The Man. Just The Absolute Man

Sir Terry Pratchett became an adjunct Professor at Trinity College Dublin University, back in 2008. Terry's inaugural lecture was recorded and is up on that there YouTube thing. I've embedded it below.

It's an hour long and it's an hour extremely well spent.



My Hero.

Carter Vs The Ministry of Transport, Episode 94, Part 1

It's around this time of year, I make yet another reference to the Sam Vimes Boots Theory Of Socio-Economic Injustice, as my car is put through an MoT. I dream of the year when I will have a car that will provide me with sound, solid, reliable transportation rather than a broken heart, an even broker wallet and a soul withering, yet hopefully temporary, reliance on public transport.

2010 will not be that year.

For the fourth year running, I dropped the car off at my favoured garage in Malvern, was welcomed with open arms and invited to their Christmas do. Well, I have put two of his kids through college after all. I'm almost part of the family.

An hour or so later he handed me the red tinged Refusal of an MOT Test Certificate. The list of test failures ran into two sheets, which is no small beer for a vehicle that squeaked through last year with minimal work and only two advisories.

Knackered suspension, corroded brake pipes, streeeeeeeeetched handbrake cable, brake pads dangerously thin, rear tyres under the legal limit, rear offside tyre fouling the wheel arch (the rear axle was scru-hooood), oil leak, excessive corrosion (which was seriously affecting the vehicle structure strength within a couple of inches of the body mountings) and, to top it all off, the registration plate light bulb had gone.

The rest I could have handled but that little tungsten filament letting me down was just too much to bear.

My mechanic recognised the the 1000 yard stare and surreptitiously moved anything dangerous out of arms length.

"It's fixable Mr. Magna," he reassured me "it'll just cost a bit." he said as he began scribbling figures on a scrap of paper and punching them into a calculator. Once the running total passed £700 and I saw he still had many more iterations to go, I decided enough was enough and called a halt to his dream of getting his youngest into Oxford without a scholarship.

"Oh well," I said, scrabbling to find a silver lining to this diesel engine generated cloud. "At least I've got a fortnight before the old ticket runs out. I should be able to find something in that time."
"Actually Mr. Magna, no you don't."

These days, the test stations are all hooked up to the DVLA database and when a cars fails an MoT, it is automatically declared unroadworthy and this trumps your old MoT certificate. If an Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera clocks you, a flag is raised and you will be pulled over by the boys in high viz yellow. I could drive my car home and that was that. Oh, and it still cost 50 quid.

Bugger.

I'll have to travel to work by train.

Oh dear god no.

WHY?! WHY ME?!

With a small pop, a mini-Carteresque apparition appeared on my left shoulder. Clad in white, sporting angel wings, harp and a halo, he wagged his finger and began to chastise me:

"Well, the same reason as the last four times, Carter; you're crap with money and have planned poorly.

A car is a mechanical device that relies on controlled explosions within small chambers, the plastic and elastic properties of rubber boots and metal springs, of hydraulic fluid, water, electronics and a dizzying configuration of all of these things.

This particular example was designed and built by the French for Christ sake! Aside from the reverse gear being more reliable than a Goodyear condom, what on Earth did you expect it to do, Carter? Survive the way you drove the damn thing as if you were in an episode of Grand Theft Auto Kidderminster?

Of course not. The frame was going to buckle and bend, the tyres were going to shred, something in the engine would make a sproing sound and you'll be taking Shanksy's pony to the nearest train station."

It was at this point I wondered whether Daphers had slipped something into my tea or that I'd finally snapped.

Little cliche angel on the shoulder Carter, evaporated as soon as his existence as a literary device had been served. I waited for little cliche devil on the opposite shoulder Carter to arrive, hoping that he'd agree with me on the need for many pints of Guinness, but he didn't show. This may be because I am the devil version of Carter that the Everyman version was usurped by, but it's probably more to do with the fact that this particular flight of fancy has less mileage than my Citroen has left.

All of this happened, apart from the bits about non-existent manifestations of my consciousness, last Monday. Since then, I have been getting the bus and taking the train to work and back.

Dear reader, the last week of my life may make for a funny story some day. At this precise moment in time, the wounds are still far too raw for me to recount any of it.

I'll start part 2 tomorrow. I'll be all healed up by then I 'spect.

Neighbourhood Diplomacy

The problem with the Daily Mail... Sorry, one of the problems with the Daily Mail... Hang on, I'll try again; one of the many problems with The Daily Mail is that it's hard to take it seriously.

It's nicknamed the Daily Hate, described as fascism with oven gloves on and the crossword is far too easy.
The Daily Mail is hysterical, shrieking, self appointed oncology specialist and home to a more than adequate fashion section. So I'm told...

There's no getting away from the fact that it is a popular paper. Popular doesn't mean good though. You only have to look at the continued success of Peter Andre, The X-Factor, Jordan, Piers "Morgan" Moron and so on and so on. All this means is that the country is made up of an awful lot of horrendously stupid people.

Millions of them.

It's Darwinism in action really. Instead of letting the weak, stupid and useless die, we fed and watered them. They then flourished into people that thought Jade Goody was a worthwile entity.

Ah well. I appear to have wandered off the point.

Whenever I receive a link to the paper's website, I am minded to treat it with a pinch of salt.

That'll teach you to block my car in: OAP caught on CCTV shunting vehicle blocking his garage

The old boy had a garage and some inconsiderate pratt parked in front of it, blocking him in. You can tell that this happens quite often and that our octegenarian protagonist had had enough and barged the offending car out of the way.

Fair play to him.

As per usual though, the beak gets it rather wrong and bans Mr Pemberton from driving and awards the plank in the illegally parked Ford Ka damages.

In Carterland, where the citizens live in fear of not being manly enough and must avoid getting on my thruppennies for fear of a slap, the ruling handed down would have been slightly more in favour of the old boy.

The driver who blocked in Mr Pemberton would have been ordered to say sorry, have "I park in handicap bays" tattooed on his forehead and pay for the rent of an adjacent garage and a forklift for a year. The keys to this garage and forklift would then be available to all of the garage owners.

Precedent would then be set and the young lad over the road from me would think twice before blocking me in again too. Not that I have been prejudiced to this particular story.

Talking of the lad across the road, he blocked me in on my drive one cold Thursday morning, 6am to be precise, and I did follow the advice given by the magistrate in the story, which was [...]to leave a note on the windscreen and have a word when they come back. Except in my case the note said "YOU IGNORANT ****" and relations have been strained ever since.

I've had the slow stare from him, the loud but not quite loud enough comments across the street and parking near but not quite near enough to cross the line type of thing. I'm not sure when, but I think words will have to be exchanged and I'll put him on his ass. You know, just to straighten the whole thing out and clear the air.

Carter Magna, Ladies and Gentlemen. Winner of Neighbour of the Year 2010.

David Haye Vs Audley Harrison

Because I can't help but make a fool of myself when it comes to sporting predictions, here it is:

Haye in 2, reminiscent of his demolishment* of Enzo Maccarinelli.

Either way, I'm looking forward to this one.


*Trademark Joe Rogan


Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

And the Vicar said "No! That's My Wife's!"

This is a repost from Sunday 17th January, when I first heard about the Paul Chambers situation:

Via Satans Thong (brilliant blog and definitely NSFW or recommended for the easily offended) comes this from new blog The Bearer's Voice.

I've tried to find a link to a news article but I can't find one, just another blog post about it. If you don't want to click through then the meat of the story is this, a man called Paul Chambers tweeted the following:

"@pauljchambers Crap! Robin Hood airport is closed. You’ve got a week and a bit to get your shit together, otherwise I’m blowing the airport sky-high!!"

A week later he was arrested under anti-terror legislation and had his PC, phone and car confiscated.

Now Matthew Wheadon, of The Bearer's Voice, makes the very good point that making inappropriate jokes is what we do and arresting someone for making a joke about blowing an airport up is just not cricket. Even if it is a crap joke.

They confiscated his phone... I don't know about you but having my phone looked at by the wrong people would fill me with dread.

Here's a little test for you:

Take your phone out of your pocket, open the inbox and have a scroll through your text messages. Cast aside the messages telling you to pick up milk on the way home or the texts arranging meet ups at the pub and look at the jokes. Given the recent spate of laws governing who you can and can't slag off that we now have in this country, would you be happy that a copper was having a little root through your phone? Probably not if you, like me, get sent jokes of a sexist, racist, anti religious or just downright "too soon" nature.

When Michael Jackson died Sickipedia crashed. It did the same when Jade Goody finally shuffled off this mortal coil and you can put good money on it happening again if Obama gets assassinated. Sickipedia gets slammed in the MSM for displaying jokes of dubious taste and to be fair the signal to noise ratio can be kind of overwhelming but it does have some gems in there.

The thing is though, and it really is the key point, if you don't want to be offended by crude jokes then don't go there. If you don't want to be annoyed by self satisfied smug media whores who talk about themselves in the third person then don't visit Guido Fawkes' site. I'm offended by MPs and other sanctimonious, self-appointed guardians of the nations moral health but there's not exactly a massive amount that I can do about that is there?

"That's not funny man!"
"Oh but it is. It really is."

So how does every [insert gender/religion/sexuality/ethnicity here] joke start?

With a look over the shoulder.

I'm Sparticus!

Crap! Robin Hood airport is closed. You've got a week to get your shit together, otherwise I'm blowing the airport sky high!!



Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Turf War, Chard Style!

When I were a boy, there were few things that would irritate me as much as hearing really old people, like my parents and uncles who were at least 10 years younger than I am now, say things like "I remember when all this was fields" or "a fifty pee piece was a ten bob note and two spanners made a flagon’s knob" or however the hell old money worked.

Except, now I'm starting to see the landscape I remember from my youth alter. And I do remember when all this was fields.

The parts of Chard that were home to marathon games of Bunker123, War and, um, other less civilised brands of hide, seek and fight, are now housing estates. The council estates that were already there when I was a child are getting more crowded too; the back gardens of some streets of council houses are being claimed back and more houses built on them.

Just what Chard needs; to be turned into an overpopulated craphole.

It seems strange then, in these eco-orientated times, that there are people out there intent on making our green and pleasant land, less green and far less pleasant.

ALLOTMENT holders in Chard will see their rents go up by more by 50%.

Members of Chard Town Council voted in favour on Monday night of the yearly rental charge going up by £16 to £26.

Cllr Cathie Morrison said: “The rents have been very minimal over the years and £26 a year works out at about just 50p a week.”

The move to increase the rent fees has been made after the landowner of the allotments put up his fee to the council.

I am not a green-fingered man. Forgetting to take a cup of tea downstairs and the ensuing race for life in the dregs, is the closest I get to growing anything. I can’t even grow a beard for crying out loud! Allotments and other gardening activities don't interest me in the slightest and they probably don't interest you either.

Arrogant councilors who think they can bully their constituents and bamboozle them with rhetoric on the other hand, they have my undivided attention.

Cllr Martin Wale said: “I don’t see why the people of Chard should subsidise the allotment holders.”

Well, Councillor Martin Wale should wind his neck in. He seems to have forgotten that the generation of people that are likely to use the allotments, went to school in an era where Maths wasn't a dirty word. As one Carter Correspondent put it:

Dear Carter,

I'm a massive fan of your blog and think that you should receive money and recognition for writing the way you do. On top of that I think you are extremely handsome and should bring out your own clothing and perfume range.

The e-mail carries on for quite some time in a similar vein, so we'll skip that and get to the meat.

The land in question is two thirds allotments, one third play area.
Rents until now, according to the County Gazette, were:
£960.00 = allotments
£480.00 = play area
£1440.00 = Total paid to landowner



Total paid to landowner after he raises rent as of 2011 will be:
£2200.00
Rents of allotment holders for Oct 2009 - Oct 2010 were:
£14.30 per annum (including water.)
Rents of allotment holders for Oct 2010 - April 2011 were:
£8.00 per 6 months (council wanting to change dates of renting from April to April)
Rents of allotment holders as of 2011 will be:
£26.00 per annum (water included)

Number of allotment holders is between 160 and 170 bringing in rent of :
£4160.00 minimum to the council

Leaving a surplus of £1960, if the allotment holders are paying towards the play area and £2440, if they are not.

The rent hike the allotment holders are getting is obviously not calculated in proportion to the rent hike of the landlord to the council.

4 or 5 years ago there were no council inspections of the allotments. Recently they've started monthly inspections, by council members who have little or no notion of gardening and can't tell a weed from a vegetable.

One allotment inspection was conducted by a woman in stilettos...

They then proceed to write letters to allotment holders telling them to tidy or clean up their plots, costing the council more in administration.

A certain female council member has been overheard remarking that "of course allotments were originally given out to vagrants" and this seems to be the overall disrespectful view of the council to the allotment holders which they have said Chard "subsidises" (see C&I news article).

Yours

Bridget Bardot

This recent attitude change towards the allotment holders by the councillors is curious. Government policy on allotments is clear:

"Allotments are an important feature in the cultural landscape. They combine utility, meaning and beauty with local distinctiveness."

If you are of a mind, go read the whole thing, if not I'll give you the extremely abridged version: The government likes allotments because they're green, media friendly and keep a fair few passionate people working the land rather than fighting in the streets.

Other points covered in the Fifth Report include the vulnerability of allotments, especially due to the inclination of a certain type of person to see an uncluttered skyline as a blight on his wallet.

The Chard Allotments are still on the edge of town and in a very nice, quiet area. A developer's wet dream and no mistake. Seeing as no other developments have sprung up around this site, I can only assume that the site is part of the much vaunted Green Belt.

Who decides what land remains green belt land?

Local authorities do.

Suddenly the attitude shift is not so curious after all.

If it's one thing that's shoved down our throats with monotonous regularity, piety and dubious accuracy, it's the necessity of being green. Turn off the lights if you're not in the room, recycle, minimise your electricity bill, reduce your carbon footprint, drive a mile less everyday and DO YOUR BIT FOR THE ENVIRONMENT!

All manor of hippy dippy stuff that our betters seem to think we should be doing. Until they smell a massive profit that is. Then it's screw you prole, get off that prime bit of real estate and go pound dirt in a window box instead!

The allotment holders have been there for a number of years and they've put no small amount of time, hard work and love into that land.

All that effort and future effort is now under threat and it's under threat from the very people who are employed to look after the interests of the people of Chard.

Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You...

Or rather, if you're the Right Honourable Member for Wolverhampton South West Paul Uppal, go right on ahead and ask what can your country do for you. I mean, it's not as if your country's already dishing out 60 odd grand a year for spurious services rendered...

As much as this blog could do with a mission statement, I'm not going to turn it into Uppal-Watch, despite the rich seam Mr Uppal appears intent on providing. There is at least one other blogger out there doing a far more comprehensive job than I could. I will be keeping an open file on Paul's exploits for an Uppaldate^TM every now and then and unless he does something exceptionally outrageous, I'll just carry on as normal.

This Paul Uppal MP themed post however, was inspired by this:

Click to enlarge and fear for your favourite blogger.
Or me. Fear for me instead.

I bring this to your attention, so that should I disappear, the grieving public will have a suspect to suspect. Before I am the victim of a six o'clock knock; bagged, tagged and shipped off for some of that extraordinary rendition dahling, I shall finish this post.

Sorry.

People arrive at this blog in a number of ways: Other blogger's blogrolls, a bookmark, through facebook (if you are a pal of mine) or from a google search.

In a recent post I did about lying, thieving scumbags Meritforce, I was pleased to see that it had helped a Googler called Debs and I sincerely hope that it helps others in a similar situation.

Other keywords in google searches, that direct to this blog, are "Sam Vimes' Socio Economic Unfainess", "Mind The Windows Tino" and now, "Paul Uppal" is climbing the ranks.

Talking of Google (did you spot the clever segway?!), I do believe our friend Paulo should learn to use it.

We live in a golden age of technology my friends. Never before has so much information, been available to so many. The answer to virtually any question you wish to ask is but a few clicks and a pinch of salt away. I wanted to know what my new MP had been up to since taking office; a combination of Google, Companies House and an e-mail to a mate with connections, soon availed me of that information.

In the olden days, whenever you had a question, you would ask someone who knew. Well, you would ask someone who you hoped would know. If I wanted to know what round Bruno was knocked out by Tyson in their second fight, well, I would ask Al Riste the next time I saw him in the King's Head. His knowledge of boxing is second to none and he is the arbiter of many a bar bet.

Nowadays, we Google.

Granted, some questions are little more complex. For example: To ask the Chancellor of the Exchequer what estimate he has made of the number of people in Wolverhampton South West who will be affected by his proposal to change the eligibility criteria for child benefit.

Which was answered with "Information on household income for child benefit claimants is not available at parliamentary constituency level." Which is a resounding "You know full bloody well that we don't hold that info, go and do the sums yourself."

If I wanted to know where to find the drivers for my printer, I wouldn't be e-mailing Bill Gates to furnish me with a hyperlink would I now? Yet Paul keeps asking exactly that type of question, at the highest level.

It is purely to give the impression that he is working hard on our behalf.

The funny but-not-funny-because-it's-costing-us-money-and-this-bloke-is-taking-the-piss thing is, Paul didn't even think of this piece of false representation first! He pinched it straight from Helen Jones (Warrington North, Labour), who seems to be completely obsessed with keeping her expenses secret and not fond of having to explain her spending! Well, she asked three extremely "attack is the best form of defence" style questions today alone. Here, here and here if you're interested.

I've gotta tell you reader, yes it's only you that I'm talking to, there's no-one else here. I've gotta tell you that I'm pretty g-darn far from happy with this state of affairs. Not only is our elected representative only interested in feathering his own nest, he's trying to keep up with one of Blair's Babes!

You better up your game Uppal.

We *ARE* paying attention.