Appreciating Assets just published!

The comic novel I wrote for my MA in Creative Writing has finally been published as a Kindle ebook. More here: http://markspeed.co.uk/Appreciating-Assets.html

Appreciating Assets by Mark Speed

 

Newsjack rejections

A new series of Newsjack started last week. The gags below were not used:

9/11 happened, but the 9/11 memorial service was obviously fake. How did they get all those Americans to observe a minute’s silence?

I don’t think ringfencing the banks is going to help. Well, not unless they use searchlights and machineguns too.

New competition is being introduced to make it easier for people to swap banks. The Greeks now bank with the Germans.

Remarkably detailed photographs of the old Apollo 17 lunar mission show that conditions on the moon have deteriorated badly. The landing stage was covered in graffiti and the lunar roving vehicle’s wheels had been replaced by bricks.

The World Has Gone Mad: Final Proof

What amazes me is that the following is taken as good news:

Banks set the pace in London as investors welcomed an end to uncertainty over debt-laden Portugal, which confirmed it had asked the European Union for financial help. Banks were also buoyed by signs that the impact of the UK’s tougher capital regime may no longer be such a disadvantage after two European banks announced plans to raise £11.5bn of fresh capital. [British Investment Digest, 07/04/2011]

Let’s break down this ‘good’ news, shall we?

• We’re now absolutely certain that Portugal’s completely finished – terrific news. I’m sure all the Portuguese are delighted, along with every other citizen of the EU responsible for bailing them out (£250 from every Brit).
• Everyone else is going to have to toughen up their capital regimes because they’re more lax than the UK’s. The process is going to suck up £11.5bn of capital, and take it out of circulation, when it could have been allocated to help real businesses grow. Instead, it will act as a cushion so that bonuses are paid to economically destructive bankers.

Yes, great news if you’re a banker, Eurocrat, or other assorted economic leech. The world would not pass a sanity test.

Hot and Cold Water Pipes Under Tooting Bec Common

Hot and cold pipes under Tooting Bec Common, London

This photograph is of the hot and cold-water pipes running under the footpath on the west side of Tooting Bec Common.

The pipe on the right of the picture is for cold water. You can see that the workmen have put a blue rag on top of it and marked an object blue in the foreground. The black pipe on the left must therefore be the hot-water pipe. I would imagine that part of the upgrading work may be to lag it.

Cold-water taps are always on the right, and hot on left. The logical conclusion is that the taps must be to the south of this hole. Indeed, Tooting Bec Lido lies about 1km to the SSE. The absence of lagging on the hot-water pipe may explain its consistently low temperature, even in the summer.

PJ O’Rourke Evacuates from Bowels of World Book Club

Last night I was part of an audience for a recording of BBC World Book Club featuring PJ O’Rourke talking about Eat The Rich, his book on economics, published in 1997.

My question was:

You list the following as the foundations of a modern industrial economy: hard work, education, responsibility, property rights, rule of law, and democratic government. According to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics, the American standard of living has been falling since 1973. In which of these six areas do you think the United States has changed for the worse, and what could be done to reverse the trend?

He didn’t much like that one, and slipped off the hook by disputing government statistics as a whole. He pointed at the preponderance of electronic entertainment devices – from music players to flat-screen TVs – as evidence of an advance, then sought refuge in the rise of single parenthood, marital breakdown and the rise of drug abuse as evidence of a fall in societal standards. He deftly declared psychology and sociology beyond his remit or knowledge to try to avoid further discussion. Harriett Gilbert, WBC’s marvellous host, did try to pin him back on the hook, but PJ’s a wily fellow.

A question from my friend Efua Meadows Smith in Ghana was a good one:

Ghana is rich in mineral resources, particularly gold. Recently we discovered large oil reserves off the coast. Given that we actually have an honest government which has been stamping out corruption, what would you recommend we do with the extra money in order to secure our future economic wellbeing; spend it on health, infrastructure, or education?

PJ talked knowledgeably about unnecessary mortality due to diarrhoea, and the cheapness – 35c per instance – of the cure. Education was his investment of choice, using Scotland in the Eighteenth century as an example.

I stayed to talk with Harriett and then realised that I was the only ‘civilian’ left. PJ revealed he’d been up at five that morning due to mild food-poisoning. Whilst we waited for the lift I entertained him with an old joke from university days: the questions in the Economics exam are the same every year; only the answers change. The lift arrived. I remarked that it was signed as being the evacuation lift, and that his bowel problems should thus be cured instantly. I’m glad to report that he roared with laughter at my gags. Apparently he’s the second most-quoted person in the Penguin Dictionary of Humorous Quotations (Oscar Wilde being number one). I’ll keep an eye on any new additions…

The show airs on February 5th, 2011, and will be available to download as a podcast.

An American Convert in London

There are two quintessentially British comedy shows on Radio4: I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue and Just a Minute. I was fortunate to see a double recording of the latter at the Edinburgh Fringe this year. On Monday 22nd I had two tickets for another double recording; the first ever at the British Library. But who to invite? The answer was an American friend from my old comedy improvisation group, who’s been living here for six years and is currently applying for British citizenship. The show’s marmite in nature, so I was concerned he might have to tough it out for ninety minutes.

Nicholas Parsons introduces Just a Minute at the British Library

I explained the rules: panellists have to talk without hesitation, deviation or repetition for sixty seconds. Bonus points are available for correct interruptions as well as humour. Panellists were Paul Merton, Giles Brandreth, Sheila Hancock and Ian McMillan.

I needn’t have worried. Ed didn’t need to understand the rules – this kind of classic humour encompasses everything an American loves about British comedy: clash of wits, spontaneous dazzling one-liners, clashes of power and personalities and general all-round silliness.

Suffice to say, Ed’s a convert. The poor guy’s studying a book half an inch thick for his citizenship test. I told him he should qualify for bonus points for having been to a live recording of Just a Minute.

Pope Changes Guidance on Safe Drinking Water

Yesterday the Pope issued new guidance on drinking water in response to the cholera epidemic in Haiti. Previously, the Catholic Church had forbidden the boiling of water, on the basis that it was not taught in the Bible. Health advisers and aid workers had been frustrated by the Vatican’s hardline stance on safe drinking water for decades. “Cholera didn’t exist in the Palestine of Christ’s era,” said one doctor in Port-au-Prince. “We’ve always viewed it as absurd that an old man with a safe water supply and the best healthcare available should dictate sanitary practices to those in developing countries. Cholera is a preventable disease spread by poor hygiene and ignorance.”

But the doctrinal change is causing confusion amongst the clergy. “His Holiness seemed to imply that water should only be boiled when being sold to strangers. It doesn’t say whether water used within families should be boiled or not,” said one priest. “So I’m recommending that married couples continue to drink filthy water contaminated with raw sewage. Unlike Aids, death is often rapid – sometimes in as little as four hours – and excruciatingly painful. Far better for you and your children to die of cholera than to risk breaking Papal edicts and going to hell, or living long enough to think about using a condom during sex.”

Quantitative Easing Explained

Check out this brilliant video. It explains Ben Bernanke’s brilliant intervention strategy. Gut-wrenchingly funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTUY16CkS-k

Porn and Oral Sex Healthy – Official

No, you read that title right: porn and oral sex are apparently just the thing men need to optimise their partner’s chances of getting pregnant.

In his Bad Science column in the Guardian of September 25th, Ben Goldacre was talking about the controversial (not to me) provision of pornography in sperm-donor clinics. (At an average of just £21.32 per year per hospital trust, I think the politician who objected to this should concern herself with more important things.) Dr Goldacre cites a raft of animal research showing that ‘competition’ makes males produce more and higher-quality ejaculate. Human research carried out in 2005 by Kilgallon and Simmons showed that the same also applied to humans. Their methodology was to measure the volume and quality of sperm produced by men shown pictures of three naked women only, versus images of a single woman being, ahem, ‘serviced by two men. This backs up the work of Yamamato and colleagues in 2000, which showed the same thing to be true of men shown pornographic videos.

Last night saw the 2010 Ig Nobel awards ceremony at Harvard University. Amongst the winners was Gareth Jones of Bristol University. Jones and his Chinese collaborators found that female short-nosed fruit bats who fellated their partners prior to sex copulated for longer. Jones told the Guardian that this is the first non-human evidence of female sexual manipulation using oral sex. It is thought that the behaviour is likely to increase the chances of successful fertilisation.

So, there you go, gentlemen – go home and tell your partners. Well, those of you who are trying for kids, anyway. Frankly, you deserve it – if you’re successful, then in a few months you’ll look back on that wild night and wonder whether it was a price worth paying.

Thanet Windfarm: it’s an ill wind

Yesterday saw the opening of the UK’s largest windfarm at Thanet off the Kent coast, capable of supplying up to 200,000 homes with electricity. “The key word is capable,” said an industry source. “On a normal day we expect the 100 turbines to supply enough electricity to recharge the batteries of a remote control, thus saving an unemployed person in nearby Margate from having to get up off his sofa to switch off Jeremy Kyle.”

“It’s a huge step forward for the UK,” said the minister for renewable soundbites, “with only 80% of the money spent on this going abroad, compared with 90% for the even bigger London Array, which will dwarf Thanet. When you add in government grants, subsidies and kickbacks, this is a huge boost to other European economies at a time when they’re struggling. It’s a win-win for the industry. The Swedish owners win with Thanet and the German owners win with the London Array. The advantage of this kind of offshore wind generation is that future profits from this venture go straight overseas without even landing in the UK. It’s great that we can provide a leg up to valuable R&D  jobs overseas.”

“The fact is that British windfarms are 50% more efficient than German ones,” said a wind-power lobby. “That’s because British politicians blow so much wind out of their arses. Concerns about noise are over-played,” he added. “Most of the time these turbines don’t even turn. And when the wind gets above about 30mph we have to turn them off anyway.”

Caesars’ Reign Ends

Dateline: Streatham Hill, Friday 10th 2010

All emperors must die, and empires fall. And so it has come to pass that the reign of Caesars [sic] nightclub over Streatham Hill is finally drawing to a close. The effigy of a charioteer and four horses has probably been the most salient local feature for a couple of decades, best observed from the left side of the top deck of a northbound bus along the High Road. I use the term ‘charioteer’ because Caesar was a scout; a soldier’s soldier, who often ventured ahead of his army on foot. Although there are records of him on horseback I doubt very much that he ever drove a four-horse chariot.

Hail Caesar - end of an emperor's rule

Residents have waited for years for the end of this particular empire. In the Thirties Streatham was called the West End of South London for its entertainment venues, and my house sits behind what was London’s largest theatre. Caesars nightclub and the ten-pin bowling alley were the bastard children of more their more genteel forebears; thorns in our side. Situated next to the main bus stops, the latter was a  magnet for trouble between gangs of youths, and closed a couple of years ago. The former attracted their elder siblings, occasionally being the starting point for shooting incidents and car-chases to Peckham via Brixton.

Unfortunately I didn’t get a shot of pigeon-beshat Caesar leaving his lofty perch because I had a life to get on with. As I took the photograph below later, a man trapped in traffic, apparently belonging to that legion of dispossed Caesars-members, angrily asked how much the effigy was being sold for.

Truck off - we came not praise him

In fact, the entire block has been sold to a property developer, as has the back half of the block further north. I understand that Caesars nightclub was costing the owners an inordinate amount in payments to the Metropolitan Police. None of us local residents have shed a tear or raised a cheer over the closure, but that’s because we’re weary from the next war – that against the plans of the developer, which plans to squeeze profits out by pushing the height of the new development up to what we believe are unreasonable flats. Night-time noise has gone, but to be replaced by the day-time disturbance of trucks and construction. And in an area of inner London where car-parking is a problem, for over 250 dwellings, just 91 parking spaces are planned. I don’t own a car, but I’ve seen more than a few fights between angry motorists in my neighbourhood. Which goes to show: you can change the ruler, but unless you take away the reasons for conflict, the subjects will continue to fight.

Singles Night: Over Fifties – don’t miss it!

Blimey – here we are, already a week into the Edinburgh Fringe! Peter (Dave Smiff) and I are really getting our collective act together and getting some great feedback off audiences with our show Anna Nuvva-Fing, which is part of PBH’s Free Fringe.

There are some terrific shows at our venue (344) which are on before us. In particular, I love Holly Kavanagh’s Singles Night: Over Fifties. Holly is an extremely gifted actress, but also a wonderful mimic. She plays four characters in a Wakefield pub – Gemma the barmaid, Joan, Mr Gill and King of Northern Soul, Jimmy. She does all four main characters, as well as some minor ones, beautifully. Her characterisation of Jimmy is to die for; she has the self-satisfied aged bar-room Romeo down to a T, and it’s a privilege to watch the subtle and carefully observed traits that Holly uses to bring him to life.

Holly’s is a one-woman show, and she’s completely unsupported. If there are any reviewers out there reading this, I urge you to go and watch this show and give her the light of publicity that she so richly deserves.

Topical Material 19th July

Well excuse me for releasing this a week later, but this is material which was submitted to Newsjack last week. Sadly, none of it was used. Here it is:

Vox Pops

• A group of adolescent gorillas have been observed playing tag by scientists. Shortly afterwards, they mugged a baboon, stole some coconuts and went joy-riding on a zebra.
• Scientists have been giving popular names to endangered British species. A beetle which lurks in the darkness and feeds only off other beetles has been named the Mandelson.
• American bank Goldman Sachs has been fined $550m for allegedly misleading clients over mortgage-backed securities. Senior managers at the bank played down the significance of the fine, assuring shareholders that they’ll earn it back by writing one letter to the US government about its overdraft facility.

Corrections and Clarifications

• We wish to apologise to Premier Wen Jiabao of China. We reported that he said China would not flee the Euro. Of course, he actually said that China would not free the Euro.
• The FBI have apologised to the so-called Barefoot Bandit, who spent two years stealing expensive yachts, cars and planes. They didn’t realise that he was, in fact, a trainee banker for Goldman Sachs.
• Apple has issued a fresh denial that the iPhone 4 suffers from a loss of signal. A spokesman assured owners of the iPhone 4 that, if anything, other people can see even more clearly that they’re geeks.

BP Faces New Accusations

BP was once again under fire from US Senators last night over claims that it was responsible for the Challenger disaster on January 28th, 1986. “Those goddamned Limeys must have been responsible,” claimed Senator Ivor Price, whilst stuffing cash into his pockets from special interest groups.

“They almost certainly had a rig in the Gulf area at the time, and the Gulf’s just the other side of Florida. Only an incompetent British oil company could cause an explosion that large. American engineering and management is 100% cotton-pickin’ perfect.”

President Obama stepped into the furore, anxious for fair play and the rule of law to be upheld prior to November’s mid-term elections. “We’re now going to close down the entire US aerospace industry for six months and have BP pay the wages of all the workers,” he said. “I’m also going to hold a gun to the head of Prime Minister Cameron to get him to confess that Britain was responsible for the plan to invade Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Clean-up costs

“America has 5% of the world’s population but uses 25% of the world’s energy and refuses to ratify any agreements on greenhouse gases,” admitted the President. “We therefore think it’s only fair that BP picks up the cost of America’s appalling record of pollution.”

Amongst the other American environmental crimes for which BP will be held responsible are:

• Use of approximately 12,000,000 gallons (US) of Agent Orange from 1961-71 in Vietnam, eastern Laos and parts of Cambodia by the United States military. The Vietnamese government estimates that some 400,000 deaths and disabilities were caused by direct spraying, and as many as a further 500,000 birth defects. The US government has not paid compensation, or attempted to clean up the pollution.
• The 1982 Union Carbide disaster in Bhopal, India. Whilst 3,737 deaths have been confirmed by the government of Madhya Pradesh, other government agencies believe there were c.8,000 deaths in the weeks after the leak and an additional 8,000 in the years afterwards.  A government affidavit filed in the US Supreme Court in 2006 cited 558,125 cases of injuries resulting from the disaster. In 2008, 26 years after the disaster, sources said that 390 tonnes of chemicals abandoned at the site continued to leak into the local environment and ground water. In 1999, 17 years after the disaster (and presumably after many victims had died through lack of medical care, or died indirectly through injury-induced poverty) UCC agreed to $470m compensation, which was the sum for which they were insured, plus interest. Their generosity knows no bounds.

Breaking news: Transocean ‘Not to blame. Not.’

On July 23rd Mike Williams, a Transocean employee responsible for the electronic systems on the Deepwater Horizon rig told a federal investigation that the alarms had been ‘inhibited’ (i.e. turned off) to avoid interrupting the sleep of the crew. (http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/jul/23/deepwater-horizon-oil-rig-alarms)

Newshounds may recall the Congressional lynch mob on 17th June trying to get BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward, to admit BP’s liability for the Deepwater Horizon disaster. He was accused of ‘stonewalling’ when he refused to apportion blame prior to an ongoing federal investigation. Last night the White House was quick not to ‘hold a boot to the throat’ of any American company which looked like its deliberate bypassing of safety procedures contributed to the disaster.

Who Do You Write Like?

A Canadian writer-friend sent me a link to this website: http://iwl.me/ called ‘I Write Like. The idea is that you paste some of your scrivenings into the text box, click he button, and you’re told which famous writer your work is like.

My accounts were like Margaret Attwood, Bottom Lines (a farce I wrote for my MA dissertation) like H.G. Wells (admittedly a big influence), The Scam (written when I was 22-23) like George Orwell (by the age of 15 I’d read everything he’d written, including volumes of journalism). Oh, and The Scam is an Orwellian black comedy. My latest novel, St Kathleen of Pop was like Dan Brown in the opening of chapter one but Ian Fleming in chapter five (I concentrate hard on a low fog index for the opening of a novel). A novel I wrote when I was 21-22 was like David Foster Wallace (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Foster_Wallace), as was my journal from January 1st this year. A children’s novel I wrote a few years ago was like Mark Twain, whose work I’ve never read. I tested the opening paragraph of Bleak House by Charles Dickens. He writes like James Joyce. Joyce should be so lucky…

What does it show? It shows that the internet is a terrible distraction for writers. This text apparently reads like Dan Brown. I’ve yet to see an option for ‘I write like Shit’, but maybe Dan Brown’s a euphemism?

Newsjack Recording

Last night I had an email from Newsjack, the BBC7 satirical news show. Unknown to me, least one of my submissions had been performed the previous night in front of a studio audience. Unfortunately, my contribution(s) was/were cut from the final broadcast for reasons of time.

I felt that was a huge milestone in my writing life. Sure, I have no broadcast credit – but my writing was considered to be of a standard worthy of broadcast on the BBC. A writer-friend told me this evening that this is surely the highest accolade in the English-speaking world. Too kind, too kind.

I submitted some topical one-liners and a single sketch. I believe it was probably the sketch which made the grade because it was about Blair confessing to Pope Benedict XVI. Rather than let the writing go to waste, I thought I’d share it. You can view the sketch here: Tony Blair Confession. Here are the topical one-liners. I would imagine that in a few years these will be completely incomprehensible:

• Zenna Atkins, Chair of Ofsted, said that schools could learn from private industry in the way they deal with bad teachers. Presumably they’ll be promoted and then given multi-million pound bonuses when pupils fail their exams.
• European space probe Rosetta has flown past the asteroid Lutetia. The 75-mile long rock was easily identifiable because it has the word Lutetia on each end.
• Botox has been approved for headaches. Scientists aren’t sure how effective the treatment is, but people look much better afterwards.
• Roman Polanski is not going to be extradited for sentencing in the States. He’s now sentenced to spend the rest of his life in Switzerland. His lawyers may appeal against the decision.

Fuck Barclays Cycle Hire – A Message to the Sponsor

Imagine my delight this morning and saw that the Barclays Cycles had been ‘artistically enhanced’ overnight. This photo was taken at 08.25 outside my workplace in an arty area of London. You can see I had the whole intact flush – on every single cycle, both sides of the logo had been doctored. The colourmatching was pretty good, as was the font choice.

Fuck Barclays Cycle Hire - spoof logos

The first question in the office was ‘How many cycle bays across London had been affected?’ The second was ‘Who were the heroes behind this?’ The third was ‘Is that glue on your hands, Mark?’

Alas, I was clueless and glueless – but I doff my hat to the protestors for their ingenuity. Doubtless they did this in response to news of the recent promotion of Bob Diamond to President and Group Chief Executive. Poor chap’s given up an unlimited bonus for a salary of  a mere £1.35m per year and a bonus of up to £3.375m. But that’s forgetting the reported long-term share incentives worth £6.75m over the next year. It’s a hard life. Perhaps he’ll have to economise – may I suggest he cycles to work in future?

***STOP PRESS*** Police are looking for a man in his sixties answering to the nickname ‘Red Ken’.

Star Wars: No Hope

A new radio sketch is available. This one is Star Wars: No Hope.

Yoda’s lost hope and Luke’s confused… then Darth Vader turns up looking for a fight. Listen to this new episode of Star Wars here: http://markspeed.co.uk/Sketches.html

British Ambassador’s Wartime Letter

The British Freedom of Information Act is a wonderful thing. I’d heard rumours about this letter for the last decade about a letter from Sir Archibald Clerk Kerr (H.M. Ambassador to Moscow) to his friend Lord Pembroke. Today I am pleased to bring a copy of the original to my loyal readership. Enjoy.

If you find the image a little difficult to read, the text is as follows:

My Dear Reggie,

In these dark days man tends to look for little shafts of light that spill from Heaven. My days are probably darker than yours, and I need, my God I do, all the light I can get. But I am a decent fellow, and I do not want to be mean and selfish about what little brightness is shed upon me from time to time. So I propose to share with you a tiny flash that has illuminated my sombre life and tell you that God has given me a new Turkish colleague whose card tells me that he is called Mustapha Kunt.

We all feel like that, Reggie, now and then, especially when Spring is upon us, but few of us would care to put it on our cards. It takes a Turk to do that.

Sir Archibald Clark Kerr
H.M. Ambassador

Sir Archibald Clark Kerr’s letter to Lord Pembroke

Oh, and I know it’s Wikipedia, but here’s how notorious both Sir Archibald and his letter are/were: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archibald_Clark_Kerr,_1st_Baron_Inverchapel

One could, of course, make all sorts of comments about Turks, but this is a classy blog…

Lame Gags

My artist friend Roy F Peterson sent me these wonderful lame gags. No idea as to the origin, but I’d guess they’re American. Enjoy!

• The roundest knight at King Arthur’s round table was Sir Cumference. He acquired his size from too much pi.
• I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan island, but it turned out to be an optical Aleutian .
• She was only a whisky maker, but he loved her still.
• A rubber band pistol was confiscated from algebra class because it was a weapon of math disruption.
• The butcher backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work.
• No matter how much you push the envelope, it’ll still be stationery.
• A dog gave birth to puppies near the road and was cited for littering.
• A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart.
• Two silk worms had a race. They ended up in a tie.
• Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
• A hole has been found in the nudist camp wall. The police are looking into it.
• Atheism is a non-prophet organization.
• Two hats were hanging on a hat rack in the hallway. One hat said to the other, ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a head.’
• I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then, it hit me.
• A sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center said, ‘Keep off the Grass.’
• A small boy swallowed some coins and was taken to a hospital. When his grandmother telephoned to ask how he was, a nurse said, ‘No change yet.’
• A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.
• It’s not that the man did not know how to juggle, he just didn’t have the balls to do it.
• The short fortune-teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large.
• The man who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran.
• When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.
• Don’t join dangerous cults: Practice safe sects.

Lambeth is Britain’s angriest borough? This survey pisses me off!

According to the British Association of Anger Management (BAAM), Lambeth is Britain’s angriest borough: http://www.angermanage.co.uk/stats/

This half-baked piece of ‘research’ caused Guardian journalist Deborah Orr – a Lambeth resident for 25 years – to write a prominent piece on March 1st about her recent and personal experience of anger in the borough.

This ‘research’ is, of course, not what it first appears. For a start, it’s not primary research – it is some kind of mathematical calculation based on employment rates (not unemployment rates), crime statistics, etc. The inputs are purely subjective and so, therefore, are the results. I honestly can’t be bothered to waste time on a detailed critique of this publicity stunt posing as research. But just take a look at some of the measures that supposedly indicate for an ‘angry’ population:

• % aged 65 and over who are satisfied with both neighbourhood and home
• % who say their health is good or very good
• % who feel informed about what to do in the event of a large-scale emergency
• % who think that older people in their local area get the help and support they need to continue to live at home for as long as they need

Right, boiling down these sort of factors determines whether you’re angry or not? If indicative of anything, these should be used as a measure for quality of life. Many of these questions should not be used without strong caveats, or a very strong weighting – particularly that last one about elderly people staying at home. I suppose this bizarre ‘feel informed about what to do in the event of a large-scale emergency’ must be being used to indicate some kind of powerlessness – its inclusion is, in my view, spurious.

To be fair to BAAM, in the press release they talk about ‘triggers’ to anger, and also that Lambeth is the 19th most deprived borough in the UK – as I mentioned in the previous paragraph, these are mostly lifestyle and satifsfaction measures. I would also argue that the presence of triggers doesn’t necessarily mean an outcome.

However, the press release mentions the small fact that the survey hasn’t even been completed yet:

Early findings from the nationwide project suggest that London is the angriest city in
the UK, followed by Manchester. Birmingham is in third place, followed by Glasgow
and then Bristol.

So Lambeth might – on these non-measures – be the worst-performing borough in London, but the research only ‘suggests’ that London is the angriest city in the UK. Surely even a journalist might be able to see the flaw in this?

Towards the end of the press release, the real objective of the research becomes obvious. I lifted this from the document, bad grammar and punctuation included:

Mike Fisher, director of the British Association of Anger Management said BAAM data
showed that residents in the Capital were frightened by their inability to handle
feelings of stress and rage.
“I believe that issues such as crime, violence, domestic violence, road rage,
addiction, eating disorders, depression and many other mental health issues all stem
from our inability as a culture to handle or express our feelings, especially those of
anger.”
Indeed, the fallout of the anger problem is so well recognised that governments in
countries including Australia, Canada and the USA fund anger management
programmes, he said.
“We want to move anger up the political agenda. It is the elephant in the room at the
moment, costing the NHS billions in tackling its side effects. Violent incidents alone
cost the NHS £2.7bn a year.”

Oh, we wouldn’t be angling for government funding for our organisation would we, Mr Fisher? I’m sure your organisation does some really good work, but all you’ve done is piss me off with your flawed trawl of stats posing as ‘research’. As for the cost to the NHS – what about the cost of dangerously flawed research causing politicians to launch ill-conceived initiatives? And I’m not exactly happy with Deborah Orr from the Guardian falling for this shit either. Am I angry? You betcha!

And what qualifies me to pass judgement on this? I’m a qualified researcher.

Economic Rap Video: Hayek vs Keynes

Who’s right – Austrian economist Friedrich Hayek or spendthrift Briton John Maynard Keynes? There’s only one way to find out: fight!

Except that it’s actually a rap-off between the two. Here’s the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0nERTFo-Sk

Apple iPad vs Blu-Tack – which is more useful?

Which is more useful - iPad or Blu-Tack

I’m grateful to Halid Delkic, who sent me the above graphic earlier today. In fact, the above is incorrect – Blu-Tack will actually take a USB device. Indeed, it’s versatile enough to accept any connection.

Furthermore, Blu-Tack will work in most environments, won’t run out of power or crash just when it’s at its most useful, will fit any surface or space precisely, is compatible with PC, Mac or any other operating-system, is almost infinitely expandable, usable by young and old alike with no training, ultra lightweight and not cumbersome, won’t break and does not need to be turned off during take-off and landing. Although neither product will work underwater, Blu-Tack will work again when dry.

Oh, and for those who think the iPad is brilliant because the picture rotates to stay upright, let me just point out that it won’t work in zero-G. With Virgin Galaxy heralding in the age of space tourism later in 2010, Apple’s designers have at last shown themselves to be the has-been bunch of atavistic future-phobes that they really are.

David Attenborough Spoof TV Trailer

I co-wrote this quick radio sketch with Nathalie Turton and Dominic Vaughan in November 2009. It is performed by me. The remit was to write an over-the-top trailer for a TV programme. For more of Nathalie’s work, go to: www.lollyandnat.com

The sketch is available to listen to at the bottom of this page:  http://markspeed.co.uk/Sketches.html

Computerised Cancer Screening

The NHS today announced plans to introduce computers to help doctors screen for cancer. Brilliant – advice on diagnosing complex cancers from a machine that can’t even tell whether it’s got a virus.

Mousepad for Onanists

Mousepad for Onanists

I would like to thank my Belgian friend Alexandre Paternotte for sending me this photograph of a mousepad for onanists and sex-pests. It would seem that there’s a piece of technology to satisfy every taste.

Crisis in Teaching – Alleged Attempted Murder of British Pupil

I’m shocked and appalled by reports that a science teacher allegedly attempted to murder a 14-year-old pupil in Mansfield yesterday, writes Sir Victor Punchbag-Gribble. This is clear evidence that teaching standards have fallen to unacceptable levels in the last few decades. In my day, any teacher worth his salt would have been able to finish a child off with a single blow. Failing that, a coup de grâce with a pointer would have been delivered.

In the rare instances where a teacher had been incapacitated in the fracas, the form captain would have been expected to finish off the offending pupil. Of course, school rules would have demanded an immediate inquiry in such instances, since it’s normally the head boy who enjoys that privilege. However, the board of inquiry would almost certainly have found that the form captain was acting correctly in ensuring that justice must be seen to be both swift and final.

Discipline at St Mephisto’s was strictly enforced, with what are now deemed to be minor offences – such as walking on the grass, or the late return of a library book – punishable by the public amputation of a limb. Whilst it was not uncommon for some pupils to be reduced to mere torsos, the library was extremely well stocked, and the grass on the school lawns was much, much greener than its withered and trampled inner-city cousins of today. As for the most disobedient boys, let me assure you that they became much better behaved after the removal of the last of their limbs. The exception to that rule was Peter ‘Howler’ Thompson, who had his tongue cut out for the offence of screaming during the amputation of his left leg; the last of his appendages to be removed. Halcyon days…

Gordon Brown’s Candid Interview

Prime Minister Gordon Brown is all over the news this morning due to his frank interview in today’s Guardian. Apparently he wants to go into teaching after he leaves office. Not for him the high-flying job in charge of the World Bank he was apparently offered a few years ago. Not for him the dazzling array of high-profile international advisory roles of predecessor Tony Blair. Indeed, Gordy even goes on to say that he would happily give up the trappings of power. The poor man says that he’s been hurt by the personal attacks on him. How easily he sweeps away the personal attacks on others; most notably the Damian McBride affair earlier this year.

Am I being too cynical when I see this as yet another attempt by this unelected buffoon to ingratiate himself with the public? “Give me a chance,” is the whining undertone. “I’m not enjoying this. I’m only doing it because no one else wants the job, or is even up to it.” Don’t be taken in. This man spent ten years as Chancellor undermining Blair, finally ousting him in a coup. He wanted this job more than anything else in his life.

And how genuine is his claim that he’d like to teach? Think about it: what, exactly, is the man qualified to teach? He’s got a PhD in History. Here’s his thesis title: The Labour Party and Political Change in Scotland 1918-29. You’d not be far wrong if you were to accuse him of being up his own arse, then. Given that it was his economic policies that got us into this mess, you would have to presume that teaching Economics is certainly out the question.

Why doesn’t he ‘do the right thing ‘ (to use his well-worn phrase) and take himself up on his instinct to walk away from the trappings of power? It would be the greatest service he could do for his country.

Harrow Controlled by Vampires – Definitive Evidence

London was shocked by this blog’s revelation that the borough of Harrow is a safe haven for vampires. Your intrepid reporter has once, again, chanced on a few pieces of seemingly unconnected information and mapped out the big picture that no other website dares to publish!

The first thing that raised your correspondent’s eyebrows as the complete lack of garlic in some garic bread served in the local Pizza Express in early April. Yes, there was butter on the hot bread, which looked perfectly normal at first glance. However, not one shred of garlic could be found on it, or the pizza that followed. Suspicions were raised further by the Chinese restaurant on Headstone Road, pictured below.

Suspicious Chinese Restaurant

Note what it says on the sign: no eggs, no onions, no garlic, no animal products. A Chinese restaurant preparing food with no onions or garlic? Quite literally, absolutely unbelievable. And here at Bizarre World, we just weren’t buying it.

Examining the evidence, we have two restaurants in Harrow serving ethnic food in which garlic is a staple ingredient, but without the garlic.

The final damning piece of evidence is that the London Borough of Harrow claims to be the safest borough in London. And just how do you think a borough like Harrow can possibly be so safe? Easy: vampires patrol the streets at night, detering burglars and muggers. The local branches of Pizza Express and the above Chinese restaurant provide sustenance the fearsome creatures or, perhaps more likely, are where they sleep at night.

Bizarre World did not bother to contact Harrow Council yesterday for comment.

Graffiti Puzzler

This photograph was taken not a hundred yards from my home. Was the person writing the graffiti dyslexic, or is this an example of just how far the standard of English has fallen — that your average vandal can’t spell the most basic of offensive words? What hope for society if the latter is the case?

Evidence of falling literacy standards is evident in graffiti

Brixton Redevelopment an Amazing Success

ambeth Council is declaring its pavement-widening programme in Brixton an ‘amazing success’.

“The work, originally scheduled to take up to eight weeks, is now in its twelfth,” explained a delighted council spokesman. “Planning it for the winter was a stroke of genius, because it’s meant maximum discomfort and inconvenience to bus passengers, as well as car-users. Bus passengers now have to make a cold, wet journey on foot to a bleak and exposed nowhere place near Windrush Common to wait vainly for their delayed and over-crowded buses.”

The original plan was simply to widen the pavements in Brixton to give bus passengers coming out of the Underground station just about enough room to move. However, the council has claimed unexpected success in disrupting passenger journeys on the north-bound side of the A23. “As a traffic-control measure it’s a greater success than we’d ever dared to hope. Now that the width of the lanes has been restricted so severely, congestion is so bad that passengers have to disembark outside the Council offices and walk to the station to have any hope of getting to work on time.”

Meanwhile, there has been an unexpected boon to Brixton’s alternative economy. Drug-dealers outside the Underground station now have extra room to push skunk and weed. “Business ‘as never been better, man,” explained one dealer, who refused to give his name. “There’s so much room I and I was tinking of getting a stall for me skank.”

Brown Murder Plot – Police Have More Supsects

Police were last night seeking the arrest of a large number of people in the conspiracy to murder British Prime Minister Gordon Brown.

“He’s the most unpopular man in Britain,” said a police spokesman. “Even his own party hates him. We therefore have to take threats to his life seriously.”

No shortage of suspects

Police believe they have a full list of suspects who want Brown dead. “We have a copy of the electoral roll,” said the police spokesperson. “We know where everyone lives.”

Psycho Buildings – a truly Bizarre World

I was lucky enough to visit the Psycho Buildings exhibition at the Hayward Gallery yesterday. The most bizarre installation – and therefore the one which appears in this blog – was by Austrian collective Gelitin.

Normally, Proceeding and Unrestricted With Without Title [sic] turned one of the gallery’s outdoor sculpture terraces into a 1.2m deep boating lake, complete with a floating dock and several weirdly-shaped two-person rowing boats. When I arrived, the queue was estimated at about twenty to thirty minutes. However, rain showers meant that the exhibit had to close. Yes: health and safety regulations meant that a water-based exhibit was closed by – er – falling water.

I waited nearly an hour to get in, and was glad I did. The boats were extraordinary in themselves: about a metre deep, half a metre wide, and perhaps 1.5m long – like sitting in a tea chest. For stability and buoyancy there were outriggers with floats made from large water cannisters.

Gelitin's rooftop boating lake, Hayward Gallergy

I set off for my voyage with a complete stranger, whose husband and daughter were in another vessel (pictured). We agreed that it was the most fantastically surreal experience – rowing a misshapen boat across the roof of the Hayward whilst Big Ben chimed three, the London Eye turned, trains rolled into Charing Cross, and the Thames slipped by.

Of the hands-on installations, the second-most-fun was Tomas Saraceno’s Observatory, Air-Port-City; a large inflatable dome. Going into the dome wasn’t the fun bit – going up onto the top of it was. Sadly, the surface had been worn so much that it had lost a lot of its clarity. But floating above the observers down below was curiously relaxing (health and safety restriction – no sharp objects; not even a watch. And no one under the age of sixteen).

To my surprise, there was a queue for Venetian, Atmospheric, 2007 by Tobias Putrih. The work was a temporary cinema showing short movies about other artists’ takes on architecture. Putrih’s ‘biomorphic’ (no, really; that’s what he calls it) design disappointed, and the transition of the ceiling from sky-blue to night with stars didn’t work (clue: turn the red safety lights down. Oh, we’re back on frigging health and safety ruining exhibitions again…).

Some poncy middle-class ex-hippie pseudo-artistic (not that I have anything against them) jerks left just a minute after parking their arses in front of the screen. (Why bother, you shallow oafs?) I caught Chris Burden’s Beam Drop, and I knew I was amongst friends in the back row when we howled with delighted laughter as one titanic steel beam after another was dropped at random into a bed of wet concrete to convincing and comic clangs.

Do Ho Suh deserves an honourable mention for his Fallen Star 1/5, which was a one-fifth scale model of a traditional Korean house crashing into the house he lived in when he first moved to the US. The interior detail of the apartments in the American house was wonderful in its detail (complete with mini packets of Ritz crackers). Rachel Whiteread could have learnt a lot from it: her exhibit, Place (Village), consisted of three hillsides of dolls houses in a darkened room. The houses were lit from the interior. It would have been far spookier if Whitread could have been bothered to put in the same amount of effort as Do Ho Suh, and furnished the interiors.

NB: When I first posted this, I was honoured to receive a comment by Chris Burden himself. Unfortunately this was lost during transfer to new hosting.

The Pygmy Forest

This afternoon I crossed the Hacienda Bridge over the Russian River for the first time (oddly, I’d kayaked under it months ago).  We stopped to collect tea/coffee in the picturesque town of Guerneville and then went on to the Sonoma coast.

 The Sonoma coast

I’d driven up Route 1 from Thousand Oaks to San Francisco three years earlier and seen Big Sur.  The Sonoma coast is on a par, and is much less developed because it’s that much harder to reach.

We stopped in Gerstle Cove, Salt Point State Park.  There’s a peculiar local ordinance banning mushroom gathering on the seaward side of Route 1, so we stopped in the State Park on the landward side.  Shannon went mushroom-hunting whilst I went for a run up to the Pygmy Forest.  The Pygmy Forest sits on a beach from the Pleistocene era, which has been raised up by the violent faulting activity in Northern California.  The growth of these ancient trees has been stunted by the poor, acidic soil.

As I ran back down the trail into the ‘normal’ forest I could hear pinecones and acorns falling.  In American parks at this time of year it’s possible to be wonderfully alone with nature in a way that one can’t normally be in the UK.  Off to the left I heard a rustling in the leaves but ran on.  A huge buck deer trotted across the path in front me just thirty feet ahead and disappeared back into the forest.  I stopped to look at it, and it turned to look at me, just thirty yards away.  Then it turned to face me.  I wasn’t sure whether it was going to charge me, because I noticed a smaller deer deeper into the forest.  What was remarkable was that the simple act of turning to face me made the animal almost invisible against the trees.  I stood still for four or five minutes, as did the deer: I was keen to see which of us would blink first.

Spot the deer

After a minute or two of staring, my eyes began to see it as a kaleidoscope of green and brown just a few feet from my face.  It was a remarkable effect, and if this was how the Native Americans viewed the spirit world in their trances.

The deer looked away first, then back at me.  There was an element of trust, so I took the chance to take some photos.  It moved into a shaft of light, and suddenly became visible.  An acorn hit the ground to the left of me.  It was time to run on.

Dog Gone, Part II

We visited the pound again on Monday, looking for Skip.  The pressure was on because Zoe was due back with us that evening.  The same dogs were still   Buster Brown’s tennis ball was missing, and he looked at us mournfully.  He’d been in nearly two weeks.  I saw his ball in the sewage gutter some way off.  Shannon retrieved it, washed it and popped it back in his cage.  “It breaks my heart,” I said.  We hugged each other as we leave the facility.

I went out again for another reconnoitring run on Monday afternoon, calling his name and looking on the grass verges, checking further towards Santa Rosa, rather than Forestville.  I passed another fresh roadkill deer, and even a little finch.  The verges on River Road are near-vertical, because the road is built on a causeway above the Russian River flood plain.  I noticed that – despite the slope and the likely 55mph impact to the animals – their bodies were all within a few feet of the road.  The road itself has a reputation as a killer, and I passed a shrine to Luis C—-, a teen driver.

I told Shannon later that the distance of the animals’ bodies gave me hope in a way: I would have seen Skip if he’d been killed.

Zoe’s face was red when Shannon brought her back from school that evening, but she was composed as we ate dinner.  “She’s taking it really well,” I said.

“God, you weren’t in the car the first twenty minutes after I broke the news to her.  She was beside herself.”

After school the following afternoon we put up day-glo posters with photos of Skip on them.  “I miss him so much,” said Zoe.  “He’s like a little brother to me.”  Shannon and I look at each other and cringe.

“Hey, Zoe,” I said.  “You know how we’re going to get the FBI in on the search?”

“No.”

“We’ll tell them that there’s a terrorist called Jack Russell on the loose and his codename’s Skip.”  She giggled, and I wondered how much more she’d suffer.

Three days later he’d been missing a week and we were all missing him.  We were lying in bed that evening I broached the tricky subject of What To Do If Skip Doesn’t Turn Up.  “I don’t know how long we give it,” I said.  “But Buster Brown’s sheet said he’s good with kids.”

“Yeah, he’s a cute dog,” said Shannon.  “I’d want another Jack Russell, though.”  Silence hung for a minute.  “You said you’d had dreams about him the last three nights.  Don’t you think that’s a good sign?”

“Yeah, they were really lucid dreams.  I don’t know what to make of them.”

Dog Gone, Part I

Skip the Jack Russell disappeared on the night of Thursday the nineteenth.  He had disappeared before, but usually it had been when Shannon was travelling and the person responsible had not fed and watered him properly.  “He’s smart, he’s with neighbours,” said Shannon, to reassure herself as much as anything else.  “He’s probably sponging food off them.  He’s a very smart dog.”

We called his name along the driveway, and she checked with the neighbours at the bottom of the hill, who’d been known to take him in.  We widened our search but there was no sign of him anywhere.

The following day we went to the dog pound in Santa Rosa to see if he’d been brought in.  Shannon had retrieved him from there twice before, at great cost.  As we waited to be given access to pound, we saw a dog being handed over by its owner.  It whined and howled as it was dragged off into the cold concrete cellblock.  Presently we were allowed access, the pungent smell of urine and faeces assaulting our noses.  Each block had two rows of three-by-four feet cells with bars at the front.  Our hearts leapt a little as dogs Skip’s colour came into view in the individual cells.  And our hearts broke a little each time we saw perfectly loving and loveable dogs abandoned to the lottery of lethal injection.  There were half a dozen dogs we would have loved to have given a home to.  “Did you see that lively brown dog?” asked Shannon.

“You mean Buster Brown,” I said.  “He picked up a tennis ball and bounced it just like Skip.”

I changed my run that afternoon to accommodate wide sweeps of town.  I ran through the neighbourhood calling Skip’s name.  I ran up and down Trenton Road and River Road, hoping I’d not find his remains.  There was a deer and a dog, but no sign of at all of Skip.

“This is my fault,” wailed Shannon.  “After the last time I should have had a new collar and a chip inserted.”

“He’ll turn up,” I said.  As I stacked firewood that evening I put logs in the pile that I’d thrown for Skip just days before.  I wondered whether it was bad karma to be burning them.

“He’s out there,” said Shannon, fighting back tears.  “Something tells me his story’s not over yet.”

To be continued…

Halloween — the American Dream

I had my first proper American Halloween (Hallowe’en for Brits).  You can’t grasp that $4.96bn figure for their spending on the event until you see it in on the night.

First up, there’s this curious salutation that people start using first thing in the morning: “Happy Halloween!” they cry to each other.  Two days ago I ran past the local high school and the same greeting was on their announcements board, in letters nearly a foot tall.  Surely ‘Happy Halloween’ is an oxymoron—isn’t it supposed to be anything but happy?

Zoe is with her father this week, so we had to pick her up.  But she was already out trick-or-treating with her friends Jonah and Scout.  We met them out on Mirabel, a quadruple cul-de-sac neighbourhood that could pass for a movie set.  And there weren’t just a few kids—hundreds of them roamed free in the darkness dressed in elaborate costumes.  Many had blue or green glow-rings around their necks so parents could keep track of them, all of them had swag bags full of goodies.

Many of the houses had gone to town to celebrate the evening, decking out their houses with fake spider-webs, pumpkins, life-sized horror mannequins—even a smoke machine.  The Speers—owners of the main local grocery store—had a complete mock graveyard lit by a strobe light.

I was asked by friends how it compared to the UK.  Although it’s only taken off in England in the last decade, when I was a five-year-old in Glasgow, and at primary school in the North East of England, we had something much akin to it—but nothing on that scale, and no one would ever have decorated their houses so elaborately for the event.

“What I find amazing,” I said to Scout and Jonah’s mother, Lauri, “is that America is the most practising Christian country in the world by far, with church attendance up around fifty percent.  Yet no one celebrates this very pagan festival the way America does.”

“It’s very American,” she said.  “Any excuse for a party—that’s the American dream.”

Royally Scared

Our Front Door, Hallowe’en

This year, Americans are forecast to spend $4.96bn (£2.61bn) on Halloween, versus £120m ($200m) for the UK.  “It’s the second-biggest celebration after Christmas,” said Shannon.

Zoe was throwing a party for her friends the Saturday before.  Shannon is a Halloween veteran, and has been throwing them since Max (now 16) was three.  On Friday night after our weekly bookstore and dinner trip we stopped off at Joann’s Fabric’s in Santa Rosa to get material for Zoe’s costume.  She pointed out the perfect quarter moon on the way back.

“It’s going to be very scary tomorrow night, Zoe,” I said.

“I like being scared,” she said.  “But I don’t think you can scare me.”

“I’m going to make you pee your pants,” I said.

“No way,” she replied.  “You could never get me that scared.”

“Oh, we’ll see,” I said.  Moments later I had an idea, and chuckled.

“Oh-oh,” said Shannon quietly.  “He’s got something planned, Zoe.”

Just days before, Zoe had told us that she’d seen the ghostly vision of a king and his entourage in the forest adjacent to the house.  She said he was on a quest to find his missing daughter.  I was going to capitalise on her vision.  I laughed myself to sleep that night as I thought through the details.

Whilst Shannon and Zoe were out getting party supplies the following morning, I gathered several cubic feet of leaf litter and made it into the shape of a fresh grave a little way out into the woods, under a gnarled oak.

The kids arrived in late afternoon and so did my helper, Matt – father of one of Zoe’s friends.  Shannon, ever-resourceful, had managed to buy a fake gravestone.  At half-six Matt and I went out to the ‘grave’ and he dressed me in bandages and toilet paper.  In the ten minutes it took, the darkness thickened.  I lay down on the ground and he covered me with leaf litter.

“As soon as I leave, the maniac who’s been watching us will kill you,” said Matt.

“Farewell, then” I replied.  My nose immediately began to itch but I couldn’t move for fear of revealing myself from under the leaves.

Eventually, I heard the distant sound of adult and children’s voices.  I knew that Shannon – an expert storyteller – would have pumped up her audience to maximum fear levels.  I’d asked her to tell the kids that the king looking for his daughter had pined to death and been buried here – and that his grave only appeared every hundred years.  I learned later that she’d invoked the king’s spirit by getting the kids to chant his name, and blow out a candle.  Several kids refused even to be left in the lighted kitchen without an adult, let alone venture out into the darkness.

After another minute I heard Matt pretend to come upon my grave.  Through the leaves over my eyes I began to see the blue light cast by the storm lamp.  My heart beat faster – when to spring my surprise for maximum effect?

I heard the crunching of leaves next to me.  Zoe’s voice was near and the light was dazzling through the gaps in the leaves covering my face.  If I didn’t move, I’d be uncovered.

I reared up through the leaves and roared.  I’d forgotten how deafening the screams of ten-year-olds are.  Shannon said it went on for 12-15 seconds.

I went to bed tired, but satisfied at a job well done.  At one o’clock the following morning we were woken by Zoe at the bedroom door.  She was having nightmares about the story.  I’d passed my first American Halloween with flying colours.
The ‘grave’ I rose from

Dog Gone, Part I

Skip the Jack Russell disappeared on the night of Thursday the nineteenth.  He had disappeared before, but usually it had been when Shannon was travelling and the person responsible had not fed and watered him properly.  “He’s smart, he’s with neighbours,” said Shannon, to reassure herself as much as anything else.  “He’s probably sponging food off them.  He’s a very smart dog.”

We called his name along the driveway, and she checked with the neighbours at the bottom of the hill, who’d been known to take him in.  We widened our search but there was no sign of him anywhere.

The following day we went to the dog pound in Santa Rosa to see if he’d been brought in.  Shannon had retrieved him from there twice before, at great cost.  As we waited to be given access to pound, we saw a dog being handed over by its owner.  It whined and howled as it was dragged off into the cold concrete cellblock.  Presently we were allowed access, the pungent smell of urine and faeces assaulting our noses, the barks and whines echoing around the bare room.  Each block had two rows of three-by-four feet cells with bars at the front.  Our hearts leapt a little as dogs Skip’s colour came into view in the individual cells.  And our hearts broke a little each time we saw perfectly loving and loveable dogs abandoned to the lottery of lethal injection.  There were half a dozen dogs we would have loved to have given a home to.  “Did you see that lively brown dog?” asked Shannon.

“You mean Buster Brown,” I said.  “He picked up a tennis ball and bounced it just like Skip.”

I changed my run that afternoon to accommodate wide sweeps of town.  I ran through the neighbourhood calling his name.  I ran up and down Trenton Road and River Road, hoping I’d not find his remains.  There was a deer and a dog, but no sign of at all of Skip.

“This is my fault,” wailed Shannon.  “After the last time I should have had a new collar and a chip inserted.”

“He’ll turn up,” I said.  As I stacked firewood that evening I put logs in the pile that I’d thrown for Skip just days before.  I wondered whether it was bad karma to be burning them.

“He’s out there,” said Shannon, fighting back tears.  “Something tells me his story’s not over yet.”

To be continued…

Maximum Competition

We were about to go out for an afternoon run, having been delayed by numerous calls.  The phone rang as we were leaving the house.  “Forget it,” said Shannon.

“I think you should answer it,” I said.

It was her 16-year-old son, Max, who lives with her ex-husband.  Things have not been great between him and either parent recently.  “We’re going for a run,” said Shannon.  “Fancy coming?”

Max and I had not met, so this was a big step for both of us as he jumped in the back seat ten minutes later.  We shook hands.  He began talking about relationships, and I turned almost every sentence he spoke into a double entendre, some of them Shakespearian.  Max is extremely intelligent, and a very accomplished lyricist, so I felt it was deferential to him in a way.  Shannon kept cackling with laughter and he eventually admitted defeat, hands on his head.  The ice was broken.

We reached the canal and got out of the car.  I slipped a lead on Skip but he was only wearing a flea collar.  It fell straight off so we had to leave him in the car.  We set off running, and I left Shannon and Max to talk at their own pace.  After quarter of a mile I heard thundering footsteps behind me on the gravel.  I knew who it was before Max steamed past me.  When I passed him a couple of hundred yards further on he was doubled over, recovering his breath.
He stayed for dinner back at the house.  “I gotta find something I can beat you at,” said Max.  This was the genetics of Shannon’s competitive ‘Willinuts’ side of the family expressing themselves.

“You don’t have to,” I said.

“How are you at baseball and basketball?” he asked.

“We don’t pay them in my country.”

“So I bet I could whip you at a few moves, right?”

“No, because I simply wouldn’t play you.”

“So could we play a game like soccer, which you do have in your country?”

“It’s not a game I’ve ever participated in, so I’d not do it.  I run and I do triathlon.”

“You could learn American games like baseball and basketball, since you’re in this America.”

“Did you know that they originated in the UK?  Baseball is called ‘rounders’ and is played by girls.  Basketball is called ‘netball’ and is also played by girls.”

“What?  No way!  Basketball has some really mean and vicious moves!”

“You haven’t met many British girls, have you?”

We said our friendly goodbyes and Shannon took him back to his father’s house.  I guessed Skip must have gone with them in the car because he wasn’t in evidence.  She came back half an hour later.  “Did Skip go with you?” I asked.

“No,” said Shannon.  “He must just be out and around.”  I had a bad feeling about it before we went to bed.  Skip habitually chases after the car when either one of us is in it, and he’d chased us the three-quarters of a mile down the drive the previous day.  He was nowhere to be found the next morning.
To be continued…

The Beast of Orchard Lane, Part III

I wanted to resume running down Orchard Lane into Forestville, rather than having to go out in the car for a run.  Shannon gave me a can of Mace from beside the bed.  “Use it,” she said.  “A friend of my mother’s got attacked last month by a Rottweiler when he was out running.”

I told her stepson Jonathan about it later and he laughed – typical of Shannon to have some Mace by the bed.  For me it was a very American experience, given that it’s illegal in the UK.  He told me he’d been chased by the dog a few times on the way to a friend’s house.  “So one day I was on my bike and the mutt was chasing me,” said Jonathan.  “I drop-kicked it in the head and it never bothered me again.”  I was heartened by his information but still dreaded any confrontation with the Beast.

The first three times I ran down the lane the Beast was in its pound, and tore up and down in frustration, barking.  I should mention that its pound is above head-height on the road, and that that’s often where it ambushes from. It is, to say the least, unnerving.

Yesterday I was running down the lane and noticed that the Beast wasn’t in his pound.  My heart sank, but I was glad I had the Mace.  I heard a loud bark up at his owner’s house and we made eye contact at fifty yards.  He bounded down the hill towards the pound.  Seconds later he was above head-height, barking ferociously.  I ran on, not wanting the confrontation.  I slipped the button of the Mace around to activate it.  The dog leapt down onto the gravel and began running up behind me.  I turned, stopped, and pressed the trigger on the Mace.  A feeble spurt came out no more than six feet.  The dog stopped a safe twenty feet away, barking.

I turned and began running again.  I had failed to release the Mace fully into the ‘armed’ position.  My heart was racing.  I hated myself for any harm I might do to the dog.  I turned again and it stopped, barking at me, well within range of the Mace.  I realised that it might just be chickenshit after all, so I didn’t use the Mac.  Instead, I turned back and began running down the hill again.  The Beast took after me once more, barking.  I knew what to do.  I turned back and ran towards it, not even saying anything.  It turned tail and ran back up the hill.  The point proven to myself, I disarmed the Mace and continued on my run, ignoring the chickenshit Beast, which chased after me some twenty yards behind, relieved I’d not harmed it.

See also:

The Beast of Orchard Lane, Part II

The Beast of Orchard Lane, Part I

The Morning Catwalk

We got up extra-early this morning because Zoe wanted to go to the café before school.  I’ve been short of sleep this week and could’ve done with a lie-in, but I’d showered and had breakfast by 07.15.

Shannon and I were talking about her family’s new hotel complex up in, Sisters, Oregon, so she ignored Zoe’s plaintive cries from upstairs.  “Mom!” came the repeated call, with an occasional “I need help!”

I watched the minutes ticked by, and Shannon called off the trip to the café due to the time-pressure.  I put the kettle on for some tea whilst Shannon went up to see what Zoe’s problem was.  She came back down a couple of minutes later.  “A roomful of clothes and nothing to wear,” she said.

Zoe came down a few minutes later wearing a two-piece grey tracksuit.  Shannon gave her a shawl so that she could dress as a Gypsy fortune-teller for the Hallowe’en event at school today.  I sat down at the table with Zoe as she tucked in to her French bread and Shannon went to get dressed for the school run.

I was making some toast for myself when Shannon called “Babe!  Can you come here a second?”  I went through to the bedroom.  Shannon was wearing an orange top with a flower motif.  “Does this look okay on me?  I’m worried I don’t have enough of a tan to carry it off.”

“It looks great,” I said.  “A roomful of clothes and nothing to wear, huh?”

Dodgy Driving II

We have Shannon’s daughter Zoe with us this week, and she asked that we ‘walk her into class’.  (Rather than dump kids at the school gates, parents are encouraged to walk their kids into their classroom.)  We were up just after seven and out of the door at half-past.  It was a foggy morning – typical of Sonoma County at any time of year, though much chillier than the summer – and it was the first time I’d driven Zoe.  I neglected to shift the Durango into a lower gear and we accelerated down the steep, twisting drive.

“Slow down!” called Zoe from the back.

“But we love roller coasters,” I said.

“I’ve not got my seatbelt on and I’m sliding all over the seat.”  I waited as she clipped herself in.  “Ready!” she said.

I slewed the car around the steepest of the hairpins, the back end skidded but still the tilt alarm didn’t trigger.  I looked over and smiled at Shannon.

We went to the Front Street Café and played cards for forty minutes.  As we went back to the car Zoe asked if either of us had her bag.  We didn’t.  I went back to the house, surprising a large deer on the driveway.  I picked up Shannon at the café and we drove to the school.

“Reverse back into that space,” she said.  “Zoe hates me parking in it.”

I slipped the gear from D to R and looked over my shoulder.  “There are no lines.”

“They haven’t painted them yet.”

I started reversing.  Shannon said something I didn’t catch, my foot slipped on the brake and the car nudged back into the signpost.

“Ha-ha-ha!” she said.  “Oh, at last you’ve made a mistake!  Let’s see what damage you’ve done to your car!”

We went to the back of the car.  The wheels were a foot from the kerb, and the rear bumper was six inches from the sign.  The protruding towbar had hit the metal post square, and there was no damage to anything.  “I didn’t realise I had an eight-inch towbar protruding from the back.  I was miles away from the sign.”

“Damn!” she said.  “I just cannot believe your luck.  Damn, damn, damn!  But I’m going to blog this and have my revenge at last.”

 “I’ll blog it first, you watch me.”  Less than two hours later and my blog is posted, hers is not.

Diablo Range garter snake

I was on the return leg of a run along an irrigation canal yesterday afternoon.  It was a another hot afternoon, and the path had been quite busy.  On the dust and loose gravel a few feet up ahead I saw what looked like the black and yellow lace of a climbing boot.  Something told me it wasn’t what it seemed.  When I was a couple of paces away, it sprung to life.  I slowed down and watched as it slithered off into the grass.  I reflected that if Shannon had been with me she’d have touched it for luck.

“I saw a garter snake,” I told her when I got back to the car.

“Wow!  You and your animal magic again, huh?  Did you touch it?”

“The garter snake family contains some of the deadliest poisons in the world.”

“I’m pretty sure rattlers are the only poisonous snakes in California.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Diablo Range Gartersnake in shallow water

I found the correct species on the internet last night.  It was a Diablo Range garter snake (Thamnophis atratus zaxanthus).  The young are born in the early autumn and are of the size I saw – around ten inches.  If threatened they may strike repeatedly, excrete faeces and a pungent musk.  They might also hide at the bottom of the nearest pond because they’re semi-aquatic.  I was surprised by that last fact, but its canal-side habitat made perfect sense.  For more information go to http://www.californiaherps.com/snakes/pages/t.a.zaxanthus.html

I wonder about my apparent propensity to see a lot of wildlife – I’m becoming known for it in Shannon’s circle of friends – and whether it’s being in California.  However, running on Tooting Bec Common in broad daylight two or three months ago I had to side-step a stag beetle nearly two inches long as it crossed the path.  Stag beetles are an endangered species in Europe, and South London is thought to be the only major colony in the UK.  I guess what helps in spotting these creatures is to be out a lot, and to keep your eyes open.  But so far as the apparent fondness animals seem to have for me, I have no idea.
See also Crawling King Snake

Dodgy Driving

A month ago I sold out my beliefs and paid $4,000 (£2,200) to have Shannon’s Dodge Durango repaired.  I’m now the not-very-proud part-owner of an SUV, whereas in London I refuse to own a vehicle on environmental (and economic) grounds.  Faced with accusations of hypocrisy before leaving the UK, I pointed out that we do get floods, mudslides and rock-falls in Forestville – the rain is seasonally heavy and we’re in a very active earthquake zone.

Last Friday we went to the insurance broker and managed – after much fiddling with the computer system – to get me onto the policy.  That afternoon, Shannon insisted that I drive the Durango for the first time.  Being a Californian, she’s confident in her own ability…but not anyone else’s.  Although I have only driven in the UK twice this century, my previous job entailed a lot of driving in the States on business – though it was all in compacts (cars, not cosmetics, British readers please note).

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this,” she crowed, strapping herself into the passenger seat.

I turned the ignition on and reached down with my right hand for the gear stick.  My hand waved at air.  “Where the fuck’s the gear lever?”  I said.

Shannon doubled up with laughter.  “Great start!  Oh, that’s fucking classic – that’s going straight in an article!”

I saw the PNRD21 indictor on the dashboard, the orange indicator on the P.  Still laughing, she tapped the stick to the right of the steering wheel.  I pulled it towards me, moved the indicator to R and reversed the car so that it was pointing down the drive.  Mimicking her driving, I flicked it into D and slammed the accelerator down.  The wheels spun on the gravel and we barrelled down the driveway, bouncing over potholes.  “Howdya like that?”  I asked.

I looked over to see her holding her mug of coffee at arm’s length out of the window.  “Stop!” she yelled.  “You don’t know how to drive one of these things – you’ll crash!”

“Don’t like it much the other way, huh?”  I said.  I stopped on the tarmac on the communal driveway, at the top of the half-mile of hairpin single-track mountain bends that would take us down to River Road.

“Serious advice,” she said.  “Save the brakes.  Take it out of drive and put it in a low gear.”

I switched it from D to 2 and set off down the roller coaster driveway faster than even she would take it.  She held her mug out of the window again muttering expletives.  I took a racing line around the tightest and steepest of the hairpins.  There was silence and I knew what we were both waiting for: the dashboard ‘tilt’ danger warning, which activates every time she takes the corner.  We emerged onto the final straight without the alarm sounding.  “See?” I said.  “And I took that faster than you.”

“Okay, okay,” she said.  “You do a better line than me, I’ll give you that one.”

I pulled up at the junction with River Road.  It was a hill start to cross over one lane of 55mph rush-hour traffic to join the highway.  “Big test, baby,” she said, gloating.

A gap appeared on each side and I squeezed the accelerator.  We powered across and headed down the highway.

“Good job,” she said.  “Most people would have kangarooed that one.  Okay, I admit it: you’re a good driver.”

Two days on, and unfortunately she’s begun to enjoy being driven.  “I like this,” she said on her way to the café this morning.  “I get to read and drink my coffee.  Yeah, I’m getting to like this a lot.  It’s doing wonders for my serenity and productivity.”  It was then that I realised that going for groceries had ceased to be an ‘us’ event that she enjoyed.  It’s now a ‘me’ event.  So much for the four-wheeled freedom that I had craved….

You’re a Loser, Charlie Brown

One of many Charlie Brown statues, Santa Rosa, CA 

We were driving in downtown Santa Rosa after dark on Shannon’s birthday.  Zoe had had a long day at school and parking places were in short supply.
   “Why do they have so many statues of Charlie Brown?” asked Zoe.
   “Charles Schulz, the guy who wrote the cartoons, lived in Santa Rosa,” said Shannon.  “That’s why they have all the statues of the characters.”
   “Yeah, I know.  But why do they have so many of Charlie Brown.  He’s boring.”
   “So is Linus,” said Shannon.  “He’s uptight.  And Lucy’s a bitch, taking that ball away.  In fact, all the Charlie Brown characters are jerks.”
   “I like Snoopy, though,” said Zoe.
   “Yeah, Snoopy’s cool,” said Shannon.
   “And I like his bird-friend,” added Zoe.  “What was he called?”
   “Woodstock,” I say quietly.  I want to tell them that my friend Lucy stole the show as Woodstock in the play Snoopy! a few years ago, but I am spellbound by this glimpse into the American psyche.
   “Yeah, Woodstock.  He’s cool,” said Zoe.  “Why can’t all of the cartoons have been about Snoopy and Woodstock?”

The only Woodstock statue in Santa Rosa, CA
   “Well,” I said.  “Millions of people all over the world loved Charlie Brown.”
   “Yeah, but why?” asked Zoe.
   “I guess they must have seen something of themselves in him,” I said.  “He spoke to them about their own experiences as a child, and maybe even as an adult.”
   “Well he was a loser,” said Shannon.
   “Yeah, he sucked,” said Zoe.
   As a depressed child I identified strongly with Charlie Brown’s depression.  Every time it rains on me I still think of the cartoon where it rains progressively harder on Charlie Brown before he says, ‘It always rains on the unloved’.  “Charles Schulz was certainly a very successful American,” I said, keeping my thoughts to myself.
   “Charlie Brown sucked,” said Zoe.

Of Cats and Women

Shannon, her mother and I went for a hike and then a run in a local nature reserve yesterday.  Unfortunately, the sun-bleached maps and brief trail signs led to us being a little off-course when we came back down off the mountain, so we had to skirt around the edge of it.  We found a short-cut through the forest and had gone perhaps a hundred yards when Shannon – who was on point – said “I see I bobcat!”  We stopped behind her and looked up the trail to see a large, dark cat disappearing round the corner.  “You sure it wasn’t a household cat?” I said.  “No,” she said, “I actually think it was a mountain lion cub.”  “It wasn’t a bobcat?” asked her mother.  “No,” said Shannon.  “The tail was too long.”

We ran further along the trail and saw it again.  It stopped and looked behind us.  A shaft of sunlight through the trees lit its fur better, and we could see that it was mottled.  “It’s a large domestic cat,” I said.  “No, look at how thick-set it is,” said Shannon.  “It’s not a bobcat?” asked her mother.  “No, look at the tail on it, Mom.  Bobcat’s have short tails.”  The cat padded on and we followed, but we couldn’t see it on the path ahead.

We reached the point where I’d last seen it.  I looked through the scrub and saw that it was perhaps thirty yards downhill, waiting to break cover onto a larger, gravelled trail.  I was reminded of disputed footage of the Beast of Bodmin Moor, and the analysis of body-tail-leg ratios.  I could at last get a proper perspective on it because I could see it against the type of leaves on a bush right next to me.  There can’t be many domestic cats with such thick legs and large paws, and with a body a good 18 inches long.  And its head was not bulbous like a domestic cat’s – rather, it tapered to a head from a thick neck set on broad shoulders.

“It’s a cub,” said Shannon.  “So its mother may be quite close by.”  “Yeah,” I said.  “And junior’s leading us right into an ambush.”

The coast evidently clear, it set off on the main path, and we scrabbled down through the bush to follow it.  I ran up ahead and saw it disappear into a dense thicket that looked like the kind of place an animal would call home.  A bird began an incessant alarm shriek for the benefit of the neighbours.  We ran back to the car.

“Do you know how rare it is too see mountain lion?” said Shannon.  “I’ve never seen one before,” said her mother.  “I suppose it’s just par for the course for me, isn’t it?” I said.  “He has this thing with animals,” said Shannon.  “It’s amazing.  Tell Mom about the time you had a fox run with you in London.”  “It’s not just animals,” I said.  “It’s women too.”

Street Drugs ‘Best Buy’ Guide Published by Government

 Official UK Govt Street Drug prices, 13-09-06. Copyright Guardian Newspapers.

London, UK.  The British government has published a ‘best buy’ guide for street drugs in the UK.  The table above gives drug users a handy pocket-sized guide to drugs prices in the UK — an absolute must for addicts planning a weekend away, or for drugs tourists to the UK.

Wizarre Borld found a spaced-out junior health minister willing to talk.  “This official ‘list price’ for street drugs is part of our anti-crime initiative.  Many drugs users are hopeless negotiators, and often a dealer will overcharge them when they’re desperate for a fix.  This price comparison chart will enable users to drive down the costs of their substance abuse.  And lower costs means lower crime levels because addicts’ habits will be less expensive to feed.  This is a win-win situation because it absolves us from having to do anything long-term to support anyone.  This is free-market economics at its best.  In the future we envisage moving to a weekly price list, broken down by specific neighbourhoods.  Ultimately, we would move towards spot prices on each street corner.”

My Psychic Washing Machine

  My Psychic Washing Machine (which also looks quite psychedilic)

Stick with me — this one’s off-the-wall even for me.

When my machine breaks down I have a mixture of dread and excitement.  I’ve owned it for nearly 14 years, long enough for man and machine to form a bond.  Every time my employment status changes my machine will develop a fault: I kid you not.  The scientists amongst you will rightly point out that I must treat it differently after the employment change — what those of us in the know would call ‘researcher bias’.  This isn’t likely, since the machine sometimes develops the fault a day or two before I know my status is going to change.

A physician friend told me a while ago that in medical knowledge “Once is a case, twice is an interesting coincidence but three times is a syndrome”.  So I would guess that five times must a strict rule.   Last night’s breakdown on Friday 13th was due to my having left my job on Wednesday.  Luckily, I’m in control — so it’s mainly excitement I’m feeling.

Bush Fails Turing Test

Bush – a twit?

Leading researchers in artificial intelligence (AI) at MIT were surprised today when George W Bush failed a Turing test.  The incident happened when the President was touring the Massachusetts Institute of Technology after making a speech hailing the technology.

British computer pioneer Alan Turing proposed that an independent observer would observe a conversation between a computer and a human.  If the observer can’t tell which one is the computer, then the computer must appear to have the same intelligence as the human.

“It was quite embarrassing,” said one observer.  “We set him up at a terminal with our latest AI programme.  The President asked a few basic questions of the software, beginning with ‘How are you?’ Within a few questions, President Bush was hopelessly lost.”
Here is the transcript of the interaction:
Bush: How are you today?
Computer: I’m fine, thank you.  How are you?
Bush: I’m totalisingly fine.
Computer: I beg your pardon?
Bush: There will be no pardonifications.  Justice will be done.
Computer: I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.
Bush: I said there will be no pardonifications.  Executise everyone on death row!
Computer: Help!  Someone get me away from this maniac!