I didn't quite catch that...

Today is February 29^th. This means two things that cause concern.

• Traditionally, women can propose today. Obviously, I’m not greatly bothered by this in an of itself – the proposals come flowing in every day regardless of tradition – but I am bothered by the inevitable nonsense that goes on on t’TV and radio over the whole thing. ‘Cheesy’ and ‘corny’ are two words that come nowhere near describing the dross.
• It’s also the day that most of us monthly-salaried workers get to work for free. Yes, it’s the contract that we signed, but that doesn’t make it any nicer.

Plan for the day: get through as quickly as possible, avoid commercial radio at all costs, and if you see any women with little boxes and on bended knee, for God’s sake, hide…

Cheap, simple jokes that take advantage of people’s gullibility, or their unfamiliarity with something, are great, aren’t they?

And they’ve survived the transition to an ‘information economy’ rather well, too. One of my early favourites involved taking a screen dump of the desktop, setting it the desktop background and then hiding all the icons so that the next user swore blind that they the computer was broken. This, of course, worked best in Windows 3.11, before the damn dedicated windows key became widespread.

And one of my co-workers fell victim to something similar just t’other day, upon opening an email with a strange attachment.

Faced with a swearing popup that she couldn’t get rid of, what did she do? Take a couple of minutes to notice that it was naught but a GIF, that’s what she did…

You know last week, when I said that part of my concern about the Assets Recovery Bastards was the inevitable mission creep they’d get?

Turns out I was worrying about nothing. Because the government isn’t even going to wait for mission creep.

Suspected drug dealers’ assets could be seized on arrest rather than conviction under new plans for England and Wales.

Home Secretary Jacqui Smith said suspects found to be “completely innocent” would get their goods back.

Listen, slurry head, the phrase that has been the foundation of justice in this land for hundreds of years is innocent until proven guilty, not guilty until found “completely innocent”.

The burden of proof is on you, fuck face, to prove – beyond reasonable doubt – that the person is completely guilty, not on the person to prove their innocence. How in the name of fuck could anyone be “completely innocent” in this day and age, when so many fucking edicts, laws and prohibitions flow forth from our joint masters in local government, regional government, Westminster, Health & Saftey and the EU? For fucks sake, a man could break fifteen different laws before breakfast and not know about it; how is said man supposed to prove his “complete innocence” when he couldn’t possibly keep track of the laws he’s supposed to be obeying?

And this doesn’t even have the veil of due process that is supposed to make the ARA ‘fair’; there is no judicial application, there is no open and transparent mechanism. There’s just arresting officers and the bastard with the financial vacuum cleaner who’ll run in after the arrest.

This idea may well be the single most offensive thing to come out of Westminster this year. And that is quite the achievement.

This time last month, I was really quite happy.

I’d spent quite a bit of the year leading up to it in fear of the immoral entity that is Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs. Because I’d been led to believe that there would be a bit of a tax bill laid down upon me, and this didn’t please me at all.

But, given careful consideration of all relevant facts and figures and a little discussion with someone who knows about these things, I managed to work out the damage. And apparently I owed 66 new pence, which was nice. Not that nice, obviously, because it meant that I’d been taxed at source for everything, so I was still paying the bastards, but I’d braced myself for a nasty shock, and it didn’t arrive.

Then. It didn’t arrive then, because various accounting errors that occurred since – and which are at least partly my own fault, dammit – have meant that I’ve been underpaying my PAYE this year, to quite a significant degree. Which I will need to pay back post haste.

Not impressed. Boo hiss to the whole damn thing.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the resignation of junior ministers when it becomes known just how far they’ll go to get their hands on our cash, but why on earth would you replace the dumbest man in Norn Iron politics with the most smug?

I mean, come on, look at him. Like the cat that got the fucking cream. Isn’t that just a face you’d love to see get hit with a custard pie? Or a shovel?

And now Jeffrey O’Donaldson is a minister, and strongly tipped to be the DUP nominee for minister in charge of policing, if that ever happens. This cannot end well…

Thon Nickleback song isn’t that bad, to be honest, but it is starting to suffer from a severe case of over-exposure. Much like most of the targets of the above video.

Well that was nice. Thon wee Irish film I saw over Christmas just got an Oscar. For bestest song ever, I think. Which was probably nice for them what were involved.

Incidentally, I obtained the soundtrack for said film a while ago. And some of the songs really are very good. Some are rubbish, but the highs more than make up for them…

Medical advice I think we could all get on board with:

The traditional, wives’ tale approach to medicine.

Eat right!

Make sure you get your daily dose of fruits and veggies.
Take your vitamins and bump up your vitamin C.

Get plenty of exercise because exercise helps build your immune system.

Walk for at least an hour a day,go for a swim, take the stairs instead of the elevator, etc.

Wash your hands often.
If you can’t wash them, keep a bottle of antibacterial stuff around.

Get lots of fresh air. Open doors & windows whenever possible.

Try to eliminate as much stress from your life as you can.

Get plenty of rest.

OR

Take the doctor’s approach.

Think about it…

When you go for a shot, what do they do first?

They clean your arm with alcohol…

Why?

Because Alcohol KILLS GERMS.

So…….

I walk to the liquor store. (exercise)
I put lime in my Corona…(fruit)
Celery in my Bloody Mary (veggies)
Drink outdoors on the bar patio..(fresh air)
Tell jokes, laugh….(eliminate stress)
Then pass out. (rest)

The way I see it…

If you keep your alcohol levels up, flu germscan’t get you!

As a wise old woman used to say: ‘A shot in the glass is better than one in the ass!’

For both the Home Office and the Tories to be against it?

A DNA database containing details on all people in the UK would create a “nation of suspects”, the Tories say.

Shadow home secretary David Davis said allowing the state to hold profiles would be “incredibly intrusive” and called for an “effective” debate.

A senior police officer has suggested a universal register, after two killers were convicted using DNA evidence.

The Home Office has said ruled this out, saying it would raise “significant practical and ethical issues”.

Bear in mind that the Home Office is behind such massive fuckups as collecting DNA from children and detention without trial, and the Tories removed our right to silence. So it’s not like either is on the side of the angels.

Strange, the people you find yourself agreeing with on issues, isn’t it?

Regular readers may be aware that I’m no fan of the Assets Recovery Agency. I think that it’s built on a flawed legal foundation and that it’s far too open to abuse by the state.

Which is why this incident amused me slightly.

Firefighters were called to a blaze at a house, just hours after it was sold at an auction of properties seized by the Assets Recovery Agency.

My long list of problems with the ARA includes the end result of it; what happens if all the major drug dealers are dealt with; if all the fuel smugglers are caught and impoverished; if every major source of target for the ARA is gotten? If the world was in any way sensible, that would be the point at which the Agency would be wound up, everyone in it would be given a nice payoff, and then it would be forgotten.

There are two problems with that. The first is that crime will always be with us, and that the big criminals will just adapt and hide their money better, making them a harder target. And the second is that I’m yet to hear of a government agency that was ever wound up; they just morph into something else.

So the Agency will need to go on, and the real criminals will be more difficult targets. So what’ll they do? Simple, they’ll move on to easier targets, of the sort that they were never meant to target. The small criminals, the ones that aren’t really criminals at all,, just people bending rules a little, rather than breaking them. In other words, they’ll move onto the people that we all know.

So if someone goes around torching the assets, and thus denying the ARA of some of their ill-gotten ill-gotten gains, then I’m all for it. It may delay the beast a little, which can only be a good thing.

A state of emergency is a very powerful thing; when one is declared agencies of the state gain massive powers of aspects of the civil state and the persons within. Mass evacuations, centralised distribution of essential items, that sort of thing.

Thusly, it’s something that should only be used very sparingly, at times of great need. Katrina being an excellent example; a time of war being another.

Of course, some people look at what can be done in a state of emergency, and decide that such things could and should be directed towards other, lesser, things. “Why,” they ask, “can we suspend our liberties for a nasty war, but not to cure poverty?” Perhaps, sez I, because ‘poverty’ – the way in which some have more than others – is not something that can be cured? Perhaps because it’s something that will never go away. The same holds for for the children comments, because we’re all wired to protect children from every possible thing, and we can’t get rid of them all.

But if an organisation declares something to be an emergency, they can then use that to justify making demands that are in direct opposition to those of a free state, or at best massively interfering in the actions of a free populace. Such as this shower of fools.

The BMA ethics committee’s Dr Vivienne Nathanson said: “We have a public health emergency and people need to be prepared to look at an increase in price. They may not want to pay more but they also don’t want to see their neighbours, their children and their friends dying from liver failure in their 20s and 30s. Recent governments have worked too closely with the alcohol industry and have pursued policies of deregulation and liberalisation regarding alcohol control.”

Dr Nathanson, plz to shut up the fuck. Policies of deregulation and liberalisation are the way forward. Enough of your hard-paternalism nonsense, we’ll be having none of it please…

I’ve mentioned that I’m less than blown away by the cult that is Obama. In the six months or so that I’ve been aware of his existence, I’ve seen precious little to impress outside a gift for public speaking. No stellar voting record, no policies that make me think “Oh, that’d be great”. In fact, very little in the way of policy full stop.

And then the Guardian (of all places) goes and puts another big no-no by his name: apparently, Matt Santos is Barack Obama.

For what those West Wing fans stunned by the similarity between the fictitious Matthew Santos and the real-life Barack Obama have not known is that the resemblance is no coincidence. When the West Wing scriptwriters first devised their fictitious presidential candidate in the late summer of 2004, they modelled him in part on a young Illinois politician – not yet even a US senator – by the name of Barack Obama.

“I drew inspiration from him in drawing this character,” West Wing writer and producer Eli Attie told the Guardian. “When I had to write, Obama was just appearing on the national scene. He had done a great speech at the convention [which nominated John Kerry] and people were beginning to talk about him.”

Ah, Matt Santos. That quite decent presidential candidate who would have been a worthy loser to a much better prospect, had the writers not bent the rules to allow the obvious weaker candidate to win. In a set up that still annoys me, many months later.

Did that then influence my taking of a dislike to Mr Obama? Or am I just allergic to windbags, and he’s just catching some of my general dislike of politicians?

Answers on a postcard, as per usual…

I fear I may be sold on the idea of the new Terminator series. Because those evil TV producers know exactly how to get me hooked on a TV series.

To get me interested is simple. You tell the world you’ve a new TV show, place Summer Glau in it, and you have her kick ass.

That’ll get me interested; I’ll watch the pilot. To get the hooks in, you need to do something more in that pilot.

Those folks did their homework. Because they took the show, added some gunplay, some explosions, some ass kicking, and then – just for the icing on the cake – had Summer Glau doing some of her ass kicking in the nude.

Shaping up to be an interesting show. But I’ll only watch it for the dialogue, you know…

Quick question: if someone who is not in anyway a racialist sends you the following:

An Irishman wants a job, but the foreman won’t hire him until he passes a little math test.

Here is your first question, the foreman said. “Without using numbers, represent the number 9.”

“Without numbers?” The Irishman says, “Dat is easy.” And proceeds to draw three trees.

“What’s this?” the boss asks?

“Ave you got no brain? Tree and tree and tree make nine,” says the Irishman.

“Fair enough,” says the boss. “Here’s your second question. Use the same rules, but this time the number is 99.”

The Irishman stares into space for a while, then picks up the picture that he has just drawn and makes a smudge on each tree. “Ere you go.”

The boss scratches his head and says, “How on earth do you get that to represent 99?”

“Each of da trees is dirty now. So, it’s dirty tree, and dirty tree, and dirty tree. Dat is 99.”

The boss is getting worried that he’s going to actually have to hire this Irishman, so he says, “All right, last question. Same rules again, but represent the number 100.”

The Irishman stares into space some more, then he picks up the picture again and makes a little mark at the base of each tree and says, “Ere you go. One hundred.”

The boss looks at the attempt. “You must be nuts if you think that represents a hundred!”

The Irishman leans forward and points to the marks at the base of each tree and says, “A little dog come along and crap by each tree. So now you got dirty tree and a turd, dirty tree and a turd, and dirty tree and a turd, which makes one hundred.”

“So, when do I start?”

How nasty is it to try and guilt trip them about their racialism, when they clearly don’t have any?

Why yes, I was bored at the time of receiving the email. Why do you ask?

Anyone else mildly cheered by the news that Castro has retired? Vaguely hopeful for a future with one less communist dictator in it? Good, good, I’m rarely fond of being alone on an issue…

But in the day or two since his announcement there have been some dark clouds on the horizon.

• Some years ago, a couple of my mates did the tourist thing in Cuba. They ignored my heartfelt advice (punch a communist, make the world a better place), but brought me back a nice fat Cuban cigar. I’ve been keeping this until young Castro had gone. Does this count, or am I obligated to wait until he’s actually dead?
• George Galloway has been on the radio, and people have been listening intently as he sycophantically told everyone about how good Castro was, how wise, how brave to stand up to the Decadent West, how selflessly he let Gorgeous George suck him off for the cameras, etc, etc. Made me want to punch him that little bit more. Especially since I thought that maybe, just maybe, George had fucked off back to whence he came.
• Some of out enlightened political class have gotten in on the act, with such mindless drivel as “He leaves behind him a country with world class health and education systems and I wish him well in his retirement,”. Yeah, and he also leaves behind a fuckload of people who thought a 90 mile swim was preferable to living with him; a one party state; a lot of skeletons in the closet; more skeletons in the ground, etc, etc, etc. Get a fucking clue, please, Mr Adams.
• Speaking of getting a clue, how far down a BBC article do you have to go before they mention that Cuba is a one party state, and that Castro is a dictator? And even when they do, they qualify it with Critics call him a…. Boy, am I glad that I’m obliged, under threat of violence, to pay for this quality of journalism…

But sure, all that’s just window dressing. Little things, which shouldn’t be allowed to overshadow the main thing: yet another Latin American dictator has gone.

I hope that all the human rights folk will be just as keen to celebrate his passing as did Pinochet’s, when the time comes…

I’ve held off on commenting about this; I’ve held off downloading episodes; I’ve held off reading spoilers. But recent advertising has gotten my attention, and I have to say, what I’ve seen looks good.

Five or six months ago, I heartily agreed with a xkcd sentiment: that there should be a 90 minute movie, dedicated to

• Summer Glau looking fine; and
• Summer Glau kicking ass

It would appear, however, that – what with writers’ strikes and management fuckwittery – Hollywood has not acquiesced to my request. But fear not, because TV has come to the rescue.

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles started in the US a while back, to great fanfare (it actually premièred while I was in Canukistan), and Virgin1 is showing it tomorrow. And it features the hot-as-hell Ms Glau as a Terminator.

Kicking ass, taking names, and continuing in the vein of River Tam? Be still my beating heart…

They’ve also been quite clever: Ms Glau is not only better looking, but also less blatant about it that yer wan who played the Terminatrix. Which is a good thing, obviously.

Sweet Jeebus, thon Pratchett fella’s recent work has been right on the money. Not only did it come out just before Northern Rock went tits up, but its insight in more recent events caused me to reread it over the last couple of days.

And its wisdom once again comes to the fore. I finished it the night before last, and the last few pages contains the following wisdom:

‘Even so, it would be dreadful if it fell into the wrong hands, Igor. I wonder if I should present the Glooper to the government. What do you think?’

Igor gave this some thought. In his experience a prime definition of ‘the wrong hands’ was ‘the government’.

‘I think you ought to take the opportunity to get out a bit more, thur,’ he said kindly.

Armed with this stunningly simple thought, I was less than enthralled to hear yesterday’s news:

Northern Rock is to be nationalised as a temporary measure, Chancellor Alistair Darling has said.

Neither of the two private proposals to take over the beleaguered bank offered “sufficient value for money to the taxpayer”, Mr Darling said.

He said the public would gain if the government held on to Northern Rock until market conditions improved.

Oh dear. This bodes badly for – in increasing order of severity – a) the shareholders of Northern Rock, b) the employees of Northern Rock and c) all of us poor chumps who’ve just involuntarily invested in Northern Rock.

If the place was a picture of ‘how not to run a successful bank’ before, just think what it’ll be soon…

… as he exposed his inadequatenesses for all to see.

It would appear that a new production is out there. An original concept by Nelly, with a screen play by a Taoist of note, has been released upon an unsuspecting world.

And the name of this monster? It has no name, but in place of it we shall refer to it as A wee Scrabulous Tournament, wherein your esteemed author mixes it up with people better able than him, and is abjectly humiliated for all the world to see.

Let’s get it started, then. Purely so that we can get it finished, and then I can see how my betters fare once I’m officially out.

All my no so recent talk of Stardust touched on a little something: The Princess Bride.

And here’s where the little kudos and blog-image I’ve built over the years goes right out the window: The Princess Bride is one of my most favourite films of all time. Don’t let the title confuse you, or the fact that it looks like a fairy tale: it’s got wordplay and swordplay. It’s got women and one liners. It’s got the World’s Best Drinker and Billy Crystal. It’s got Rodents Of Unusual Size and sort of dead.

In short, it rawks. Even if it is about saving a princess from a terrible marriage.

However, there was a terrible oversight in my awareness of Bride. For I’d not read the book. A terrible, terrible thing, and only just corrected. And just as well, for the book is even better.

The title sheet says:

What’s it about? Fencing. Fighting. True Love. Strong Hate. Harsh Revenge. A Few Giants. Lots of Bad Men. Lots of Good Men. Five or Six Beautiful Women. Beasties Monstrous and Gentle. Some Swell Escapes and Captures. Death, Lies, Truth, Miracles, and a Little Sex.

In short it’s about everything.

If, on the odd chance, you’ve not read it, high thee hence and get to it. As I once had no excuse, now you have none.

moar humorous pics