I didn't quite catch that...

Bloody hell. Not more than a couple of hours ago, I was reading about today being the anniversary of the sinking due to bad weather of a Ro-Ro ferry sailing between Norn Iron to GB; water came aboard through a loading door, cargo shifted, the ship developed a list and eventually sank with massive loss of life.

And then I just heard on the radio about this, which is happening now.

Passengers and crew are being airlifted from a ferry in the Irish Sea after it was hit by a freak wave in bad weather.

Four passengers and 19 crew are being removed after Liverpool coastguard received a Mayday call from the ship at 1943 GMT as it battled 7m waves.

The Riverdance, which sails from Warrenpoint in Northern Ireland to Heysham in Lancashire, is listing to 60 degrees after its cargo shifted.

Sweet jeebus. I just hope to God that it turns out better this time round.

Marissa: Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t call you on your birthday.
Frank: My birthday? What do you mean?
Marissa: Yeah, last Thursday. Oh, you forgot your birthday, didn’t you, Frank?
Frank: Damn it. I’m such an idiot.

How embarrassing. Yet again, I went and forgot my birthday. And it’s not like this was a small one, either. No, this was a big’un. This time round, my blog turned 5.

Once again, I’ll portray this in facts and figures.

5 years, or 1926 days.

4,019 posts, or around 2 a day.

5,538 comments, or 2.9 a day, or 1.4 per post.

660,441 words, or 343 a day, or 164 per post.

86,081 spam comments stopped by Akismet, the daily figures for which are far too depressing. Suffice to say it’s a spam:ham ration of over 15:1.

All in all, quite a lot of work has gone in. But don’t worry, because quite a lot has been gotten out as well. I’ve met some amazing people, some very smart people, some very funny people. I’ve been interviewed for local radio. I’ve been beaten over the head with the cluebat almost as many times as I should have. And I’ve enjoyed it.

So, if you three don’t mind too much, I think I’ll keep going for a while longer. Ta.

Literally five minutes ago, and in relation to this comment:

I may have laughed just a little bit at that…

While I can’t comment on the veracity of el Reg‘s article about people being most miserable at 44, but I’m sure any old Warwick bods would be able to comment on this:

That is the age at which the probability of depression peaks for both men and women, researchers from the University of Warwick have found. That particular institution’s closest town is Coventry, suggesting they do indeed know what they’re talking about.

And, of course, the man behind the report goes by the name of Oswald. A name which anyone who ever read the Bore would be well familiar with.

A brief interlude from a recent phone call:

Random Person on Phone: And could I have your name?

Yours Truly: No bother, it’s Ed.

RPOP: And could you spell that please?

YT: Er, what? You need help spelling Ed?

RPOP: Er, oops. Now I sound really dumb, don’t I?

YT: E. D.

The quality of education must really be falling if people can’t spell the simplest name in Christendom…

While I fully agree that Top Gear is a cultural phenomenon, and that a channel dedicated to shows such as TG, QI, NIGNFY, etc, is a shockingly brilliant one, I have to say:

Why the fuck would you call it Dave?

Obviously, the previous name of the channel – UKTV G2 – was certainly not something that rolled off the tongue, but Dave is a leap too far in the opposite direction. It gets carefully filed under trying too hard to be blokish, which is totally unnecessary. With the line-up of shows they have they could have called it LKUYLBLRV.TV and people would have still tuned in…

Anyway, back to the little Times article that prompted the post.

Now captured by Dave – the name is a thesis in itself – Top Gear in its endless rerun form is now rather brilliantly defining the essence of mild, heroic, misogynistic, right-wing British blokeishness.

Note, too, that none of Top Gear’s three presenters is female, or are ever likely to be so. Note the self-deprecating nature of the three; their endearing lack of pomposity, their ability to fall flat on their faces and laugh at themselves. This is classic arrested-development, blokey stuff; these are men whom every other man on the planet, with the possible exception of Martin Amis, would like to go to the pub with. And quite a lot of women would like to join them.

It’s all very true, and all to the good. There’s only one thing that’s I’d take issue with in that: I could see space on the show for a female presenter. It’d need to be a very special female presenter, though. For obvious reasons, she’d need to be able to outdrive the other three; she’d need to be hawt; and she’d need to know what she was talking about.

So, it’s really a toss-up between Sabine Schmitz or Vicki B-H. Any preference out there? Or any other suggestions?

Another little thing that I didn’t know about the special form of democracy we’re working on in this little part of the world:

The party’s only minister, Margaret Ritchie, voted with the other executive parties and will do so during Tuesday’s budget vote, which the SDLP is expected to oppose.

But her party is making it clear they are not bound by the ministerial code, unlike Ms Ritchie who would have to leave government if she voted against the plans.

Now, it could be that I’m reading this wrong, but to me that reads like “if you disagree with the Executive on any given issue, you cannot be part of the Executive”. Which strikes me as quite a bad thing, on the whole. You can vote your conscience or you can be part of government. You can present the position of your voters or you can be in a position to present their position.

Never mind that I probably disagree with a fair few of the reasons the the SDLP is not supporting the Budget, I’d support their right to not support it while still being part of the system. Otherwise it makes a mockery of the whole thing.

Oh, OK then. More of a mockery…

Once you’ve played scrabble (or, technically, Scrabulous. Because the two aren’t related, obviously) against the likes of Taoist, you’d be feeling exactly the same.

Damn smart people. Always making me look dumb…

Things wot make my head go

When the BBC even mentions phrases such as this:

The council so far seems reluctant to rely on its powers which apparently could force the landowner to dismantle the steel barrier and allow the public to use the coastal path.

Now, I’ve walked that path many times; it’s a particularly nice part of the world and I’d be more than happy to visit again. But if the landowner doesn’t want people walking over it, then that’s his call. It’s not ours, it’s not the councils, and it sure as shit ain’t the BBC’s. Just because there are laws on the statute book that would allow the council to force the issue doesn’t make it right that the council do so.

And it doesn’t excuse the BBC quietly suggesting that they take that course of action either. Statist bastids that they are.

While I can see exactly why it’s reasonable to say that there should be no total nudity in entertainment shows before the watershed, I can’t help but think that fining the TV network $1.4m for a flash of ass is a bit harsh. I mean, it’s hardly Two Girls One Cup, is it? If such massive fines are handed out for showing a buttock or two, what happens to the Simpsons?

Prudishness is all well and good – ‘cepting when it isn’t obviously – but I think this may be a little bit over the top…

What is the logical response of any sane, law abiding person when they see police officers sniffing around their vehicle? Yup, low grade panic, mild swearing and a rush to go out and make sure that said vehicle isn’t in violation of some obscure rule that makes no sense at all.

I have to say, apart from the case above, I’ve been quite lucky at my current workplace. Seeing as how it’s something of a ‘special’ area, the traffic wardens that have been pissing people off all over the country have only recently bothered coming into the area (something about being chased out with pitchforks the first time they tried it), and the peelers weren’t exactly ten a penny on foot patrol either.

Unfortunately – as some would see it – that’s changed recently. Once this week the red coats have been out ticketing on the road, and they got the girl at the counter of my local chippy. While I was being served. Not a good thing.

And three times this week, the peelers have been out paying close attention to cars outside the window. Once because one had a broken window; once for an unknown reason, and once because they want to scare people.

Yup, they’re actually going round with a clipboard, peering into each parked car and cataloguing any valuable items. Which will then be listed on an official letter and sent to the registered owner of the car.

So not only are they giving lots of people worry now, they’ll also be worrying people in the near future, when unsolicited envelopes from the PSNI come through the letterbox. And then more worry when they point out how much crime they’re “inviting upon themselves”.

And there was me thinking that the police were meant to provide a reassuring presence…

There’s a spate of recent billboards, all over the city of Belfast.

1700 sectarian attacks last year!

That’s why we need a Bill Of Rights!

http://www.billofrightsni.org/

And for some strange reason, that pisses me off. Because a bill of rights is not going to stop sectarian attacks, and nor should it. Nor could it bring disabled people into work, or eradicate child poverty. These are all worthy aims, but a Bill of Rights shouldn’t be about what you’re aiming for – it should be a statement of inviolate and inviolable rights that we have and nobody can take from us

A Bill of Rights can’t give you a job, because that takes away the right of your employer to fire you for being shit.

A Bill of Rights can’t eradicate poverty, because poverty will always be with us; there will always be those who have less than others.

A Bill of Rights can’t stop you being attacked, because nobody is immune from being attacked.

A chain is only as strong as its weakest link; correspondingly, if a weak ‘right’ is put into any Bill of Rights, it diminishes the Bill in its entirety. If you put anything in a Bill of Rights it has equality of status with the rest of them; the right to order coffee in Urdu becomes as important as the right to a fair trial. Which can’t be right.

Instead of all the things that are talked of today as ‘rights’, work back to the basics. Have a small number of rights, but ones which cover many eventualities. Have something like the Bill of Rights, and not a wish list drawn up by committee.

Not that I’ve a bug up my but over such wish lists, obviously.

I’m assuming that the entire world+wife is aware of the sheer awesomeness that is Xiao Xiao. Crazy fights, insurmountable odds, strange camera angles. And all the more brilliant because it’s all done with stick men.

In fact, the only possible way to make it better would be to have pithy one-liners, and perhaps a few gratuitous nude shots of Monica Bellucci.

Whadda know? They only went and made it.

It’s a film featuring the most unbelievable gunplay, silly yet quotable one-liners, a few gratuitous nude shots of Monica Bellucci, and not much in the way of plot to disturb the casual viewer.

I’d like to say that, being a smart and respectable guy, I found it boring and didn’t enjoy it one bit. That would be a lie, though, so I’ll have to confess to having pissed myself silly the whole way through it. Because I’m a simple fella, really…

‘course, it would have been much better if the tacky MESSAGE thing hadn’t been tacked onto the end, but I suppose they had to pretend to have a point. Boo hiss to having points, that’s what I say.

I read about the alleged ID card delay with great interest, but only mild joy. Why only mild joy, you ask? Well, because the thing has been declared mostly dead many, many times, and yet no bastard has actually buried it.

Basically, I’ll believe that the whole shebang is totally dead when the lamp posts of Westminster are creaking under the weight and the sales of hemp have gone through the roof.

Or when someone in power actually stands up and says:

Yeah, this was a total FUBAR situation. We wanted it, the civil service wanted it, the police wanted it, but you ungrateful bastards just wouldn’t shut up and take your damn medicine.

The mob is now knocking on the door, and we can smell the Righteous Fires of Indignation from here, so we’ve suddenly decided to abandon the idea and put specific laws in place allowing the immediate castration of any politician who ever suggests the idea again.

And remember, we’re not all bastards. Just the ones you hear from fit that criteria…

id est, I ain’t holding my breath.

I’ve found over the years¹ that I’m bothered more by the eastbound leg of long flights. I suppose the logic is that if you go to bed considerably later than usual, you’ll certainly sleep; if you try to go to bed earlier then odds are you’re just wasting effort.

But I’d been smart this time round. I’d looked at the timings, I’d looked at my leave days, I’d looked at what I thought I could do. I didn’t make any special effort to sleep during the flight to be sure that I’d conk out at a time of my choosing on the Sunday night after I got back. And I then made an appointment for Monday morning which I could miss if I really needed to, but really wouldn’t want to.

The leave days covered what I planned for.
The timings worked out.
The non-sleeping on the flight worked.
The conking out at a reasonable GMT time worked like a charm.
The getting up early for my appointment worked.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned gods decided then to throw a spanner into the works, in the form of mild rain and noticeable winds. Meaning that the use of a helicopter was ruled out, and my carefully laid plan was scuppered.

So I, stupidly, went back to bed. And further woke up at a perfectly respectable 7.30am. In Canadian Mountain Time. Or about 2.30pm over here.

Bollocks.

Following on from that, I had roughly fuck all sleep last night, and my body thinks that I should be sleeping right now, expecting to get out of bed in an hour or two.

Double Bollocks. Je n’aime pas le jetlag.

–
¹ – Said like I’m a much seasoned traveller. And not just someone with a mere three transatlantic trips under their belt.

Although I wasn’t tagged, I saw this meme at Hails’ place while catching up on some random reading.

Here’s how it works.
This random article title is the name of your band.
The last four words of the very last quote is the name of your album.
The third picture on this page is your cover.

The name, White-billed starling, could be the name of any band, really, from any genre, and the article doesn’t expand on it a lot. But it sounds right.

The album title, however, comes from quite a good quote:

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

William Butler Yeats (1865 – 1939)

Despite not being a totally wise man, I figure I can approximate some of the thought process. The language of the people, on the other hand, may be beyond me. Never could get the hang of txt spk…

And the picture just looks good, methinks. Walls, light, shadow, ’tis all very purdy and symbolic. Symbolic of what, I don’t know, but I’ll take it.

A while ago, I mentioned a little claim that the Economist was far too lefty for certain tastes; a claim which I strongly disagreed with. And I disagreed with it largely because of leaders like this.

If companies need to be vigilant about the limits of CSR, the same applies even more to society as a whole. A dangerous myth is gaining ground: that unadorned capitalism fails to serve the public interest. Profits are not good, goes the logic of much CSR; hence the attraction of turning companies into instruments of social policy. In fact, the opposite is true. The main contribution of companies to society comes precisely from those profits (and the products, services, salaries and ideas that competitive capitalism creates). If the business of business stops being business, we all lose.

Who’da thunk it? Capitalism = good and Profits = necessary.

You don’t get much more sensible, or plainer, than that…

Home, and farking tired. Trying to sleep on a nine hour flight in cattle class next to a young, inquisitive child is not going to go down as one of my greater successes.

The holiday, on the other hand, was muchly successful. Excellent ‘boarding conditions, a superb hotel, lots of good food, grand company, plenty of craic. Oh, and a brief foray into stalkerville on the last day. Spotted by mine own eyes: Alec Baldwin and Greg Germann. Spotted (and properly stalked) by others in the party:

Kelsey Grammer

– the victim of an unfortunate lift crashing incident, whereupon two Norn Ironers jumped into his lift with a menacing glint in their eyes…

Tim Robbins

– apparently the dude can play ice hockey, as well as be a dafty. Photographic evidence was obtained of this, alas not by me. Probably for the best, I doubt that Hotel Security would have appreciated my Team America impression.

Susan Sarandon

– as above, but without the hockey.

Darryl Hannah

– still hawt, apparently.

Joe goddam Pantoliano

– was in the same hotel as me, and I knew it not. A Sopranos legend was in the same hotel as me and I didn’t know about it till he’d gone. I mourn.

There were others, but I can’t remember them.

Oh, and do you remember a wee snow flurry a week or two ago? You know, snowed for a night, brought Belfast to its knees and closed the airport? Looked a bit like this:

What happens when much more snow falls in Calgary?

They send out men in shorts…

And teams of snowploughs…

And a guy who looks like he’s auditioning for the remake of Ghostbusters…

And they fuck about a bit…

And everything continues as normal. Which do you think is the preferable method?

Anyway, I’m way behind on my webcomics and blogs, with no hope of catching up. Did I miss anything interesting?

For one question I was all about to get into my s=ut+0.5at², until I noticed that that would be overly complicated…

Oh, and the one about the fruit was a guess.

FAKE FRIENDS: Never ask for food.
REAL FRIENDS: Are the reason you have no food.
FAKE FRIENDS: Bail you out of jail and tell you what you did was wrong.
REAL FRIENDS: Would be sitting next to you saying “Damn we fucked up.but that shit was fun!”
FAKE FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then give it back.
REAL FRIENDS: Keep your shit so long they forget its yours.
FAKE FRIENDS: Know a few things about you.
REAL FRIENDS: Could write a book about you with direct quotes from you.
FAKE FRIENDS: Are for a while.
REAL FRIENDS: Are for life.
FAKE FRIENDS: Will take your drink away when they think you’ve had enough.
REAL FRIENDS: Will look at you stumbling all over the place and say “Bitch drink the rest of that you know we don’t waste.”
FAKE FRIENDS: Will talk shit to the person who talks shit about you.
REAL FRIENDS: Will knock them the fuck out.