obvious observations of an overeducated (one can assume overdressed also just as a corollary) individual. The mindblowingly banal facts were:
"Sign me up" shouted an infuriated Kenny, "after all, I'm already taxed so much that I can barely afford to make my own pension contributions let alone save for my retirement."
If you assume you're a top rate income tax payer, you've never even seen 40% of your money when your payslip reaches you. It has disappeared in tax and national insurance. Now you can subtract another 5% or so as a pension contribution. We're advised to be saving up to 20% of our earnings towards retirement (for the purposes of this, I'm going to say 15%). So, wow, the nouveau riche yuppy generation see probably 40% of their take-home pay.
Let's take numbers that are easy to calculate and then we can scale it upwards later. We will also assume that we're paying top rate income tax. So we'll assume a salary of £40k.
Salary per month (gross): £3333
Tax: £1333
NI (assumi9ng it still is 7.5%): £250
Pension contribution: £165
Savings towards retirement: £500
Ergo:
Net pay: £1085
Now comes the crux of it all. Our hypothetical "save for my old age" yuppie/dinky who is earning enough to pay top rate income tax has a whopping £1085 per month with which to house, clothe and feed themselves. Not to mention pay insurances, travel expenses etc.
Seeing we are analyzing Dr Sensible's finances here, he can have a mortgage up to 3.5 times his salary so £140k. Hmm, you'll be lucky to find a two-up, two-down for that in most places you might consider living. I've no idea what the repayments on this would be, but I'm guessing a minimum of £600 a month. So we're now down to £485 available cash per month.
Dr Sensible doesn't like wasting money on cars so he has bought a car that costs him £100 per month in loan repayments. Ouch! £385 and falling.
Now we have utility bills and poll-tax.
Well done. Even Dr Sensible has blown his salary before he gets into his never-never car on payday to drive home to his sparsely populated fridge.
Now scale these numbers down to what the average worker earns (let's assume it's £15k). Okay, you wouldn't be paying top-rate tax, but do the maths and it's even more horrendous for the average worker while they are working. Hey, but don't we have a sweet retirement to look foward to, should we be fortunate enough to see it? After all Dr Sensible must have tens of thousands of pounds in savings, pension funds and equity in house. He surely must be in for a nice nursing home, the odd trip to the seaside etc.
Wrong Dr Sensible -- you need to be means-tested. Look at all that equity ties up in your house and all your savings. You don't need government assistance at all -- you should pay this out of your own pocket. When it runs out, we'll tap into state resources but you'll have to move to a state nursing home in Slough. We've calculated that it will be in about 12 months, 24 if we can sell your house.
Can you see the absurdity of this? We hike up taxes for whose benefit? Dr Sensible doesn't get any real benefit or reward for being a paragon of prudence. Working people don't benefit. More private money is whisked into public coffers ripped from paying pensioners and over-taxed workers.
In a fair society, those that could afford to pay privately should have the choice of doing so or not in exactly the same way that people have a choice as to whether they use the NHS or BUPA.
So Mrs Daddy's-So-Incredibly-Rich-I-Can-Afford-Ideals, I would ask that you kindly vacate the seat, get out of broadcasting house and return to Eton or Oxford for a refresher in GCSE Basic Logic and its Application in the Real World. Come back when you can cut taxes and provide the levels of public service we as tax-payers can expect. If you can't balance it, your fundamental economic policy is flawed. Sadly I've covered only one part of a multi-trillion pound budget. I shudder to think about what other warty gremlins lie beneath.
This one is tad political so I thought I'd post it here rather than chez moi. It's a bit shoot from the hip but then again, when don't I?
I had the misfortune to catch Woman's Hour on Radio 4 this morning. Normally I would not say misfortune as there is usually a cacophony of common sense pouring forth from the wireless, but today common sense was replaced by the sickeningly obvious observations of an overeducated (one can assume overdressed also just as a corollary) individual. The mindblowingly banal facts were:
- As a nation, we are living longer
- People do not save enough for retirement
- Nursing homes should provide a comfortable environment in which to grow old and wither
- Old people add value to society
"Sign me up" shouted an infuriated Kenny, "after all, I'm already taxed so much that I can barely afford to make my own pension contributions let alone save for my retirement."
If you assume you're a top rate income tax payer, you've never even seen 40% of your money when your payslip reaches you. It has disappeared in tax and national insurance. Now you can subtract another 5% or so as a pension contribution. We're advised to be saving up to 20% of our earnings towards retirement (for the purposes of this, I'm going to say 15%). So, wow, the nouveau riche yuppy generation see probably 40% of their take-home pay.
Let's take numbers that are easy to calculate and then we can scale it upwards later. We will also assume that we're paying top rate income tax. So we'll assume a salary of £40k.
Salary per month (gross): £3333
Tax: £1333
NI (assumi9ng it still is 7.5%): £250
Pension contribution: £165
Savings towards retirement: £500
Ergo:
Net pay: £1085
Now comes the crux of it all. Our hypothetical "save for my old age" yuppie/dinky who is earning enough to pay top rate income tax has a whopping £1085 per month with which to house, clothe and feed themselves. Not to mention pay insurances, travel expenses etc.
Seeing we are analyzing Dr Sensible's finances here, he can have a mortgage up to 3.5 times his salary so £140k. Hmm, you'll be lucky to find a two-up, two-down for that in most places you might consider living. I've no idea what the repayments on this would be, but I'm guessing a minimum of £600 a month. So we're now down to £485 available cash per month.
Dr Sensible doesn't like wasting money on cars so he has bought a car that costs him £100 per month in loan repayments. Ouch! £385 and falling.
Now we have utility bills and poll-tax.
Well done. Even Dr Sensible has blown his salary before he gets into his never-never car on payday to drive home to his sparsely populated fridge.
Now scale these numbers down to what the average worker earns (let's assume it's £15k). Okay, you wouldn't be paying top-rate tax, but do the maths and it's even more horrendous for the average worker while they are working. Hey, but don't we have a sweet retirement to look foward to, should we be fortunate enough to see it? After all Dr Sensible must have tens of thousands of pounds in savings, pension funds and equity in house. He surely must be in for a nice nursing home, the odd trip to the seaside etc.
Wrong Dr Sensible -- you need to be means-tested. Look at all that equity ties up in your house and all your savings. You don't need government assistance at all -- you should pay this out of your own pocket. When it runs out, we'll tap into state resources but you'll have to move to a state nursing home in Slough. We've calculated that it will be in about 12 months, 24 if we can sell your house.
Can you see the absurdity of this? We hike up taxes for whose benefit? Dr Sensible doesn't get any real benefit or reward for being a paragon of prudence. Working people don't benefit. More private money is whisked into public coffers ripped from paying pensioners and over-taxed workers.
In a fair society, those that could afford to pay privately should have the choice of doing so or not in exactly the same way that people have a choice as to whether they use the NHS or BUPA.
So Mrs Daddy's-So-Incredibly-Rich-I-Can-Afford-Ideals, I would ask that you kindly vacate the seat, get out of broadcasting house and return to Eton or Oxford for a refresher in GCSE Basic Logic and its Application in the Real World. Come back when you can cut taxes and provide the levels of public service we as tax-payers can expect. If you can't balance it, your fundamental economic policy is flawed. Sadly I've covered only one part of a multi-trillion pound budget. I shudder to think about what other warty gremlins lie beneath.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Dolly
I'm afraid this a guest post.
Stan and I used to sit doing crosswords in the pub in St Albans. I hate to admit it but he's way better than I. During that time (and I may have mentioned it before but can't recollect or be bothered to search through the archives), we kind of rediscovered Dolly Parton. I've blogged about this on my own site, but it really was a seminal moment for me.
I'd never given her much time in my musical listenings even though my father in law was a country music buff who knocked around with Roy Orbison and was an all round complete muso. Sadly he died a couple of months ago and I never got to say goodbye.
Anyway Stan, a bloke called R and I used to sit in The Horn over lunch doing the crosswords. The barmaid in there was a massive Dolly Parton fan (strange she was more goth/rock than any girl I have ever met). But every day, on came on the Dolly at her behest.
One day, Stan turned to us and said something along the lines of "Isn't this weird -- we're in a rock venue, listening to Dolly Parton and doing the crosswords? And none of it seems odd." I went back to the hotel and had a good cogitate on that one. Finally I agreed with that statement. It was truly bizarre.
The barmaid was called Lauren, and her manager Sarah, who I still keep in touch with, was equally as keen on the Dolly. They are personally responsible for God knows how many Dolly Parton CDs -- hell, I know I have spent a fortune on them.
I suppose what I'm trying to get at is that you hear certain names and your brain blanks them because you have no interest. Enter an 18 year old barmaid with some class and bang, you're suddenly hooked. I would never have considered buying a Dolly Parton CD in my life, but thanks to two girls in a remote pub, I'm now an addict.
Thanks Lauren and Sarah -- you opened at least a couple of peoples' eyes.
Stan and I used to sit doing crosswords in the pub in St Albans. I hate to admit it but he's way better than I. During that time (and I may have mentioned it before but can't recollect or be bothered to search through the archives), we kind of rediscovered Dolly Parton. I've blogged about this on my own site, but it really was a seminal moment for me.
I'd never given her much time in my musical listenings even though my father in law was a country music buff who knocked around with Roy Orbison and was an all round complete muso. Sadly he died a couple of months ago and I never got to say goodbye.
Anyway Stan, a bloke called R and I used to sit in The Horn over lunch doing the crosswords. The barmaid in there was a massive Dolly Parton fan (strange she was more goth/rock than any girl I have ever met). But every day, on came on the Dolly at her behest.
One day, Stan turned to us and said something along the lines of "Isn't this weird -- we're in a rock venue, listening to Dolly Parton and doing the crosswords? And none of it seems odd." I went back to the hotel and had a good cogitate on that one. Finally I agreed with that statement. It was truly bizarre.
The barmaid was called Lauren, and her manager Sarah, who I still keep in touch with, was equally as keen on the Dolly. They are personally responsible for God knows how many Dolly Parton CDs -- hell, I know I have spent a fortune on them.
I suppose what I'm trying to get at is that you hear certain names and your brain blanks them because you have no interest. Enter an 18 year old barmaid with some class and bang, you're suddenly hooked. I would never have considered buying a Dolly Parton CD in my life, but thanks to two girls in a remote pub, I'm now an addict.
Thanks Lauren and Sarah -- you opened at least a couple of peoples' eyes.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
When the pawn meets the king
Okay, totally ripped off title from Fiona Apple
I've not met up with Stan in forever to philosophise or read the riot act to all the big five crosswords (Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Independent and Evening Standard). There were days where we hammered them all over a couple of brewskis at lunch.
However sometimes you meet people in your life that you just click with and know that you'll keep in touch. I have a friend called, say, the Waart -- he got his nickname from 6th form when a computer teacher asked one of the larger lads to "forcibly ejaculate this Wart". It stuck. He's now got a PhD in formal methods and is close to being the next professor at his university. I've always stuck by him and him by me. With the exception of my grandmother, he is the only person who ever visited me in my eight years in the States. That's how closely knit we are. I mentioned on my blog that we're kind kind of telepathically connected and have been since being teenagers. Long may it continue.
Stan is another one where we just clicked. He's a bit more cerebral than I am, but I blame that on the fact that I'm sickly ill a ce moment. Okay, I could be just plain dumb, but I'm not about to accept that. When the day comes that I don't finish the Telegraph crossword, then I'll be dumb.
In the meantime, being all airy-fairy, it's nice to know you have good friends knocking around.
And no, before you ask, I'm the pawn.
Ask Stan about opening chess moves ( pawn to K4) -- he approves of conventional openings. I certainly do not.
I've not met up with Stan in forever to philosophise or read the riot act to all the big five crosswords (Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Independent and Evening Standard). There were days where we hammered them all over a couple of brewskis at lunch.
However sometimes you meet people in your life that you just click with and know that you'll keep in touch. I have a friend called, say, the Waart -- he got his nickname from 6th form when a computer teacher asked one of the larger lads to "forcibly ejaculate this Wart". It stuck. He's now got a PhD in formal methods and is close to being the next professor at his university. I've always stuck by him and him by me. With the exception of my grandmother, he is the only person who ever visited me in my eight years in the States. That's how closely knit we are. I mentioned on my blog that we're kind kind of telepathically connected and have been since being teenagers. Long may it continue.
Stan is another one where we just clicked. He's a bit more cerebral than I am, but I blame that on the fact that I'm sickly ill a ce moment. Okay, I could be just plain dumb, but I'm not about to accept that. When the day comes that I don't finish the Telegraph crossword, then I'll be dumb.
In the meantime, being all airy-fairy, it's nice to know you have good friends knocking around.
And no, before you ask, I'm the pawn.
Ask Stan about opening chess moves ( pawn to K4) -- he approves of conventional openings. I certainly do not.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Congratulations
I think we owe Stan a round of applause and/or a round of cider. He has successfully negotiated a year's worth of blogging without initiating any major world events or wars. No mean feat! He has commented on the need to right the wrongs being done all over the planet while I have sat on my own site moaning about neuropathy and the ineptness of Michael Owen. I feel like Homer Simpson..."soooo shallow".
More to the point, seeing I have the attention span of Dennis Thatcher (in his current state), I'm amazed he's managed to get me into the habit of checking his blog on a daily basis. Surely a sign of greater things to come.
I am, however, a little concerned that the empty/full gauge may fluctuate for a while seeing his beloved Bolton are knee-tremblingly close to losing it completely. They languish second from bottom (on goal difference with Derby) after what I can only call some disappointing football. Over the course of the season, I will be mapping Stan's optimism to Bolton results, and at the end of the season I shall publish a highly technical graph that will examine the effect of world events, Bolton results and Stan's level of optimism. Fret ye not -- Kenny is a layman so will spell the results out in non-mathematical jargon. For example, I will not be performing Fourier analysis, Laplace transforms or 12-point Gaussian quadrature on the data. Well I might, but be assured that I will shield you from the hell that I go through in the name of science.
In the meantime, let us raise our glasses of cloudy fermented apple-juice, bow in the direction of the Horn in St Albans and wish Stan a fruitful bloggy future. And some decent Bolton results.
May this inspire Flitcraft into a similar venture, or at least a guest post or two on here.
More to the point, seeing I have the attention span of Dennis Thatcher (in his current state), I'm amazed he's managed to get me into the habit of checking his blog on a daily basis. Surely a sign of greater things to come.
I am, however, a little concerned that the empty/full gauge may fluctuate for a while seeing his beloved Bolton are knee-tremblingly close to losing it completely. They languish second from bottom (on goal difference with Derby) after what I can only call some disappointing football. Over the course of the season, I will be mapping Stan's optimism to Bolton results, and at the end of the season I shall publish a highly technical graph that will examine the effect of world events, Bolton results and Stan's level of optimism. Fret ye not -- Kenny is a layman so will spell the results out in non-mathematical jargon. For example, I will not be performing Fourier analysis, Laplace transforms or 12-point Gaussian quadrature on the data. Well I might, but be assured that I will shield you from the hell that I go through in the name of science.
In the meantime, let us raise our glasses of cloudy fermented apple-juice, bow in the direction of the Horn in St Albans and wish Stan a fruitful bloggy future. And some decent Bolton results.
May this inspire Flitcraft into a similar venture, or at least a guest post or two on here.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The 3:30 at Chepstow
I'm in the middle of my own pity party. Attendees? Me.
My legs don't work so I can't get the 60 miles to work. Wheel-chaired for two weeks, stick for more etc. etc. Cracked open head from said crap legs giving way -- Lordy. Bad enough that I haven't been sent any work to do remotely so my brain does not implode with daytime TV. The only upside to daytime TV is Countdown's Suzie Dent. She has the most beautiful smile.
My internet connection is down (my own company provides it) and I cannot figure out what the hell is wrong. We had a lightning strike a couple of weeks ago and yet, despite getting two new routers, I have not managed to fix the damned thing. Lucky for me some muppet around here has absolutely zero security on their wireless access so I suppose that is one thing that is vaguely good.
I'm infested with flying ants that are driving me nuts.
And just as I'm thinking it could not possibly get any worse, I get a law-suit filed against me for £16000 by my ex-wife. We've been apart for 10 years now -- how that logic works, I will never know.
Anyway, pull up a chair, a smoke and a brandy and let Uncle Kenny make you wish you were having needles poked in your eyes.
The world really is a beautiful place.
My legs don't work so I can't get the 60 miles to work. Wheel-chaired for two weeks, stick for more etc. etc. Cracked open head from said crap legs giving way -- Lordy. Bad enough that I haven't been sent any work to do remotely so my brain does not implode with daytime TV. The only upside to daytime TV is Countdown's Suzie Dent. She has the most beautiful smile.
My internet connection is down (my own company provides it) and I cannot figure out what the hell is wrong. We had a lightning strike a couple of weeks ago and yet, despite getting two new routers, I have not managed to fix the damned thing. Lucky for me some muppet around here has absolutely zero security on their wireless access so I suppose that is one thing that is vaguely good.
I'm infested with flying ants that are driving me nuts.
And just as I'm thinking it could not possibly get any worse, I get a law-suit filed against me for £16000 by my ex-wife. We've been apart for 10 years now -- how that logic works, I will never know.
Anyway, pull up a chair, a smoke and a brandy and let Uncle Kenny make you wish you were having needles poked in your eyes.
The world really is a beautiful place.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
I'm only girly over at Stan's
I've just had radio 4 on for the lunchtime news. It was sickening. Yeah, there are wars going on all over the place where people die, but there was one story that literally turned my stomach. Some bloke in Lincolnshire murdered his own parents.
I heard this literally ten minutes after I had been on Cruella's blog and followed her link to the blog about ECT (I am too lazy to put in the links, but Cruella is linked from here and her post points you to the post about ECT). I'm more liberal than Stan would believe and was outraged about the ECT stats; I seriously cannot get my head around that at all. I left a comment. And then I listened to the news. Good God. Talk about a recalibration? If you are that sick in the head that you can murder your own parents, what we need is a blunt instrument inserted into the temple and wiggled laterally -- that is your classic labotomy.
The lady who wrote about women being three times more likely to be subject to ECT has a very definite point. I know equal amounts of women and men. Thankfully, as far as I know, they are both equally sensitive to others and there is no pathos. It's a well believed theory that men have less sensitivity but, to be honest, that is utter rubbish. We're human and we feel just as much as women do; in some cases more. So for women to be three times more likely to be subject to electric shock treatment, it's utter madness and I can understand completely why the lady in question raised the issue. It is absolutely unacceptable to fry people for being a particular gender. Yes -- hang the bastards who would blow us all into smithereens, but please, if a woman is suffering from post-natal depression, have the decency to let her get on with it and get over it. Sending a few volts through her (and yes, I know, it's not the volts, it's the amps) is not going to help her or her child in any way, shape or form.
I think I'm falling in love with Cruella -- she's always dead-on. Like Bryony Gordon from the Telegraph, I have never once disagreed with a word she has written. Maybe I'm sexist for listening to women more than men. All that would prove is that Cruella is right and that women do think deeper than men. Or it could be that I'm smitten by the opposite sex and fascinated with their thoughts.
Whatever. Follow the Cruella link and read it; it's horrific. My obsessions are not of real import.
I heard this literally ten minutes after I had been on Cruella's blog and followed her link to the blog about ECT (I am too lazy to put in the links, but Cruella is linked from here and her post points you to the post about ECT). I'm more liberal than Stan would believe and was outraged about the ECT stats; I seriously cannot get my head around that at all. I left a comment. And then I listened to the news. Good God. Talk about a recalibration? If you are that sick in the head that you can murder your own parents, what we need is a blunt instrument inserted into the temple and wiggled laterally -- that is your classic labotomy.
The lady who wrote about women being three times more likely to be subject to ECT has a very definite point. I know equal amounts of women and men. Thankfully, as far as I know, they are both equally sensitive to others and there is no pathos. It's a well believed theory that men have less sensitivity but, to be honest, that is utter rubbish. We're human and we feel just as much as women do; in some cases more. So for women to be three times more likely to be subject to electric shock treatment, it's utter madness and I can understand completely why the lady in question raised the issue. It is absolutely unacceptable to fry people for being a particular gender. Yes -- hang the bastards who would blow us all into smithereens, but please, if a woman is suffering from post-natal depression, have the decency to let her get on with it and get over it. Sending a few volts through her (and yes, I know, it's not the volts, it's the amps) is not going to help her or her child in any way, shape or form.
I think I'm falling in love with Cruella -- she's always dead-on. Like Bryony Gordon from the Telegraph, I have never once disagreed with a word she has written. Maybe I'm sexist for listening to women more than men. All that would prove is that Cruella is right and that women do think deeper than men. Or it could be that I'm smitten by the opposite sex and fascinated with their thoughts.
Whatever. Follow the Cruella link and read it; it's horrific. My obsessions are not of real import.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Hmmm
As is probably well known, I work in IT. I'm about the most security minded individual on the planet. If it ain't over SSL or 128-bit encrypted, none of my personal details are entered. How is it, then, that someone has managed to spend £2000 of my money? As I said on my own blog, if it had been over a lost weekend of alcoholic blur, I would probably take it on the chin. The fact of the matter is that it was all done when I was in hospital so had no access to the internet at all, and would not have been able to type anyway thanks to the substantial quantities of valium I was subjected to.
The telling trait is that is all spent in Euros. I spend in pounds sterling and dollars only. Call me an infidel, but I do not believe in the Euro. That and the fact that I could not possibly have bought four items from a company I have never heard of in bloody Euros when I was parallel to the floor in a hospital bed, sedated to my hilt. For God's sake, I couldn't even remember whether my cousin had visited me so I doubt I would have found a computer, logged on to t'interweb and spent £2000 on anything. If I had, I would expect cruise tickets today and a fantastic holiday. Unfortunately, I suspect I am not that bright when I'm sick, so I've been electronically mugged.
Thankfully the bank have been brilliant. They'll have it sorted in days. They watch spending patterns and me buying something in Euros raised their eyebrows once I pointed it out. I send dollars to the US, occasionally buy things in dollars, but the rest is all sterling. I have never once used Euros, so they agreed with me straight away. Lloyds my peeps, Lloyds. Their customer service is second to none. Within three days, I'll have a new card and all the fraudulent spending refunded to my account. That is service.
All I can do is advise what I always do, which obviously isn't enough. Make sure you only order over SSL (https) and make sure it's 128-bit encryption. God knows how whomever managed to get my details (maybe I should not have taken my wallet into hospital with me), but I will track the swines down -- even if the bank can't.
Stan? Opinions? Help?
The telling trait is that is all spent in Euros. I spend in pounds sterling and dollars only. Call me an infidel, but I do not believe in the Euro. That and the fact that I could not possibly have bought four items from a company I have never heard of in bloody Euros when I was parallel to the floor in a hospital bed, sedated to my hilt. For God's sake, I couldn't even remember whether my cousin had visited me so I doubt I would have found a computer, logged on to t'interweb and spent £2000 on anything. If I had, I would expect cruise tickets today and a fantastic holiday. Unfortunately, I suspect I am not that bright when I'm sick, so I've been electronically mugged.
Thankfully the bank have been brilliant. They'll have it sorted in days. They watch spending patterns and me buying something in Euros raised their eyebrows once I pointed it out. I send dollars to the US, occasionally buy things in dollars, but the rest is all sterling. I have never once used Euros, so they agreed with me straight away. Lloyds my peeps, Lloyds. Their customer service is second to none. Within three days, I'll have a new card and all the fraudulent spending refunded to my account. That is service.
All I can do is advise what I always do, which obviously isn't enough. Make sure you only order over SSL (https) and make sure it's 128-bit encryption. God knows how whomever managed to get my details (maybe I should not have taken my wallet into hospital with me), but I will track the swines down -- even if the bank can't.
Stan? Opinions? Help?
Saturday, July 07, 2007
NHless
I've done enough moaning about my own health on my own blog so I'll cease and desist.
What I am annoyed about is the imbecility that is the doctoral register here. We have perfectly brilliantly qualified doctors who are falling foul of a daft online application system. The mainstream media have been, quite rightly, all over this one.
To be honest, I started off being unphased as it's about as ridiculous as corporate Britain. But recently (or to be more accurate, imminently) it has hit me. My GP is a locum and is about to have to go, and she has no job to go to.
Since my return from the US, I've been through a few GPs as I've moved around. Believe me, the locum girl who leaves at the end of the month is by far the best GP I have ever had. The thought of her not having a job leaves my jaw dropped. How can we train such talented people, let them run up massive student debts and then drop them like hot potatoes? I have always found it hard to relate to medical people, but this girl is such a natural and brighter than a flare. I cannot comprehend how we waste such skills. I don't care whether she would get paid over the odds -- I'll quite happily pay taxes towards that. In fact, increase National Insurance if that is what it takes.
My first GP surgery when I came back from the US was a husband and wife team. The bloke knew what he was doing; his wife was about as medically au fait as me so I just ignored her...a bit arrogant but you'd have done the same thing.
My second was in Leeds and he needed medication himself. I'd have given him lithium in industrial quantities. He was a nice guy, but kind of thick. His website was enough to send epileptics into A&E.
I've now fernagled my way into the best practice in this area, with the best GP I have ever known. And thanks to some bloody civil servant, she's off. I know she would be eventually because she is way too bright to be a GP (she'll be a consultant within a couple of years), but hell, I will miss her. She speaks English, not Medicalese (even though I can speak that) and she actually gives a rat's arse about her patients -- strange in this day and age.
I've written to the head of the practice to make a play for her to be retained. I am currently thinking about what I can write to my local MP that may influence future legislature -- it cannot be right for us to import doctors when our best universities produce such prodigious talent. I wonder how much of this is sexist? Stan will not believe me coming up with a conspiracy theory given my Telegraph-reading ways, but I honestly think that female doctors are discriminated against. The male ego kicks in, and the fact that women are more more people-friendly than men means there is a threat, so they're ignored. Go to the GMC website and and look through the registered doctors; from my casual analysis, only about a quarter are female. And do not tell me that there's only a quarter of females who are as bright as blokes...if you do I will prove this is not true by breaking your nose and altering the stats just a little.
My ex-wife was a do-goody two-shoes and she meant well, but she applied different rules to work than home. I still have the scars to prove it. I have no objection at all to equality of the sexes -- anyone who reads my blog will know that -- but I do object to discrimination in any form. Which is kind of contradictory really -- I want my doctor to have a job (preferably one that involves me being one of her patients), but I don't want to discriminate against equally well qualified foreign doctors.
I guess seeing that one of my local MPs is the Health Secretary, I can write to him and explain my concerns. And Dr T, go nowhere; you're an integral part of "keep Kenny alive" at the moment and just the smile on your face is worth a full regime of antibiotics.
Sorry Stan -- went off on one there.
What I am annoyed about is the imbecility that is the doctoral register here. We have perfectly brilliantly qualified doctors who are falling foul of a daft online application system. The mainstream media have been, quite rightly, all over this one.
To be honest, I started off being unphased as it's about as ridiculous as corporate Britain. But recently (or to be more accurate, imminently) it has hit me. My GP is a locum and is about to have to go, and she has no job to go to.
Since my return from the US, I've been through a few GPs as I've moved around. Believe me, the locum girl who leaves at the end of the month is by far the best GP I have ever had. The thought of her not having a job leaves my jaw dropped. How can we train such talented people, let them run up massive student debts and then drop them like hot potatoes? I have always found it hard to relate to medical people, but this girl is such a natural and brighter than a flare. I cannot comprehend how we waste such skills. I don't care whether she would get paid over the odds -- I'll quite happily pay taxes towards that. In fact, increase National Insurance if that is what it takes.
My first GP surgery when I came back from the US was a husband and wife team. The bloke knew what he was doing; his wife was about as medically au fait as me so I just ignored her...a bit arrogant but you'd have done the same thing.
My second was in Leeds and he needed medication himself. I'd have given him lithium in industrial quantities. He was a nice guy, but kind of thick. His website was enough to send epileptics into A&E.
I've now fernagled my way into the best practice in this area, with the best GP I have ever known. And thanks to some bloody civil servant, she's off. I know she would be eventually because she is way too bright to be a GP (she'll be a consultant within a couple of years), but hell, I will miss her. She speaks English, not Medicalese (even though I can speak that) and she actually gives a rat's arse about her patients -- strange in this day and age.
I've written to the head of the practice to make a play for her to be retained. I am currently thinking about what I can write to my local MP that may influence future legislature -- it cannot be right for us to import doctors when our best universities produce such prodigious talent. I wonder how much of this is sexist? Stan will not believe me coming up with a conspiracy theory given my Telegraph-reading ways, but I honestly think that female doctors are discriminated against. The male ego kicks in, and the fact that women are more more people-friendly than men means there is a threat, so they're ignored. Go to the GMC website and and look through the registered doctors; from my casual analysis, only about a quarter are female. And do not tell me that there's only a quarter of females who are as bright as blokes...if you do I will prove this is not true by breaking your nose and altering the stats just a little.
My ex-wife was a do-goody two-shoes and she meant well, but she applied different rules to work than home. I still have the scars to prove it. I have no objection at all to equality of the sexes -- anyone who reads my blog will know that -- but I do object to discrimination in any form. Which is kind of contradictory really -- I want my doctor to have a job (preferably one that involves me being one of her patients), but I don't want to discriminate against equally well qualified foreign doctors.
I guess seeing that one of my local MPs is the Health Secretary, I can write to him and explain my concerns. And Dr T, go nowhere; you're an integral part of "keep Kenny alive" at the moment and just the smile on your face is worth a full regime of antibiotics.
Sorry Stan -- went off on one there.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
You are only seven men
One of my favorite musicians is Nick Harper, son of Roy. I once broadcasted a live gig over my cell-phone to Da Missus in Illinois because she adores him. Afterwards he chatted with my step-daughter on the phone and then wrote the sweetest note to her on an autographed CD cover -- it went along the lines of "don't ever change".
The song that features the line "you are only seven men" is now inaccurate because at some point, while I was probably watching CSI, it became eight. As in the G8. The lines go "you are only seven men, we are nations."
I don't advocate any kind of violence but I can understand the poor uprising. Actually, not just the poor, but those with a conscience of any kind. From what I have seen of the meeting of the G8 in Germany, it's a shed-load of political show-boating.
Greenhouse this and nuclear that. Tony Blair with the "End world poverty" banner quite frankly made me puke.
I say "get over yourselves" and start thinking about what you can actually do rather than sit eating banquets discussing it for the benefit of your own political (and financial) gain.
The last summit, there was an almighty momentum to relieve poverty. Commitments were made by various countries to contribute millions of greenbacks to the cause. How much has been fulfilled? I'll let you guess.
It is disgraceful that 8 PMs, Presidents, Finance Ministers or whatever you want call them can be so disingenuous. If you're set an objective at work and commit to it, you do your damndest to hit that, and people expect you to. Why does this not apply to the G8?
You are only seven men. We are nations.
The song that features the line "you are only seven men" is now inaccurate because at some point, while I was probably watching CSI, it became eight. As in the G8. The lines go "you are only seven men, we are nations."
I don't advocate any kind of violence but I can understand the poor uprising. Actually, not just the poor, but those with a conscience of any kind. From what I have seen of the meeting of the G8 in Germany, it's a shed-load of political show-boating.
Greenhouse this and nuclear that. Tony Blair with the "End world poverty" banner quite frankly made me puke.
I say "get over yourselves" and start thinking about what you can actually do rather than sit eating banquets discussing it for the benefit of your own political (and financial) gain.
The last summit, there was an almighty momentum to relieve poverty. Commitments were made by various countries to contribute millions of greenbacks to the cause. How much has been fulfilled? I'll let you guess.
It is disgraceful that 8 PMs, Presidents, Finance Ministers or whatever you want call them can be so disingenuous. If you're set an objective at work and commit to it, you do your damndest to hit that, and people expect you to. Why does this not apply to the G8?
You are only seven men. We are nations.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Media circus
Following up on mi'learned colleague Stan's point below, I think we should analyze a little further afield here.
I have long since held that particular vertical industries or indeed horizontal industries (for those MBAs out there, A & B profile companies) sit there in a permanent state of navel contemplation, believing it to be in the best interests of the general public. This is clearly not so.
Besides Stan's well made point about media hype, let me point out some other random bits of things that have irked my jockstrap over the last few years:
-- The media fascination with itself is bordering on incestuous. When there are whole sections of newspapers and whole TV shows devoted to analyzing other reporters' coverage of something, you get into a world where the watchers are watching the watchers who are watching them, and three dimensions suddenly becomes twenty. Before you know it, we have disappeared in a spiral "up-your-own" manouvre. It's cliquey and only a minority of people are interested (mostly journos, editors and producers). Sadly I must have to class myself as one the sad few who is interested, just because I'm sure if I had my time again I would have wanted to be in that industry.
-- Closer to home, I have done some time in marketing, both technical and marcomms. As I sit watching the TV in the evening, eating my cheese on biscuits and sipping my brandy and coke, I do what what most marketing people do -- dissect the meanings behind the ads and try to spot the clever bits. Unless it's Mr "Oxyclean" or "DirtBuster" who just shouts at you, generally these adverts are misguided. They are made by marketing agencies who think too deeply about the message they are trying to get across but manage to convince corporate marketeers that their idea is so fiendish that it will work. The reality is that most adverts look like they are marketing to marketeers and no-one else. For example, my old VP of marketing (as much as I liked him) was naive enough to spend $40000 on a brand new Volvo, because he bought into the "Volvo, for life" campaign and he honestly thought he was protecting his kids more by spending an extra $20k. He, out of everyone, should have seen right through the triteness of that. I know it's a tad brash, but if it makes things white, just say it makes things white and have a distinctive brand -- no rocket science there. If it has four wheels and goes like sh*t off a silver shovel, there's your USP. No point dressing up a one line logo to mask the fact that your product is either rubbish, a death-trap or over-hyped. I could go on about this one for hours so I'll leave it alone.
Stan is absolutely spot on. The media dictates the agenda and it shouldn't. When we have so many news sources, you would have thought that they would not be trying to out-do each other on the amount of coverage a particular topic gets but highlighting what they saw fit, not what the rest of the press do. In some ways this is why, while I hate the Independent's sensationalism, I actually hold it quite high esteem. They never follow the crowd. I hate their headlines but whatever...
Probably 1% of you will know this unless you were reading my own blog 18 months ago, but a little girl was murdered about 2 miles away from my house. She wasn't much older than Madaleine. She was conclusively dead, not just missing. There are still flowers placed where she was found to this day. It bought her all of 30 seconds on the local news and a half inch column in the papers. If her parents had been a cardiologist and GP on holiday, maybe she might have made the national obsession. But no, she's Jo Ordinary from 'Oop Norf so she might have her photo shown at the local Bingo Hall.
The disparity is criminal. As much as I want this little girl back safely, we live in a media-fueled back-scratching, circulation battle as to who can out-sycophant their rivals. Markets market to themselves and no-one else, unless there's a bloody great O2 sign behind their PR guru as they sit talking trifles with Natasha Kaplinski (who is increasingly starting to annoy me to death). Or if they can smell a profit on the basis of a public outcry.
Enter stage left: Max Clifford.
Gah. Sickening.
I have long since held that particular vertical industries or indeed horizontal industries (for those MBAs out there, A & B profile companies) sit there in a permanent state of navel contemplation, believing it to be in the best interests of the general public. This is clearly not so.
Besides Stan's well made point about media hype, let me point out some other random bits of things that have irked my jockstrap over the last few years:
-- The media fascination with itself is bordering on incestuous. When there are whole sections of newspapers and whole TV shows devoted to analyzing other reporters' coverage of something, you get into a world where the watchers are watching the watchers who are watching them, and three dimensions suddenly becomes twenty. Before you know it, we have disappeared in a spiral "up-your-own" manouvre. It's cliquey and only a minority of people are interested (mostly journos, editors and producers). Sadly I must have to class myself as one the sad few who is interested, just because I'm sure if I had my time again I would have wanted to be in that industry.
-- Closer to home, I have done some time in marketing, both technical and marcomms. As I sit watching the TV in the evening, eating my cheese on biscuits and sipping my brandy and coke, I do what what most marketing people do -- dissect the meanings behind the ads and try to spot the clever bits. Unless it's Mr "Oxyclean" or "DirtBuster" who just shouts at you, generally these adverts are misguided. They are made by marketing agencies who think too deeply about the message they are trying to get across but manage to convince corporate marketeers that their idea is so fiendish that it will work. The reality is that most adverts look like they are marketing to marketeers and no-one else. For example, my old VP of marketing (as much as I liked him) was naive enough to spend $40000 on a brand new Volvo, because he bought into the "Volvo, for life" campaign and he honestly thought he was protecting his kids more by spending an extra $20k. He, out of everyone, should have seen right through the triteness of that. I know it's a tad brash, but if it makes things white, just say it makes things white and have a distinctive brand -- no rocket science there. If it has four wheels and goes like sh*t off a silver shovel, there's your USP. No point dressing up a one line logo to mask the fact that your product is either rubbish, a death-trap or over-hyped. I could go on about this one for hours so I'll leave it alone.
Stan is absolutely spot on. The media dictates the agenda and it shouldn't. When we have so many news sources, you would have thought that they would not be trying to out-do each other on the amount of coverage a particular topic gets but highlighting what they saw fit, not what the rest of the press do. In some ways this is why, while I hate the Independent's sensationalism, I actually hold it quite high esteem. They never follow the crowd. I hate their headlines but whatever...
Probably 1% of you will know this unless you were reading my own blog 18 months ago, but a little girl was murdered about 2 miles away from my house. She wasn't much older than Madaleine. She was conclusively dead, not just missing. There are still flowers placed where she was found to this day. It bought her all of 30 seconds on the local news and a half inch column in the papers. If her parents had been a cardiologist and GP on holiday, maybe she might have made the national obsession. But no, she's Jo Ordinary from 'Oop Norf so she might have her photo shown at the local Bingo Hall.
The disparity is criminal. As much as I want this little girl back safely, we live in a media-fueled back-scratching, circulation battle as to who can out-sycophant their rivals. Markets market to themselves and no-one else, unless there's a bloody great O2 sign behind their PR guru as they sit talking trifles with Natasha Kaplinski (who is increasingly starting to annoy me to death). Or if they can smell a profit on the basis of a public outcry.
Enter stage left: Max Clifford.
Gah. Sickening.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
I'm trying to keep my promise
Over chez-moi, I have pledged to keep my media analysis down to a minimum. I've been obsessing about Bryony Gordon from The Telegraph, my new mate Tasha and Kate Silverton for ages. That doesn't mean I can't do it here.
Stan knows about my deep-seated love of Kate Silverton, or, as I like to call her, the third Mrs Y. I've been metaphorically vying for her affections with an ex-colleague (R) for quite a while now. I think R would need a better sense of humor and humility to start knockin da boots with Kate. I think I am in first place at the moment due to the fact I have actually had an email from her. She's about my age but infinitely fitter -- she did a bloody triathlon for God's sake. Stan maintains that she has static eyebrows. I have seen them move, once. Even when she's giggling her socks off, they never seem to move, so I guess Stan has a point. No matter, the third Mrs Y is garjus.
Uggg. This post was brought to you by the most virulent strain of flu I have ever been subject to.
Stan knows about my deep-seated love of Kate Silverton, or, as I like to call her, the third Mrs Y. I've been metaphorically vying for her affections with an ex-colleague (R) for quite a while now. I think R would need a better sense of humor and humility to start knockin da boots with Kate. I think I am in first place at the moment due to the fact I have actually had an email from her. She's about my age but infinitely fitter -- she did a bloody triathlon for God's sake. Stan maintains that she has static eyebrows. I have seen them move, once. Even when she's giggling her socks off, they never seem to move, so I guess Stan has a point. No matter, the third Mrs Y is garjus.
Uggg. This post was brought to you by the most virulent strain of flu I have ever been subject to.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Grrrr
I would normally do this on my own blog, but my hosting company are being untypically unresponsive to the fact that my server is down.
How hard is it to keep a server running? My day job is designing resiliant computer systems with redundancy built in at every level. When I look to design something, these are the first considerations I have, because ultimately, that is the cost factor. Unless someone cuts two cables, none of anything I have designed will fail.
The guys who I do my hosting with are good. I have been with them for nearly seven years now, but to let a server be down for over 2 hours is outrageous. What you do is arrange that the connections to the SAN are connected to two servers - a kind of crossover if you like. And then you have a virtual IP that maps to a cluster of the servers that are connected to the SAN. Not rocket science! For just doing that, you reduce your outage probability by a factor of 4. Even if your luck really bums out, it should be a matter of minutes before you can reconfigure another server to access the bits that are rendered inaccessible.
In the immortal words of my wife "Oy vey". How annoying is it that your server is down?
How hard is it to keep a server running? My day job is designing resiliant computer systems with redundancy built in at every level. When I look to design something, these are the first considerations I have, because ultimately, that is the cost factor. Unless someone cuts two cables, none of anything I have designed will fail.
The guys who I do my hosting with are good. I have been with them for nearly seven years now, but to let a server be down for over 2 hours is outrageous. What you do is arrange that the connections to the SAN are connected to two servers - a kind of crossover if you like. And then you have a virtual IP that maps to a cluster of the servers that are connected to the SAN. Not rocket science! For just doing that, you reduce your outage probability by a factor of 4. Even if your luck really bums out, it should be a matter of minutes before you can reconfigure another server to access the bits that are rendered inaccessible.
In the immortal words of my wife "Oy vey". How annoying is it that your server is down?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
It's been a while
Allo everybody peeps. I feel I have been remiss in not posting here for a while.
The trouble is that Stan's site is a tad more cerebral than mine so I have to have something more weighty than my usual rantings on my site.
Completely contradicting the above sentence, I feel I need to point you all in the direction of the new love of my life. She's young, she's gorgeous and she writes like a proverbial bugger. Readers of Stan are probably not Telegraph readers so will not be au fait with the works of Bryony Gordon. She's the brightest thing I have read since my Missus stopped blogging.
Enjoy.
I'll be back with some political comment as soon as something incenses me sufficiently. Probably in about 10 minutes.
The trouble is that Stan's site is a tad more cerebral than mine so I have to have something more weighty than my usual rantings on my site.
Completely contradicting the above sentence, I feel I need to point you all in the direction of the new love of my life. She's young, she's gorgeous and she writes like a proverbial bugger. Readers of Stan are probably not Telegraph readers so will not be au fait with the works of Bryony Gordon. She's the brightest thing I have read since my Missus stopped blogging.
Enjoy.
I'll be back with some political comment as soon as something incenses me sufficiently. Probably in about 10 minutes.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
I wonder whether you'll need an ID card to get a passport?
So from 2009, UK passport holders will need to appear in person at one of the proposed new passport centers to be interviewed and poked for various bodily fluids.
I am all for ID cards -- no problem with them at all. But this level of inconvenience is an unprecedented assault on civil liberties.
Firstly, in order to get a passport when I got my first one, you needed to complete the form, send two signed pictures together with statements from people who are not your relatives and have known you for two years or more (they had to be doctors/lawyers/professional people) and proof of your ID (birth-certifcate). Kind of like sacrificing your first born in paperwork, but do-able as a batch process. Then you waited for about anywhere between two and six weeks and magically it arrived in the post.
In the US, where I had my passport renewed in Washington last time, they insisted that it was couriered and signed for. That may happen here now given the climate.
Today's UK passports contain a chip containing all your details (albeit unusable presently).
Personally, I am happy with the process, cumbersome though it is.
What I am not happy with is being "interviewed" and having anal swabs.
Contrary to what my airmiles history looks like (700,000+), I am a nervous traveller. Not because of planes but because I have been singled out for inspection (and I mean real inspection not a cursory look through the bags) on more occasions than I care to remember. And every time I re-entered the US, I would be the interviewed by the INS for at least thirty minutes. The most memorable of these was a trip to Kristiansund in Norway where, when I went through customs, having flown via Schipol, I was literally strip searched. I had the inners of my shoes pulled out and was down to my underwear. Guess they didn't like 23 year old professionals flying into Oslo for a couple of days with a one day return flight to somewhere else via Amsterdam.
My second experience was on an outward bound flight to Chicago from Manchester, where I had everything in my bag ripped to shreds and then nearly missed my flight.
There have been various other domestic checks in the US, but they have not been nearly as traumatising as the international ones.
The INS had me flagged as having not left the US in 1994 because Virgin did not return my visa waiver card. Also, apparently there is someone in the Midwest who shares my name and is/was a wanted felon. I used to have to point out that I have arrived at and departed from the US at least 100 times since then. It got to the point where I could only hold my nerve with a couple of stiff sherberts in the final hours of descent into the point of entry.
And now I really have overstayed a visa there, albeit while trying to file an adjustment of status, I really do dread the next time I get to go. I'll be photographed, fingerprinted, scanned and subject to what I expect to be a very long and tortuous interview at the US embassy in London.
So, you can see why I hate travel.
Adding some extra authority means I will be even more jittery and therefore it will be a self-fulfiling prophecy and singled out for extra screening. Not to mention being hassled. And inconvenienced.
I'll be renewing my passport next year before this nonsense is introduced. That will cover me until 2018 when I will be 49 and I hardly think I'll be wanting to bound around the world doing business at that age, although I may not have a choice.
I am all for ID cards -- no problem with them at all. But this level of inconvenience is an unprecedented assault on civil liberties.
Firstly, in order to get a passport when I got my first one, you needed to complete the form, send two signed pictures together with statements from people who are not your relatives and have known you for two years or more (they had to be doctors/lawyers/professional people) and proof of your ID (birth-certifcate). Kind of like sacrificing your first born in paperwork, but do-able as a batch process. Then you waited for about anywhere between two and six weeks and magically it arrived in the post.
In the US, where I had my passport renewed in Washington last time, they insisted that it was couriered and signed for. That may happen here now given the climate.
Today's UK passports contain a chip containing all your details (albeit unusable presently).
Personally, I am happy with the process, cumbersome though it is.
What I am not happy with is being "interviewed" and having anal swabs.
Contrary to what my airmiles history looks like (700,000+), I am a nervous traveller. Not because of planes but because I have been singled out for inspection (and I mean real inspection not a cursory look through the bags) on more occasions than I care to remember. And every time I re-entered the US, I would be the interviewed by the INS for at least thirty minutes. The most memorable of these was a trip to Kristiansund in Norway where, when I went through customs, having flown via Schipol, I was literally strip searched. I had the inners of my shoes pulled out and was down to my underwear. Guess they didn't like 23 year old professionals flying into Oslo for a couple of days with a one day return flight to somewhere else via Amsterdam.
My second experience was on an outward bound flight to Chicago from Manchester, where I had everything in my bag ripped to shreds and then nearly missed my flight.
There have been various other domestic checks in the US, but they have not been nearly as traumatising as the international ones.
The INS had me flagged as having not left the US in 1994 because Virgin did not return my visa waiver card. Also, apparently there is someone in the Midwest who shares my name and is/was a wanted felon. I used to have to point out that I have arrived at and departed from the US at least 100 times since then. It got to the point where I could only hold my nerve with a couple of stiff sherberts in the final hours of descent into the point of entry.
And now I really have overstayed a visa there, albeit while trying to file an adjustment of status, I really do dread the next time I get to go. I'll be photographed, fingerprinted, scanned and subject to what I expect to be a very long and tortuous interview at the US embassy in London.
So, you can see why I hate travel.
Adding some extra authority means I will be even more jittery and therefore it will be a self-fulfiling prophecy and singled out for extra screening. Not to mention being hassled. And inconvenienced.
I'll be renewing my passport next year before this nonsense is introduced. That will cover me until 2018 when I will be 49 and I hardly think I'll be wanting to bound around the world doing business at that age, although I may not have a choice.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Kenny in shock agreement with Stan
Who'da'thunkit?
Strange; Stan and I share moral values but we kind of reach a fork in the road when it comes to politics. Stan's kind of center left while I'm kind of center right. I am by no means the raging capitalist, war-mongering scumbag that I have been accused of being (not by Stan, I hasten to add).
Stan is spot-on on this one. It is by far the fairest and most CO2 friendly way forward.
Car tax is an obvious example of a ridiculous concept. If your car is over 26 years (or whatever it is) old, you pay none, even though your motor is almost certainly kicking out more CO2 than your average rabbit. If you are on a pension and use your car once a week to visit the grandkids who live two miles up the road, you need to damn well pay it. If you're Mr Supersales from Megacorp who does 50,000 miles a year, and flies half way around the world on a Jumbo jet every four weeks, you're paying the same as the pensioner. Utterly balmstick moonbat.
There was a time when company cars were quite rightly taxed to hell and back, with a few incidental taxes en-route. Now, companies and employees have cottoned on and there is the "car allowance". No extra taxes, just extra insurance for the employee.
Our financial models when it comes to transportation need urgently reviewing. I regard this tracking (insert snort here -- subterfuge) technology to be a good opening debate on how we make things fair and environmentally friendly. It may not be right but it fuels debate.
Next, we need to look at the rail system and question whether privatization was the best thing to do.
And once we have solved that, then let's look at planes.
And after that, cows. Can we not buy them some Gaviscon?
Kenny out.
Update: I'm liking this Gaviscon idea. Extra calcium in milk, better meat, stronger bones. It's an absolute winner. Can I claim my Nobel prize now?
Strange; Stan and I share moral values but we kind of reach a fork in the road when it comes to politics. Stan's kind of center left while I'm kind of center right. I am by no means the raging capitalist, war-mongering scumbag that I have been accused of being (not by Stan, I hasten to add).
Stan is spot-on on this one. It is by far the fairest and most CO2 friendly way forward.
Car tax is an obvious example of a ridiculous concept. If your car is over 26 years (or whatever it is) old, you pay none, even though your motor is almost certainly kicking out more CO2 than your average rabbit. If you are on a pension and use your car once a week to visit the grandkids who live two miles up the road, you need to damn well pay it. If you're Mr Supersales from Megacorp who does 50,000 miles a year, and flies half way around the world on a Jumbo jet every four weeks, you're paying the same as the pensioner. Utterly balmstick moonbat.
There was a time when company cars were quite rightly taxed to hell and back, with a few incidental taxes en-route. Now, companies and employees have cottoned on and there is the "car allowance". No extra taxes, just extra insurance for the employee.
Our financial models when it comes to transportation need urgently reviewing. I regard this tracking (insert snort here -- subterfuge) technology to be a good opening debate on how we make things fair and environmentally friendly. It may not be right but it fuels debate.
Next, we need to look at the rail system and question whether privatization was the best thing to do.
And once we have solved that, then let's look at planes.
And after that, cows. Can we not buy them some Gaviscon?
Kenny out.
Update: I'm liking this Gaviscon idea. Extra calcium in milk, better meat, stronger bones. It's an absolute winner. Can I claim my Nobel prize now?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Reprint
I'm going to reproduce the same post that I have just done chez-moi, on the basis that I have not howled as much in forever...
There's a show on one of the BBC channels called Mock the Week and I saw one of the funniest gags ever last night. It will probably not translate to print, but here you go. The subject was terrorism. Some stand-up guy I have never heard of stepped up:
"Terrorism? Tony Blair says we should be worried about Osama Bin Laden having WMDs. Listen, I've seen the pictures. The guy has a donkey and a rifle....when I see an ICBM strapped to the back of the donkey, then I'll be worried."
Priceless. Stan will like that one.
There's a show on one of the BBC channels called Mock the Week and I saw one of the funniest gags ever last night. It will probably not translate to print, but here you go. The subject was terrorism. Some stand-up guy I have never heard of stepped up:
"Terrorism? Tony Blair says we should be worried about Osama Bin Laden having WMDs. Listen, I've seen the pictures. The guy has a donkey and a rifle....when I see an ICBM strapped to the back of the donkey, then I'll be worried."
Priceless. Stan will like that one.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Doppleganger
Every now and again, you meet people who are as completely reasonable as you are. Stan is one of them.
I was just going to comment about how he should just go ahead and do the Linux thing but then I realised that the caveat that you should stay with XP is perfectly justifiable. If you're not of a techie bent, moving to an OS that has the following commands, you're a tad buggered:
fsck whatever
kill -9 whatever
rm -rf /*
1,$s:Kenny/Self-righteous git/g
I happen to agree with Stan on this one. The security holes are one thing, but the biggest problem with it is that you need a bloody super-computer to run it. God knows how many gigabtyes of memory and oodles of disk space.
Microsoft, in 2001, realised that Sun were going to be a big problem when they released a 64-bit Solaris. So, a little known fact, is that there's a switch that you can use where XP boots into a simulated 64-bit environment. In reality what that means is that you can actually access what a 64-bit OS will be able to address. 32-bit OS's can address 2 gig of memory. After that, it's, to coin a Blackadder phrase, like a broken pencil: pointless. Microsoft missed the boat again.
This whole thing amuses me no end. I am one of the people who suffered from when Microsoft
simulated a 32-bit OS back in whenever via a "thunk" layer that mapped 32-bit calls to their 16-bit OS. At the time, TCP/IP was provided by third party suppliers like FTP, Wollongong, Banyan, DEC etc. We had a support contract with Microsoft at the time that allowed us access to third line support immediately. I called them saying that Windows for Workgroups broke DEC's Pathworks. They hung up and never called back. I eventually worked out what the problem was called to tell them -- gratitude was not exactly overflowing.
The problem is that if you have a bunch of celever academics and give them a problem, there's a kind of puritanist approach to it. I'm not saying that a "thunk" layer is a bad idea, just that if you're going to do it, do it right. And understand what you are doing.
And while you're at it, watch those buffer overflows. That is schoolboy stuff. Stan's warnings should be heeded.
I was just going to comment about how he should just go ahead and do the Linux thing but then I realised that the caveat that you should stay with XP is perfectly justifiable. If you're not of a techie bent, moving to an OS that has the following commands, you're a tad buggered:
fsck whatever
kill -9 whatever
rm -rf /*
1,$s:Kenny/Self-righteous git/g
I happen to agree with Stan on this one. The security holes are one thing, but the biggest problem with it is that you need a bloody super-computer to run it. God knows how many gigabtyes of memory and oodles of disk space.
Microsoft, in 2001, realised that Sun were going to be a big problem when they released a 64-bit Solaris. So, a little known fact, is that there's a switch that you can use where XP boots into a simulated 64-bit environment. In reality what that means is that you can actually access what a 64-bit OS will be able to address. 32-bit OS's can address 2 gig of memory. After that, it's, to coin a Blackadder phrase, like a broken pencil: pointless. Microsoft missed the boat again.
This whole thing amuses me no end. I am one of the people who suffered from when Microsoft
simulated a 32-bit OS back in whenever via a "thunk" layer that mapped 32-bit calls to their 16-bit OS. At the time, TCP/IP was provided by third party suppliers like FTP, Wollongong, Banyan, DEC etc. We had a support contract with Microsoft at the time that allowed us access to third line support immediately. I called them saying that Windows for Workgroups broke DEC's Pathworks. They hung up and never called back. I eventually worked out what the problem was called to tell them -- gratitude was not exactly overflowing.
The problem is that if you have a bunch of celever academics and give them a problem, there's a kind of puritanist approach to it. I'm not saying that a "thunk" layer is a bad idea, just that if you're going to do it, do it right. And understand what you are doing.
And while you're at it, watch those buffer overflows. That is schoolboy stuff. Stan's warnings should be heeded.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Manchester, it's the new Vegas
Around my neck of the woods, people ask you on a Friday or Saturday night whether you are going to "Vegas" or not. Vegas, in this context, is Ashton-in-Makerfield. It consists of a couple of crap pubs, a couple of really crap pubs and a couple of night-clubs with such wonderfully inspired names as "Mad Jack's" and "Owd Mary's". The better looking bar staff in my local habitually descend there after the local has shut. I would do, but I'm now thirty-something and feel it lacks the dignity that someone of my phenomenal stature exudes.
Well, Vegas has now moved. And it ain't in Blackpool where such tack should be quite rightly installed. It's good old God's Own Manchester.
I picture sexy CSIs roaming Longsight and Moss Side. Jorja Fox in knee length leather boots ambling around Rusholme taking pictures of dead pigeons. Wow. Marge Helgenburg down th'Oddies supping pints of mild with Owd Norm, Wally et al.
Well maybe not. Another regeneration project bootstrapped on the back of banality. It's akin to opening a "Big Brother" house in Salford. I despair. Again. Just what the Northwest needs -- like we haven't got enough betting shops and casinos already. Oh, and debt.
Having witnessed my grandfather's penchant for the horses, I still have the sickly taste of a wasted life in my mouth.
You're lucky if you see me buying a lottery ticket. You will not find me in a casino. Not even if Jorja Fox is in knee length leather boots. I'll stick to harassing Nicky in my local; a much more honorable pass time.
Well, Vegas has now moved. And it ain't in Blackpool where such tack should be quite rightly installed. It's good old God's Own Manchester.
I picture sexy CSIs roaming Longsight and Moss Side. Jorja Fox in knee length leather boots ambling around Rusholme taking pictures of dead pigeons. Wow. Marge Helgenburg down th'Oddies supping pints of mild with Owd Norm, Wally et al.
Well maybe not. Another regeneration project bootstrapped on the back of banality. It's akin to opening a "Big Brother" house in Salford. I despair. Again. Just what the Northwest needs -- like we haven't got enough betting shops and casinos already. Oh, and debt.
Having witnessed my grandfather's penchant for the horses, I still have the sickly taste of a wasted life in my mouth.
You're lucky if you see me buying a lottery ticket. You will not find me in a casino. Not even if Jorja Fox is in knee length leather boots. I'll stick to harassing Nicky in my local; a much more honorable pass time.
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