Half of my greenhouse has arrived. The wrong half. If it had been the frame I could have started assembly but no, it's the glazing. So that is now tucked at the back of the shed waiting for the huge Meccano set to arrive.
It doesn't matter too much. It was too windy to do anything about it today and anyway, it'll be the weekend before I can get someone round to help.
What's annoying is that I had to wait in all day for half a greenhouse, and I'll now have to wait in all day tomorrow for the other half.
I hope it comes early. Otherwise it'll be another day wasted.
Ah, but then I can go looking for cut-price greenhouse heaters in the middle of summer when nobody else wants them. Powered by methane, naturally. That's been scientifically proven to be a greenhouse gas, you know.
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Electrofag - head to head.
On the left, the Njoy Duo. On the right, the Titan. But which is best? There's only one way to find out -
Fiiiight!
For some time now I've been convinced that the Njoy was lighter than the Titan. Today I finally remembered to put them on the balance at the lab. The Titan weighs in at 15.0 grams (standard size battery) and the Njoy weighs 14.8 grams. Now, I know I've spent most of my life in labs and an inordinate amount of time weighing small amounts, but I don't believe I can detect a difference of 0.2 grams with my fingers.
I think it's psychological. The Njoy looks like a cigarette. The Titan looks like a pen. I know what those things weigh so I'm probably superimposing a preconceived idea onto the weight I think I feel in my fingers.
The fact is, they weigh pretty much the same. The Njoy feels more comfortable hanging from the mouth than the Titan but again that's not a fair comparison. I've had over a year to get used to the weight of the Titan, before trying out the Njoy. There's also the psychological effect of the cigarette appearance. It has much more effect than you'd think.
So which is best? It depends entirely on what you want.
At the most basic, what we all want is to be allowed to smoke indoors again. Or even outdoors without having to experience the basest levels of spite that any passing antismoker can manage. Electrofag offers something that looks and feels like smoking but which is not covered by the ban. We can Electrosmoke indoors and even if anyone objects, it leaves no trace. No tobacco smoke to offend the feeble nostrils of those delicate flowers, no ash, no combustion products at all. The vapour dissipates in moments so a sly puff in a non-smoker's bathroom won't be detected. Especially if they are of the sort who fill the air with chemicals 'because they like the smell'. Never try to explain. They will not understand.
All Electrofags fulfil the smoking-like experience indoors so there's no contest there.
So, do you want a gadget that lets you smoke coffee, banana, strawberry, absinthe and even roast chicken as well as tobacco and cigar flavours? Or do you just want hassle-free tobacco flavour? How far from 'standard' smoking do you want to go?
If you simply want something that looks and feels like smoking with the absolute minimum of hassle, go for the Njoy Pro Duo. It looks like a cigarette, it smokes like a cigarette, the large-capacity cartridge means you have to change it less often, and the cartridge is integral with the heater so you don't even notice the gadgetry is there. There isn't much in the way of wild accessories as yet. Flavours are tobacco, menthol and vanilla. There is a range of strengths, and even a zero-nicotine option so you can test whether you're really addicted to nicotine or just like to smoke.
I have horrified several non-smokers in the real world simply by suggesting that with a zero-nicotine Electrofag, they could experience smoking with nothing more than flavoured steam. They genuinely believe that if they try that, they will instantly crave a pack of Capstan Full Strength and smoke a hundred a day. These are not dim and easily convinced people either. Some are qualified and experienced scientists whose logic somehow evaporates as soon as tobacco is mentioned.
I tried pointing out that veggieburgers don't make vegetarians crave the real meaty thing, that alcohol-free booze doesn't make a teetotaler desire absinthe, that dildos don't turn gay girls straight, but to these people 'that's different'. No, it is not. It is exactly the same. A nonsmoker with a nicotine-free Electrofag is still a non-smoker. There's nothing of real smoking in there. Not even nicotine. It's flavoured steam and it doesn't even have to be tobacco flavour. It is the smoking equivalent of a veggie burger.
The Njoy is for smokers, and perhaps for non-smokers who might want to try the experience with no risk. For the non-smoker who wants to join in with smoking pals but who doesn't want tobacco flavour, the Titan is the one to get. The Titan allows all kinds of weird and wonderful flavours, most with the no-nicotine option too. In fact you can buy the flavour and the propylene glycol (it's in asthma inhalers and smoke machines, before you get all worked up over the chemical name. It's also a food-standard thickening agent. You've already been exposed to much more than you'll ever get from Electrofag). Then you can mix flavoured steam in perfect safety to your heart's content.
The Titan is a gadget. It doesn't look at all like a cigarette. It's black and lights up blue. The white version looks closer to a cigarette but it doesn't have the 'paper' appearance of the Njoy and as far as I am aware, it lights up blue too. I'm not knocking it - it's a great gadget and one of the most long-lasting gadgets I've ever bought- but it requires a bit of gadgetry affinity to get the best out of it. Since it looks nothing like a cigarette, it makes life easier in busy pubs because it's obviously not a real cigarette. The bar staff don't have to keep checking.
The Njoy offers this option too, with batteries in burgundy and silver as well as the realistic ones. But if you want to keep to the smoking experience as closely as possible, the Njoy has the realism you'd want.
If you want to go beyond smoking and into the realms of the bizarre, you need a Titan. You'll be messing around with frequently changing and probably refilling cartridges and you'll need to deal with separate heaters but you can make it taste like a cigar or a pipe or a coffee or just about anything. With nicotine or without. The cartridges are smaller and don't last as long as the Njoy ones but since the heater is separate, the cartridges are cheaper.
Basically, I can't declare a preference. It all depends what you want. Both Electrofags are good but for me, the Njoy is the one for when it's raining outside and I just want a smoke. The Titan is my choice when I feel like a cigar or something a little on the wild side. I didn't like the Titan's auto battery but the Njoy auto battery works just fine. If you go for Titan, the manual battery (where you press a button to make it work) is better. The Njoy's auto battery (where you just inhale and it comes on by itself) is much more responsive.
I carry both with me now. It's not like they take up much space, compared to a pouch of tobacco. Consider the pack of 20 you might carry now, and compare it to carrying one cigarette, one spare battery and perhaps a spare cartridge. You don't even need a 10-pack size to carry a day's worth of smoking.
Fun factor: both have that. The Titan gets double-takes whenever I use it because people think I'm chewing a pen until the 'smoke' comes out. The Njoy looks real, so if anyone objects I drop what appears to be a lit cigarette into my shirt pocket. Lots of fun to be had with both kinds.
If Electrofag could be made exactly like smoking, I'd switch in an instant. It's nearly there. Science should be researching ways to make it perfect but science is scared of smoking. Anyone who suggested working on Electrofag would meet the 'You support the tobacco industry' hysteria and it wouldn't be worth their while typing up a CV ever again. If only people would just grow up. Then perhaps we'd get somewhere.
One thing that occurred to me today - suppose you stage a play and one character has to smoke. It's illegal now, and perhaps the actor doesn't smoke anyway. Get a nicotine-free Njoy which looks just like the real thing. Pretend to light it with a small hand-held torch and your character can puff away on stage realistically, perfectly legally and with no concerns for their health at all. The only difficulty will be if the character is required to stub it out in an ashtray. Electrofag doesn't get shorter. Ever.
Oh, and Lady Gaga and others who have smoked on stage - definitely get one of these. In fact, you rich rock stars, throw some into the audience. It will drive the Righteous nuts. They can't do a damn thing about it.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Entertainment 5.
Tired tonight, masses of work to deal with, so a story for bedtime instead. Mummylonglegs, you have mail from another incarnation. Look for the Italian/Roman connection and you'll see me.
This is another unpublished story but part of the Blackthorn family series. They are not for the easily spooked. Fifties-style twist at the end. Yes, I'm old.
Skeleton key.
Jen Blackthorn pushed open the door of her new house and lugged in three pots of paint, two bags full of wallpaper and paste, and a pack of paintbrushes. She deposited her load in the hallway and opened the door to the lounge.
Her husband, Zach, sat where she had left him. He stared at the wall, his arms loose at his sides. Jen stomped over to face him, her hands on her hips.
“You haven’t done a thing, have you?” She pointed at the brass keyhole, set into the wall. “I thought you were going to deal with that ridiculous thing so we could wallpaper in here.”
Zach’s eyes shifted from the wall to his wife’s face. He lifted a pot of filler into view. “I did. Twice.”
“Oh, come on.” Jen ran her hand over the keyhole. The brass chilled her fingers. “This hasn’t been touched.”
“I did.” Zach’s voice was flat. He rose from his chair and opened the filler. “Watch.”
Zach spread filler over the keyhole. He pressed it in with his fingers, until the hole blended with the wall.
“Right. Finally.” Jen marched back to the hall. “That’s all you had to do, a few seconds of work, and it’s taken you hours to do it.” She picked up the paint and returned to the lounge, where she set the pots in the middle of the room. “Now you can do some painting while that sets. What the—?”
Zach’s face twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. The keyhole sparkled as though newly polished, all trace of filler gone. Jen ran her fingers over it again. It was perfectly smooth, and cold. She glared at Zach. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t.” Zach stared at the keyhole. “Every time I fill it in, it just soaks away.”
Jen shook her head. “You’re being ridiculous. Look, it can’t be that big a hole. That’s an outside wall, so it’s not like there’s a room behind there.”
“What’s it for, I wonder?”
Jen rolled her eyes. “We’ve been through this. It’s not ‘for’ anything. It’s a bit of meaningless, stupid decoration put up by the nut who used to live here. There’s no door, no cupboard, no nothing. It’s a stupid brass keyhole plate fitted into the middle of a blank wall, and I want it gone.”
“I don’t think it wants to go.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Give me that.” Jen snatched the filler from Zach’s hand. She pushed the soft paste into the keyhole until it could take no more, then wet her finger and smoothed it over. “Right. It’s gone.” Jen moved towards the door but stopped beside Zach. “You fetch the rest of the stuff in here. I don’t want you cleaning out that hole again.”
Head bowed, Zach left the room. Jen shook her head and wondered what had possessed her to marry Zachariah Blackthorn in the first place. Oh, he stood to inherit a fortune once his father passed away, but in the meantime he was of little use. Jen narrowed her eyes. It was the thought of one day moving into Blackthorn Manor that kept her with this loser. Nothing more.
Zach returned with the wallpaper and set it beside the paint. He looked past Jen and his shoulders sagged. “Told you.”
Jen wrinkled her nose and turned around. The keyhole gleamed against the wall. She ran her fingers over it once more. “To hell with it,” she said. “Just paper over the top.”
***
Jen surveyed the wallpapered room. She had to admit, shiftless as he was, Zach made a decent decorator. If only he could hold down a job. Jen ran her hand over the place where the keyhole lay hidden and smiled. The thick wallpaper covered the offending hole without so much as a ripple. If it started to show later, she could hang a picture over it.
She clapped her hands together. “Right, Zach. A cup of tea, then we can get started on the woodwork. We can have this room finished tonight, if we get moving. Then I can order a carpet tomorrow.”
Zach nodded and headed for the kitchen. Jen sat on the floor and prised the lid off one of the pots of paint. Sunset yellow, a favourite of hers but one she knew Zach hated. Well, tough. When he paid the bills, he could get to choose the colours. She reached for the pack of brushes. A glint of metal caught her eye.
The keyhole’s brass plate sat flush with the surface of the wallpaper.
Jen rose to her feet. Zach could not have done this. The wallpaper was trimmed, not torn. He would have had to take time, using a knife, to cut it so perfectly, and he wasn’t even in the room. Jen leaned closer, until her eye was level with the hole. On the other side, a skull grinned at her. Jen yelped and jumped back.
She stood with her hand on her chest and her eyes closed, waiting for her heart to slow, when Zach’s voice made her jump again.
“I found something.”
“You scared the crap out of me. Don’t sneak around like that.” Jen scowled at her husband, and at the object in his hand. “What’s that?”
“A key, I think. It was at the back of one of the kitchen drawers.”
“You think? Can’t you even tell what a key looks like?” Jen snatched the object from Zach’s fingers and examined it. It was a key, made from what looked like a long bone. She sniffed, her gaze alternating between the key in her hand and the little brass plate on the wall.
“You think it fits?” Zach’s eyes brightened.
Jen snorted. “What if it does? There’s nothing to open. It’s just a pointless decoration.” Perhaps, she thought, or perhaps there was something behind that wall. A secret door, so well made that its outline could not be seen. A prisoner, sealed in for centuries, possibly with some ancient treasure. She twirled the key in her fingers. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled.
“Go and make that tea.” Jen closed her fingers around the key. “We’ll worry about this keyhole nonsense later.” She waited until Zach left the room before raising the key to the lock. If there was anything valuable hidden here, there was no need to let Zach in on it. Jen slid the key into the lock and turned it. Deep within the wall, something clicked.
The key warmed against Jen’s hand. She pushed, then pulled, but no crack appeared. Nothing to indicate a door, or even a hatch. Jen curled her lip. It was a pointless affectation, a folly of decoration. The previous owner must have fitted the keyhole, complete with lock, simply to baffle later residents. The skull was part of that joke. Jen made to pull the key from the lock, but it was stuck fast.
“Oh, great, now I’ve got this damn thing sticking out of the wall.” Jen put both hands on the key and pulled hard.
The joints in her fingers popped so fast they sounded like a machine gun. Jen shrieked at the pain and tried to release the key. Her fingers refused to comply. Her elbows separated with a thunk, her shoulders left their sockets with twin bangs. Jen fell to her knees, the pain now forming blurred spots in her vision. She tried to call for Zach, but her jaw dislocated and fell open.
The heat in the key grew and spread along her arms. The tips of her fingers oozed blood as bone pushed through skin. Fingerbones melded with the key and slid, one after another, into the lock. Jen’s hands, now as limp as gloves, still could not relinquish their grip.
When the bones of her forearm passed through her hands, they tore skin and pushed Jen’s boneless fingers aside. She blinked away tears and forced back the bile in her throat. Her upper-arm bones followed, disappearing through a keyhole that could not possibly have accommodated their diameter. Did it expand, or did the bones shrink? Jen could not be sure, through the tears that filmed her eyes, nor did she care. All she wanted was for it to stop.
Ribs separated from sternum and spine with a serial rattle. Hip bones split, leg joints cracked, and all travelled through the loose flesh of Jen’s arms to disappear into the keyhole. The bones of her spine followed one by one, somehow managing their migration without breaking the nerves within. Jen was not spared the feeling in her lower body by any merciful severance of her spinal cord. Nor was she spared a single sensation of crack and splinter while her skull separated and made its long and tortuous way through her flesh.
The key released her torn and bloodied fingers. Jen’s body slumped to the floor. Her eyes still saw, her ears still heard, and every nerve ending screamed its agony into her brain. Jen tried to move, but managed only a tremor here, a shudder there. Above her, the key rotated and the lock clicked.
Zach smiled down at her, holding a cup of tea. “I didn’t think you’d be able to resist.” He took the key from the lock and slipped it into his pocket. Jen tried to open her mouth, to beg him, plead with him to do something, anything. Even kill her, to stop the pain. All that came out was a gurgle.
“I suppose you want the pain to stop. It will, soon.” Zach took a seat and sipped at his tea. “Your lungs can’t work without ribs, you see, so you’ll die of asphyxiation in a few minutes.” He glanced at the open paint pot. “Yellow. I hate yellow. I hope you kept the receipt.”
Zach sighed. “It’s a pity, really. You had all the qualities of a Blackthorn, but you turned out to be just another gold-digger. That’s why we brought you here.”
Jen fought to breathe, but could not inflate her lungs. No, she wanted to say. I bought this house. I chose it. You didn’t bring me here. I brought you. Her sight faded, her chest burned with the lack of air.
Zach took another sip of tea. “This house belongs to the family, Jen. Always has, and still does, since I’ll inherit it back from you.” He tilted his head and smiled. “Every family has a few skeletons in the closet, you know. This is where we keep ours.”
This is another unpublished story but part of the Blackthorn family series. They are not for the easily spooked. Fifties-style twist at the end. Yes, I'm old.
Skeleton key.
Jen Blackthorn pushed open the door of her new house and lugged in three pots of paint, two bags full of wallpaper and paste, and a pack of paintbrushes. She deposited her load in the hallway and opened the door to the lounge.
Her husband, Zach, sat where she had left him. He stared at the wall, his arms loose at his sides. Jen stomped over to face him, her hands on her hips.
“You haven’t done a thing, have you?” She pointed at the brass keyhole, set into the wall. “I thought you were going to deal with that ridiculous thing so we could wallpaper in here.”
Zach’s eyes shifted from the wall to his wife’s face. He lifted a pot of filler into view. “I did. Twice.”
“Oh, come on.” Jen ran her hand over the keyhole. The brass chilled her fingers. “This hasn’t been touched.”
“I did.” Zach’s voice was flat. He rose from his chair and opened the filler. “Watch.”
Zach spread filler over the keyhole. He pressed it in with his fingers, until the hole blended with the wall.
“Right. Finally.” Jen marched back to the hall. “That’s all you had to do, a few seconds of work, and it’s taken you hours to do it.” She picked up the paint and returned to the lounge, where she set the pots in the middle of the room. “Now you can do some painting while that sets. What the—?”
Zach’s face twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. The keyhole sparkled as though newly polished, all trace of filler gone. Jen ran her fingers over it again. It was perfectly smooth, and cold. She glared at Zach. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t.” Zach stared at the keyhole. “Every time I fill it in, it just soaks away.”
Jen shook her head. “You’re being ridiculous. Look, it can’t be that big a hole. That’s an outside wall, so it’s not like there’s a room behind there.”
“What’s it for, I wonder?”
Jen rolled her eyes. “We’ve been through this. It’s not ‘for’ anything. It’s a bit of meaningless, stupid decoration put up by the nut who used to live here. There’s no door, no cupboard, no nothing. It’s a stupid brass keyhole plate fitted into the middle of a blank wall, and I want it gone.”
“I don’t think it wants to go.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Give me that.” Jen snatched the filler from Zach’s hand. She pushed the soft paste into the keyhole until it could take no more, then wet her finger and smoothed it over. “Right. It’s gone.” Jen moved towards the door but stopped beside Zach. “You fetch the rest of the stuff in here. I don’t want you cleaning out that hole again.”
Head bowed, Zach left the room. Jen shook her head and wondered what had possessed her to marry Zachariah Blackthorn in the first place. Oh, he stood to inherit a fortune once his father passed away, but in the meantime he was of little use. Jen narrowed her eyes. It was the thought of one day moving into Blackthorn Manor that kept her with this loser. Nothing more.
Zach returned with the wallpaper and set it beside the paint. He looked past Jen and his shoulders sagged. “Told you.”
Jen wrinkled her nose and turned around. The keyhole gleamed against the wall. She ran her fingers over it once more. “To hell with it,” she said. “Just paper over the top.”
***
Jen surveyed the wallpapered room. She had to admit, shiftless as he was, Zach made a decent decorator. If only he could hold down a job. Jen ran her hand over the place where the keyhole lay hidden and smiled. The thick wallpaper covered the offending hole without so much as a ripple. If it started to show later, she could hang a picture over it.
She clapped her hands together. “Right, Zach. A cup of tea, then we can get started on the woodwork. We can have this room finished tonight, if we get moving. Then I can order a carpet tomorrow.”
Zach nodded and headed for the kitchen. Jen sat on the floor and prised the lid off one of the pots of paint. Sunset yellow, a favourite of hers but one she knew Zach hated. Well, tough. When he paid the bills, he could get to choose the colours. She reached for the pack of brushes. A glint of metal caught her eye.
The keyhole’s brass plate sat flush with the surface of the wallpaper.
Jen rose to her feet. Zach could not have done this. The wallpaper was trimmed, not torn. He would have had to take time, using a knife, to cut it so perfectly, and he wasn’t even in the room. Jen leaned closer, until her eye was level with the hole. On the other side, a skull grinned at her. Jen yelped and jumped back.
She stood with her hand on her chest and her eyes closed, waiting for her heart to slow, when Zach’s voice made her jump again.
“I found something.”
“You scared the crap out of me. Don’t sneak around like that.” Jen scowled at her husband, and at the object in his hand. “What’s that?”
“A key, I think. It was at the back of one of the kitchen drawers.”
“You think? Can’t you even tell what a key looks like?” Jen snatched the object from Zach’s fingers and examined it. It was a key, made from what looked like a long bone. She sniffed, her gaze alternating between the key in her hand and the little brass plate on the wall.
“You think it fits?” Zach’s eyes brightened.
Jen snorted. “What if it does? There’s nothing to open. It’s just a pointless decoration.” Perhaps, she thought, or perhaps there was something behind that wall. A secret door, so well made that its outline could not be seen. A prisoner, sealed in for centuries, possibly with some ancient treasure. She twirled the key in her fingers. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled.
“Go and make that tea.” Jen closed her fingers around the key. “We’ll worry about this keyhole nonsense later.” She waited until Zach left the room before raising the key to the lock. If there was anything valuable hidden here, there was no need to let Zach in on it. Jen slid the key into the lock and turned it. Deep within the wall, something clicked.
The key warmed against Jen’s hand. She pushed, then pulled, but no crack appeared. Nothing to indicate a door, or even a hatch. Jen curled her lip. It was a pointless affectation, a folly of decoration. The previous owner must have fitted the keyhole, complete with lock, simply to baffle later residents. The skull was part of that joke. Jen made to pull the key from the lock, but it was stuck fast.
“Oh, great, now I’ve got this damn thing sticking out of the wall.” Jen put both hands on the key and pulled hard.
The joints in her fingers popped so fast they sounded like a machine gun. Jen shrieked at the pain and tried to release the key. Her fingers refused to comply. Her elbows separated with a thunk, her shoulders left their sockets with twin bangs. Jen fell to her knees, the pain now forming blurred spots in her vision. She tried to call for Zach, but her jaw dislocated and fell open.
The heat in the key grew and spread along her arms. The tips of her fingers oozed blood as bone pushed through skin. Fingerbones melded with the key and slid, one after another, into the lock. Jen’s hands, now as limp as gloves, still could not relinquish their grip.
When the bones of her forearm passed through her hands, they tore skin and pushed Jen’s boneless fingers aside. She blinked away tears and forced back the bile in her throat. Her upper-arm bones followed, disappearing through a keyhole that could not possibly have accommodated their diameter. Did it expand, or did the bones shrink? Jen could not be sure, through the tears that filmed her eyes, nor did she care. All she wanted was for it to stop.
Ribs separated from sternum and spine with a serial rattle. Hip bones split, leg joints cracked, and all travelled through the loose flesh of Jen’s arms to disappear into the keyhole. The bones of her spine followed one by one, somehow managing their migration without breaking the nerves within. Jen was not spared the feeling in her lower body by any merciful severance of her spinal cord. Nor was she spared a single sensation of crack and splinter while her skull separated and made its long and tortuous way through her flesh.
The key released her torn and bloodied fingers. Jen’s body slumped to the floor. Her eyes still saw, her ears still heard, and every nerve ending screamed its agony into her brain. Jen tried to move, but managed only a tremor here, a shudder there. Above her, the key rotated and the lock clicked.
Zach smiled down at her, holding a cup of tea. “I didn’t think you’d be able to resist.” He took the key from the lock and slipped it into his pocket. Jen tried to open her mouth, to beg him, plead with him to do something, anything. Even kill her, to stop the pain. All that came out was a gurgle.
“I suppose you want the pain to stop. It will, soon.” Zach took a seat and sipped at his tea. “Your lungs can’t work without ribs, you see, so you’ll die of asphyxiation in a few minutes.” He glanced at the open paint pot. “Yellow. I hate yellow. I hope you kept the receipt.”
Zach sighed. “It’s a pity, really. You had all the qualities of a Blackthorn, but you turned out to be just another gold-digger. That’s why we brought you here.”
Jen fought to breathe, but could not inflate her lungs. No, she wanted to say. I bought this house. I chose it. You didn’t bring me here. I brought you. Her sight faded, her chest burned with the lack of air.
Zach took another sip of tea. “This house belongs to the family, Jen. Always has, and still does, since I’ll inherit it back from you.” He tilted his head and smiled. “Every family has a few skeletons in the closet, you know. This is where we keep ours.”
Monday, 5 July 2010
The Marching Ban.
Handguns are banned. More people are shot with handguns now, because every handgun is illegal therefore only criminals have them. Those criminals know for a fact that the law-abiding don't have them. A well thought out law, as we've come to expect.
Airguns are not (yet) banned but you have to be 18 to buy one. I can't be certain about things so far back but as I remember, you were allowed to own one from the age of about 13, but you were not allowed to buy one. An adult had to decide whether you could be trusted with one and buy it for you. I expect that's changed now. Airguns weren't especially dangerous although you could put someone's eye out with one. But then you could do that with a pencil.
Below airguns are things called 'airsoft'. They don't fire lead pellets, they fire tiny ball bearings or plastic balls. The cheaper ones can just about penetrate a paper target and as for accuracy, you'd be better off throwing the gun at the target.
Nevertheless, you still have to be 18 to buy one. They are not for children.
So when a primary school child turns up in the playground with one of these pellet guns, the correct response is not :
Lorna Cox, 34, who has two children at the school, said: 'I think toy guns, like BB guns, should be banned.
'Young children should not be allowed to have them. I am confident that the school has handled this incident well.'
Young children are not allowed to have them. That's already law. They should not have had access to them at all. That is the responsibility of the parents. Yet the knee-jerk response is 'ban them all' even from those who do nothing more than while away an afternoon in the garage shooting plastic pellets through paper targets. Because of one irresponsible owner, all must suffer.
This is how the bans march on. Start with something actually dangerous then move down the line until anything that looks remotely gun-shaped is banned, and Action Man is sold with a feather duster and a mop. The only knives he'll see are in Barbie's kitchen and he won't be allowed to touch them.
The marching ban is hard to stop when it's underway. Look at the insistence on banning Electrofag which isn't smoking, contains no tobacco, burns nothing and produces no smoke. Its crime? It looks like smoking. That is all there is to it. Sweet cigarettes were made of sugar and contained no nicotine. Banned, because they looked like cigarettes. They might make children smoke, even though the taste of burning leaves isn't at all sugary. Soon you'll be in trouble for chewing a pen.
Nobody was harmed by these children, although they should not have had access to the airsoft gun at all. Should they be punished? Yes, because that is how we learned, as children, that some things were bad. We also learned the scale of badness. Some things would get you shouted at. You hadn't done anything seriously bad but you had done something wrong. Best not do it again because there was also the matter of escalating punishments for subsequent offences. Another of those old traditions now lost to us.
Some things would get you a whack, some would get you confined to your room, some would get you suspended from school and some would involve a visit from the local policeman to give you a really scary telling off. It depended on how bad the bad thing was.
Most times, we didn't know we had done anything wrong until the shouting started. The bleeding hearts would say 'oh, bless him, he didn't know better'. My father would say 'Well he bloody does now'. His method was far more effective.
The punishments weren't fatal. They left no lasting scars, neither physical nor psychological. In most cases they only needed to be applied once, because we learned that doing that thing was Bad and we would get into trouble. So we didn't do it again (if there was anyone watching).
So yes, the children should be punished but please, back off with the ban hysteria. Make it clear to them that they did a very bad thing indeed and that they should never do it again. Children don't like being punished. Once they associate something with punishment, most of them will not do it again. For those that will, they're likely to end up in the dropped-soap showers anyway. There will always be a few.
Police officers were not called to the school.
Good. This is a parental discipline matter, not a police matter.
If they had fired the gun while shouting abuse, then obviously the police would have been called at once. In this world, names are more dangerous than guns.
Actually, where airsoft is concerned, it's a close call.
Airguns are not (yet) banned but you have to be 18 to buy one. I can't be certain about things so far back but as I remember, you were allowed to own one from the age of about 13, but you were not allowed to buy one. An adult had to decide whether you could be trusted with one and buy it for you. I expect that's changed now. Airguns weren't especially dangerous although you could put someone's eye out with one. But then you could do that with a pencil.
Below airguns are things called 'airsoft'. They don't fire lead pellets, they fire tiny ball bearings or plastic balls. The cheaper ones can just about penetrate a paper target and as for accuracy, you'd be better off throwing the gun at the target.
Nevertheless, you still have to be 18 to buy one. They are not for children.
So when a primary school child turns up in the playground with one of these pellet guns, the correct response is not :
Lorna Cox, 34, who has two children at the school, said: 'I think toy guns, like BB guns, should be banned.
'Young children should not be allowed to have them. I am confident that the school has handled this incident well.'
Young children are not allowed to have them. That's already law. They should not have had access to them at all. That is the responsibility of the parents. Yet the knee-jerk response is 'ban them all' even from those who do nothing more than while away an afternoon in the garage shooting plastic pellets through paper targets. Because of one irresponsible owner, all must suffer.
This is how the bans march on. Start with something actually dangerous then move down the line until anything that looks remotely gun-shaped is banned, and Action Man is sold with a feather duster and a mop. The only knives he'll see are in Barbie's kitchen and he won't be allowed to touch them.
The marching ban is hard to stop when it's underway. Look at the insistence on banning Electrofag which isn't smoking, contains no tobacco, burns nothing and produces no smoke. Its crime? It looks like smoking. That is all there is to it. Sweet cigarettes were made of sugar and contained no nicotine. Banned, because they looked like cigarettes. They might make children smoke, even though the taste of burning leaves isn't at all sugary. Soon you'll be in trouble for chewing a pen.
Nobody was harmed by these children, although they should not have had access to the airsoft gun at all. Should they be punished? Yes, because that is how we learned, as children, that some things were bad. We also learned the scale of badness. Some things would get you shouted at. You hadn't done anything seriously bad but you had done something wrong. Best not do it again because there was also the matter of escalating punishments for subsequent offences. Another of those old traditions now lost to us.
Some things would get you a whack, some would get you confined to your room, some would get you suspended from school and some would involve a visit from the local policeman to give you a really scary telling off. It depended on how bad the bad thing was.
Most times, we didn't know we had done anything wrong until the shouting started. The bleeding hearts would say 'oh, bless him, he didn't know better'. My father would say 'Well he bloody does now'. His method was far more effective.
The punishments weren't fatal. They left no lasting scars, neither physical nor psychological. In most cases they only needed to be applied once, because we learned that doing that thing was Bad and we would get into trouble. So we didn't do it again (if there was anyone watching).
So yes, the children should be punished but please, back off with the ban hysteria. Make it clear to them that they did a very bad thing indeed and that they should never do it again. Children don't like being punished. Once they associate something with punishment, most of them will not do it again. For those that will, they're likely to end up in the dropped-soap showers anyway. There will always be a few.
Police officers were not called to the school.
Good. This is a parental discipline matter, not a police matter.
If they had fired the gun while shouting abuse, then obviously the police would have been called at once. In this world, names are more dangerous than guns.
Actually, where airsoft is concerned, it's a close call.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Double smoky-drinky.
Two smoky-drinky nights in a row and I'm still able to type (albeit with frequent use of the backspace key). Seems I'm not as old as the aches and cramps suggest.
Stolen child is still stolen. The parents and grandparents have to make an appointment to see him now. The parents cannot possibly have imagined they had given birth to someone so important. Since he has mucscular dystrophy, it is hit or miss whether he gets to an age where he can decide on his own appointments. I hope he does.
On a (slightly) less doom-laden note, one of the smoky-drinkers (my age) has a very elderly mother who has smoked more than a burning coal tip throughout her life. She is now old and ill. Doctors have said - please try to contain your amazement - she has to stop smoking. She will not.
If I get to her age I will not stop smoking either. If I get to that age I want to blow my pension on class A drugs. Why not? It's not like I'll have to get up for work, and I can't be a cat burglar now , never mind when I top 70. What's the big scare - that I might become a senile delinquent? I'm already an apprentice old git anyway...
I knew about this beforehand so I gave him a fully charged Njoy with a new standard tobacco flavour loading. The deal is, if she doesn't like it, I get the battery back. If she does, she can keep the battery and buy a starter pack for £22. I also gave her one of the discount-code cards kindly donated by the supplier.
Why didn't I put her on to the Titan? It has nothing to do with my current dislike of that company for doing a CAMRA on smokers.
She's over 70. While I, as a gadget freak, can have a a lot of fun with an Electrofag that looks like a biro but lights up blue, which can taste of cigarettes or cigars or coffee or banana or absinthe, she just wants to smoke. She wants that smoking feeling. We youngsters (anyone under 51) can play around with the weird stuff but older smokers want something that is, essentially, smoking. No frills.
They are not interested in any flavours but cigarette flavour. Here's a big one - they do not want to mess around with gadgetry. The Titan is a great Electrofag that allows all kinds of mad experimentation with the smoking experience. The Njoy is basically smoking and is very, very simple to use. Fags or menthol fags. The thing is, that is what most smokers want. They don't want to play with apple or cranberry smoking. I do, but then I'm not normal as anyone who has followed this blog for more than five minutes might have noticed.
So I gave the guy a charged Njoy with a new cartridge to pass on to his mother. Am I a traitor to the smoking cause? I don't think so.
If you were a sprinter and you sprained your ankle, I'd advise you not to sprint for a while. If you were a mountain climber and you broke your arm, I'd advise you to stay on level ground for a while. If you smoke and you contract any kind of lung infection, I'd advise you to lay off the tobacco at least until it cleared up.
They are all the same thing. Whatever you do for enjoyment, if that part of your body that is essential to that enjoyment is damaged, let it heal. If you're a drinker and you get hepatitis, don't drink. If you drive and you get arthritis in your arms, don't drive. It's just going to hurt more.
The guy's mother has been ill for a long time. This is something that happens when you get old. It is nothing to do with lifestyle. You can live on yogurt and tofu and you know what? You'll still die. But she has a lung problem and smoking won't help with that. Just as continuing to jog won't help a sprained ankle.
If she switches to Electrofag, it will definitely help. Patches and gum are useless because the purveyors of those lunatic ideas have never asked smokers why they smoke. It is not currently legal to market Electrofag as a stop-smoking device, at least partly because of this and this. Titan manufacturers might like to take note. It's not smoking the Righteous object to. It's fun.
So, you never know, I might prolong a life. Against all Righteous teaching and indoctrination.
They won't like that. They'll probably put out a contract on the poor old woman.
Stolen child is still stolen. The parents and grandparents have to make an appointment to see him now. The parents cannot possibly have imagined they had given birth to someone so important. Since he has mucscular dystrophy, it is hit or miss whether he gets to an age where he can decide on his own appointments. I hope he does.
On a (slightly) less doom-laden note, one of the smoky-drinkers (my age) has a very elderly mother who has smoked more than a burning coal tip throughout her life. She is now old and ill. Doctors have said - please try to contain your amazement - she has to stop smoking. She will not.
If I get to her age I will not stop smoking either. If I get to that age I want to blow my pension on class A drugs. Why not? It's not like I'll have to get up for work, and I can't be a cat burglar now , never mind when I top 70. What's the big scare - that I might become a senile delinquent? I'm already an apprentice old git anyway...
I knew about this beforehand so I gave him a fully charged Njoy with a new standard tobacco flavour loading. The deal is, if she doesn't like it, I get the battery back. If she does, she can keep the battery and buy a starter pack for £22. I also gave her one of the discount-code cards kindly donated by the supplier.
Why didn't I put her on to the Titan? It has nothing to do with my current dislike of that company for doing a CAMRA on smokers.
She's over 70. While I, as a gadget freak, can have a a lot of fun with an Electrofag that looks like a biro but lights up blue, which can taste of cigarettes or cigars or coffee or banana or absinthe, she just wants to smoke. She wants that smoking feeling. We youngsters (anyone under 51) can play around with the weird stuff but older smokers want something that is, essentially, smoking. No frills.
They are not interested in any flavours but cigarette flavour. Here's a big one - they do not want to mess around with gadgetry. The Titan is a great Electrofag that allows all kinds of mad experimentation with the smoking experience. The Njoy is basically smoking and is very, very simple to use. Fags or menthol fags. The thing is, that is what most smokers want. They don't want to play with apple or cranberry smoking. I do, but then I'm not normal as anyone who has followed this blog for more than five minutes might have noticed.
So I gave the guy a charged Njoy with a new cartridge to pass on to his mother. Am I a traitor to the smoking cause? I don't think so.
If you were a sprinter and you sprained your ankle, I'd advise you not to sprint for a while. If you were a mountain climber and you broke your arm, I'd advise you to stay on level ground for a while. If you smoke and you contract any kind of lung infection, I'd advise you to lay off the tobacco at least until it cleared up.
They are all the same thing. Whatever you do for enjoyment, if that part of your body that is essential to that enjoyment is damaged, let it heal. If you're a drinker and you get hepatitis, don't drink. If you drive and you get arthritis in your arms, don't drive. It's just going to hurt more.
The guy's mother has been ill for a long time. This is something that happens when you get old. It is nothing to do with lifestyle. You can live on yogurt and tofu and you know what? You'll still die. But she has a lung problem and smoking won't help with that. Just as continuing to jog won't help a sprained ankle.
If she switches to Electrofag, it will definitely help. Patches and gum are useless because the purveyors of those lunatic ideas have never asked smokers why they smoke. It is not currently legal to market Electrofag as a stop-smoking device, at least partly because of this and this. Titan manufacturers might like to take note. It's not smoking the Righteous object to. It's fun.
So, you never know, I might prolong a life. Against all Righteous teaching and indoctrination.
They won't like that. They'll probably put out a contract on the poor old woman.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Truncated smoky-drinky and Entertainment 4.
Tonight's smoky-drinky was a slow one for me. I have to work tomorrow and it's never a good idea to be wasted in my lab. There are far worse things than hangovers in there. Tomorrow night there's another one which I'll make full use of because I don't have to visit the lab on Sunday.
So, early (for me) night tonight and no time to browse the news. Instead I offer up a tale that combines religion with modern technology and which was published in a recently-closed online magazine called Alienskin way back in 2005. I was sorry to see that one go, it was among the very best. I can understand it. Free online magazines are great for you and me but there's not much in it for the people doing the work.
So. Inspired by the installation of a wireless internet connection in St. John’s rectory church in Cardiff, Wales, in May 2005, here is the little tale...
Hell.net
The engineers packed away their tools and left the church. Father Aaron Johnson inspected the work and nodded his approval. Beside him, the verger, Edward Chadwick, shook his head.
“You see, Eddie? The equipment isn’t even visible. It does nothing to mar our old church.” Father Johnson puffed out his chest. “We’re just catching up with the twenty-first century. Your worries are groundless.”
“It’s not the visibility of the thing that worries me, Father. It’s what it means. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Nonsense.” Father Johnson led the way into the vestry. “There’s nothing in the Scriptures to say we can’t, and if it brings more people into our church, well, that can only be a good thing.”
“But what kind of people?” Eddie’s voice was muted by the cassock he was pulling over his head. He resumed speaking once it was off. “You’re inviting the money-changers into the temple. That’s definitely against the teachings of God.”
Father Johnson grimaced as he hung his own cassock on its hook. Eddie may have a point there, but what was he to do? Somehow he had to increase his congregation. More people meant more donations, and the ancient building was sadly in need of repair. Many a sermon had been punctuated by the constant drip of water into buckets, and the heating system fought valiantly, but failed miserably, against the winter chill. He left the vestry, followed by Eddie, and they strolled among the graves that surrounded the church. The cold October air drifted between the old headstones, some with their engraved names so faint they were little more than almost-upright slabs. The churchyard had filled many years ago, and the dead were now interred in another graveyard, across the river. Father Johnson pulled his jacket tight around his generous waist.
“It’s not too late, Father. You don’t need to switch it on.” Eddie’s concern filled his voice.
“I’ve already advertised the new wireless internet connection in the parish magazine.” Father Johnson paused in front of the church. He looked up at the sandstone arch over the main door.
“Look up there, Eddie. See that stone?” He pointed to a rectangular slab above the arch. Carved into it was a date. 1579. “This church was built after the monasteries were dissolved in 1540. It’s been here ever since. It’s served the Parish of Marchway for centuries, and with God’s help it will serve for centuries more.” Father Johnson bit his lip. If he failed to increase his flock, the building may well collapse within a decade.
“This is a holy site, Father, and as you say, there’s been a church here for a long time.” Eddie spoke quietly. “This has always been a place of ceremony, long before the church, long before Christianity came to these lands. There are dark things in the ground beneath us, things best left undisturbed.” He nodded towards the ancient stone monolith in the far corner of the churchyard. Thousands of years of Marchway’s unpredictable weather had left its carved runes almost illegible.
Father Johnson’s laughter boomed over the headstones. “Come now, Eddie. Fairies and goblins? You read too many of those folklore stories.”
“Local history, Father, not folklore. Pagans worshipped here. Celts and Saxons once occupied this land.”
“Don’t forget the Romans and the Normans, and all the others. Honestly, Eddie, all those things are long dead. Stories to frighten children, nothing more. Besides, what good is a wireless internet connection to the old devils? Do you think they lie buried with computers?” He took Eddie’s arm and led him from the churchyard. The setting sun cast long shadows and the evening air cooled rapidly. “Come on. I have a sermon to write, and I always appreciate your advice. And your sherry.”
***
It had been a dry, though cold Sunday morning, and Father Johnson allowed himself a self-satisfied sigh as he sat behind his desk in the vestry after the service. When Eddie came into the room, Father Johnson pointed to the collection plate.
“Have you ever seen it so full? There must have been fifty people here this morning.”
“Yes, they were here, but were they listening? Handheld computers, laptops clattering away all through the service. It’s sacrilege.” Eddie pulled off his cassock with enough force to lift his pullover over his head. He struggled to manoeuvre the garment back into place.
“Oh, let’s be realistic.” Father Johnson started counting the money in the collection, placing it into neat piles. “We were down to six regular attendees. Six. And I know two of them, at least, have slept through every sermon for the last year. All I can do is talk, Eddie. It’s up to them if they want to listen.”
“If they don’t listen, then what’s the use?”
“If they don’t come to church, they won’t hear me speak.” Father Johnson raised his finger. “If they’re in the church, they’ll hear something. Maybe if they come often enough, they’ll start listening. At least they’re contributing.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this for the money. It’s wrong.”
“I agree, but the roof leaks and the heating doesn’t work properly. We have to raise the cash to pay for repairs or there won’t be a church for anyone to visit.” Father Johnson sat back in his chair, frowning at the piles of coins on the desk. “I know it seems like Judas’s thirty pieces of silver to you, Eddie, but we need it.”
“Yes, we do.” Eddie turned away and hung his cassock on its hook. “But what price are we paying? What if someone’s surfing pornographic websites in church? Or gambling? What if they’re sending viruses or malicious Emails from here?”
“I’m assured that our installation blocks such things.” Father Johnson rose to his feet. “I don’t know how it works, but there should be nothing like that happening under our church roof. Anyway, we’ll find out tomorrow, at the open day.”
Eddie winced. “That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had. You’re going to fill the church with computers. The money-changers have returned to the temple, after all this time.”
“Look, the church is hardly used throughout the week. Few people in Marchway have Internet access, but a lot of them have computers. We’ll be renting the wireless hardware for the day, to those who don’t already have their own. Everyone will make a donation to use the facility. Then there’s the tea and cake sales—”
“Yes, I know.” Eddie walked to the door.
“Eventually they’ll stop using the wireless on Sundays during services. Then, hopefully, some of them will stay and listen to what we have to say.” Father Johnson scooped the money into a cloth bag and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. He followed Eddie to the door. “It’s going to be fine. Our congregation will grow as a result of this. You’ll see.”
***
“It’s going well, Eddie. At this rate, we’ll have that church roof fixed before the winter sets in.” Father Johnson rubbed his hands in glee. The church pews had been moved aside, stacked below the arched stained-glass windows. An assortment of tables and chairs filled the main body of the church, most of them occupied by people with laptops and even a few desktop computers. Cables trailed along the floor, providing power to the clattering keyboards and glowing monitors.
“If only they paid as much attention to your sermons.” Eddie scowled at the rows of people, all staring intently at their screens.
“Oh, they will, eventually.” Father Johnson smiled and gave the thumbs up to the women who worked the cake-and-tea stalls on either side of the church. “Once they get used to coming to church, I’m sure they’ll remember the real reason they used to come here.”
“How far back do their memories go, I wonder?” Eddie muttered.
Father Johnson’s reply was cut off by a parishioner, a middle-aged man in a tired suit, who approached them with an apologetic look in his eyes.
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me?”
“This is the Lord’s house. All who ask shall receive.” Father Johnson smiled his widest, most sincere smile. The man responded with a weak half-smile, half-grimace.
“Yes, well, it’s just that your internet connection doesn’t seem to be working properly.”
“Ah.” Father Johnson looked to Eddie, who shrugged and shook his head. He forced a new smile on the parishioner. “Well, you see, my particular expertise is more, shall we say, spiritual than technical.”
“I see.” The man raised an eyebrow. “Well, surely you have a technician around here somewhere?”
Father Johnson coughed. “Why don’t I take a look?” He followed the man back to his computer. On the way, he noticed Eddie respond to a raised hand from a pretty young girl in the second row.
“Look. The web pages are coming through scrambled.” The man pointed at the screen. Father Johnson took his spectacles from his pocket and put them on. The image, whatever it was supposed to be, wasn’t in English. He found it hard to focus on the typescript against the bright red background, but the letters weren’t even recognisable. They did seem familiar, somehow. Russian, perhaps?
“Have you tried restarting the computer?” Father Johnson hoped the man had not, because his knowledge of computers extended no further than this.
“Yes. Several times. Whenever I access the internet, this is all I get.” The man sat and stared at the screen. Father Johnson suppressed a groan. He glanced at Eddie, who was leaning over the pretty girl, tapping at her keyboard. His face was deathly white. Father Johnson guessed Eddie was faring no better than he was.
“Excuse me, Father.”
It was Muriel, from the Women’s Institute. She clasped her hands in front of her ample figure.
“Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a phone call for you. In the vestry.”
“Thank you, Muriel. I’ll see to it.” Relieved, Father Johnson straightened. He looked down at the perplexed man who still stared into his screen. “I’m sure it won’t take long. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The man made no answer, gave no indication he had heard. Father Johnson made his way to the vestry.
He sat in his chair and stretched his neck before reaching for the phone.
“Hello. Marchway parish church. Father Johnson speaking. How may I help you?”
“Ah, hello. My name is Brian, I’m calling from your ISP.”
“Well, hello, Brian.” Father Johnson pursed his lips. “May I ask, what is my ISP?”
There was a pause on the line. Brian coughed. “Your internet service provider. We run your installation.”
“Ah, of course. How can I help you?”
“There seems to be an enormous amount of traffic on your line at the moment. We were wondering what you were doing there, if you had some kind of virus problem.”
“No, no, we’re just having an open day. There are around fifty or sixty computers here. Nothing to worry about. The engineers told me the equipment could cope with a hundred at once.”
“These are ordinary computers?”
“As far as I can tell.” Father Johnson raised his eyebrows. This conversation was likely to get out of his depth very soon. “The parishioners brought them in.”
“Well, there are gigabytes coming down the line every second. Your connection isn’t designed to handle that kind of speed and we’re wondering how it can be happening. It’s causing some problems for us at this end.”
“Aha. Maybe that’s what’s causing our problems too. Some of our connections are messed up. Gibberish on the screens, that sort of thing.”
Another pause. “It may be best if you disconnect for now. We’ll get an engineer out as soon as possible.”
“Is that really necessary? We’d have to refund most of the money we’ve made, you see.”
“I’m afraid so.” Brian spoke to someone in the background. Father Johnson listened as the exchange became heated. Brian came back on the line. “There’s a fault of some kind, we can’t disconnect you from this end. The traffic is tying up our computers, and some of them have locked up. We can’t even restart them. You have to unplug your modem.”
“Right. How do I do that?”
Brian grunted. “Just pull the plug from the mains. Go to the installation we put in, find where it’s plugged in, and pull it out. We can’t check the line until we get our computers working again.”
“Okay.” This wasn’t going to be a good day after all. “I’ll see what I can do.” Father Johnson hung up. He stared at the phone, rubbing his lower lip between his teeth. If this idea failed, his church was doomed. While he considered his options, the door burst open and Eddie came in.
“Have you seen what’s on those screens?”
“Yes. A load of rubbish. I’ve just been speaking to the computer company. They want us to unplug our modem.”
“It’s not rubbish. It’s runes.” Eddie trembled as he spoke. “Something’s coming through all right. Something that shouldn’t be there.”
“Runes?” Father Johnson raised an eyebrow. The ancient stone in the graveyard was covered with runes. That must be why the text on the screen looked familiar. He had taken little notice of the stone in his years here, it was just a historical artefact. History was dead, surely. Something from the past could have no effect on modern technology. On an impulse, he stood and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Eddie followed him.
“I just want to look at something.” Outside, Father Johnson picked his way through the gravestones to where the monolith towered over them. The markings in its surface were, indeed, very similar to the tangled letters on the computer monitor. He turned to Eddie, whose jaw hung open.
“That’s what the screens are showing. The writing on this stone.” Eddie reached for the slab. He touched it with his fingertips, then withdrew his hand. “It’s hot.”
“Hot? In October?” Father Johnson brushed the monolith with his fingers. Searing heat made him close his fist. “This is silly. It’s just an old stone.”
Eddie ran back to the church. Father Johnson hurried as fast as his unfit body would let him. Breathing hard, he arrived in time to see Eddie pulling at the wooden panelling behind the altar. He stepped forward, into silence.
Even when empty, the old building managed to produce the odd creak or groan. Wind, even a small breeze, normally whispered through the gaps in the window frames. There was nothing. Father Johnson’s congregation stared at their computers. Nobody clicked a key. Nobody moved a mouse. Nobody coughed, scratched, sighed.
The women at the tea-and-cakes stalls stared at each other, at the silent congregation, at Father Johnson. It was Eddie who broke the silence.
“Father. How do I open this panel?”
Father Johnson hurried to join Eddie. With a deft shove and a twist, he pulled the panel free, lifting it to one side. Behind the panel, nestled among the pipework and wiring of the building, a silver box flashed green lights. A deep moan from behind made him drop the panel and surge upright.
The congregation moaned again, their voices in a perfect chorus. One note issued from each mouth, blended together in the air. Something, somewhere, tapped. Eyes open, their attention fixed on their screens, the people in the church produced a single tone, at the upper limit of human hearing. Father Johnson reeled and fell to his knees. The tapping grew more insistent. It came from everywhere at once. The women on the tea-stalls ran for the doors.
“I think I see where it’s fitted.” Eddie reached into the hole behind the panel. “If I can pull out this wire…”
The tapping was rain. It grew to a roar, battering the roof of the church in a wet drum-roll. Drips appeared at several points on the floor. A stream of water ran onto Eddie’s arm, trickling down his sleeve.
“For God’s sake, Eddie. Don’t worry about breaking the thing. Just yank all of the wires out.”
“I’ve got it. This must be the one.” Eddie grinned up at Father Johnson in the instant before the flash. There must have been a bang with that, Father Johnson thought, because his ears rang with a continuous pitch. He lay on his back, shaking his head. When he pulled himself into a sitting position, Eddie’s charcoal corpse grinned up at him.
Father Johnson lunged for the modem, but strong hands restrained him. Two men, their eyes glazed, smiled down at him, then pulled him to his feet. They pinned his arms to his sides and marched him to the people waiting in the church.
The man in the tired suit spoke.
“Father. We need you.” He moved a seat back from one of the tables. “Perhaps you’d better take a look at this.”
“Let me go.” Father Johnson slipped on the wet floor, but the men held him. He struggled and twisted, trying to break free of their grip, but they forced him into the seat. The bright red screen flickered, showing strange symbols in rapid succession. He closed his eyes.
“The old gods have come home, Father. We need a priest to guide us.” The voice whispered in his ear. “Open your eyes. Let them explain.”
“No.” The Lord’s Prayer came into Father Johnson’s mind. He started to say it aloud, but a hand clamped over his mouth. Fingers pressed into his eyes and lifted, pulling his eyelids open.
The symbols sank into his mind, awakening memories so old they were coded into his genes. Not his memories, but those of his forefathers. Memories from the dawn of Man. Father Johnson held his breath. The symbols changed at an increasing pace. To his eyes, the screen was a blur, yet his brain noted every line, every curve, every geometrical explanation as it was offered to him. Voices as old as time spoke in his head. He exhaled. The hands released him. The crowd took a step backwards.
Father Aaron Johnson rose from his seat and walked to the altar. He pushed Eddie’s smouldering remains to one side and faced his new congregation.
Behind him, a small silver box relayed an ancient message to the world. Today, everyone was listening.
So, early (for me) night tonight and no time to browse the news. Instead I offer up a tale that combines religion with modern technology and which was published in a recently-closed online magazine called Alienskin way back in 2005. I was sorry to see that one go, it was among the very best. I can understand it. Free online magazines are great for you and me but there's not much in it for the people doing the work.
So. Inspired by the installation of a wireless internet connection in St. John’s rectory church in Cardiff, Wales, in May 2005, here is the little tale...
Hell.net
The engineers packed away their tools and left the church. Father Aaron Johnson inspected the work and nodded his approval. Beside him, the verger, Edward Chadwick, shook his head.
“You see, Eddie? The equipment isn’t even visible. It does nothing to mar our old church.” Father Johnson puffed out his chest. “We’re just catching up with the twenty-first century. Your worries are groundless.”
“It’s not the visibility of the thing that worries me, Father. It’s what it means. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Nonsense.” Father Johnson led the way into the vestry. “There’s nothing in the Scriptures to say we can’t, and if it brings more people into our church, well, that can only be a good thing.”
“But what kind of people?” Eddie’s voice was muted by the cassock he was pulling over his head. He resumed speaking once it was off. “You’re inviting the money-changers into the temple. That’s definitely against the teachings of God.”
Father Johnson grimaced as he hung his own cassock on its hook. Eddie may have a point there, but what was he to do? Somehow he had to increase his congregation. More people meant more donations, and the ancient building was sadly in need of repair. Many a sermon had been punctuated by the constant drip of water into buckets, and the heating system fought valiantly, but failed miserably, against the winter chill. He left the vestry, followed by Eddie, and they strolled among the graves that surrounded the church. The cold October air drifted between the old headstones, some with their engraved names so faint they were little more than almost-upright slabs. The churchyard had filled many years ago, and the dead were now interred in another graveyard, across the river. Father Johnson pulled his jacket tight around his generous waist.
“It’s not too late, Father. You don’t need to switch it on.” Eddie’s concern filled his voice.
“I’ve already advertised the new wireless internet connection in the parish magazine.” Father Johnson paused in front of the church. He looked up at the sandstone arch over the main door.
“Look up there, Eddie. See that stone?” He pointed to a rectangular slab above the arch. Carved into it was a date. 1579. “This church was built after the monasteries were dissolved in 1540. It’s been here ever since. It’s served the Parish of Marchway for centuries, and with God’s help it will serve for centuries more.” Father Johnson bit his lip. If he failed to increase his flock, the building may well collapse within a decade.
“This is a holy site, Father, and as you say, there’s been a church here for a long time.” Eddie spoke quietly. “This has always been a place of ceremony, long before the church, long before Christianity came to these lands. There are dark things in the ground beneath us, things best left undisturbed.” He nodded towards the ancient stone monolith in the far corner of the churchyard. Thousands of years of Marchway’s unpredictable weather had left its carved runes almost illegible.
Father Johnson’s laughter boomed over the headstones. “Come now, Eddie. Fairies and goblins? You read too many of those folklore stories.”
“Local history, Father, not folklore. Pagans worshipped here. Celts and Saxons once occupied this land.”
“Don’t forget the Romans and the Normans, and all the others. Honestly, Eddie, all those things are long dead. Stories to frighten children, nothing more. Besides, what good is a wireless internet connection to the old devils? Do you think they lie buried with computers?” He took Eddie’s arm and led him from the churchyard. The setting sun cast long shadows and the evening air cooled rapidly. “Come on. I have a sermon to write, and I always appreciate your advice. And your sherry.”
***
It had been a dry, though cold Sunday morning, and Father Johnson allowed himself a self-satisfied sigh as he sat behind his desk in the vestry after the service. When Eddie came into the room, Father Johnson pointed to the collection plate.
“Have you ever seen it so full? There must have been fifty people here this morning.”
“Yes, they were here, but were they listening? Handheld computers, laptops clattering away all through the service. It’s sacrilege.” Eddie pulled off his cassock with enough force to lift his pullover over his head. He struggled to manoeuvre the garment back into place.
“Oh, let’s be realistic.” Father Johnson started counting the money in the collection, placing it into neat piles. “We were down to six regular attendees. Six. And I know two of them, at least, have slept through every sermon for the last year. All I can do is talk, Eddie. It’s up to them if they want to listen.”
“If they don’t listen, then what’s the use?”
“If they don’t come to church, they won’t hear me speak.” Father Johnson raised his finger. “If they’re in the church, they’ll hear something. Maybe if they come often enough, they’ll start listening. At least they’re contributing.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this for the money. It’s wrong.”
“I agree, but the roof leaks and the heating doesn’t work properly. We have to raise the cash to pay for repairs or there won’t be a church for anyone to visit.” Father Johnson sat back in his chair, frowning at the piles of coins on the desk. “I know it seems like Judas’s thirty pieces of silver to you, Eddie, but we need it.”
“Yes, we do.” Eddie turned away and hung his cassock on its hook. “But what price are we paying? What if someone’s surfing pornographic websites in church? Or gambling? What if they’re sending viruses or malicious Emails from here?”
“I’m assured that our installation blocks such things.” Father Johnson rose to his feet. “I don’t know how it works, but there should be nothing like that happening under our church roof. Anyway, we’ll find out tomorrow, at the open day.”
Eddie winced. “That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had. You’re going to fill the church with computers. The money-changers have returned to the temple, after all this time.”
“Look, the church is hardly used throughout the week. Few people in Marchway have Internet access, but a lot of them have computers. We’ll be renting the wireless hardware for the day, to those who don’t already have their own. Everyone will make a donation to use the facility. Then there’s the tea and cake sales—”
“Yes, I know.” Eddie walked to the door.
“Eventually they’ll stop using the wireless on Sundays during services. Then, hopefully, some of them will stay and listen to what we have to say.” Father Johnson scooped the money into a cloth bag and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. He followed Eddie to the door. “It’s going to be fine. Our congregation will grow as a result of this. You’ll see.”
***
“It’s going well, Eddie. At this rate, we’ll have that church roof fixed before the winter sets in.” Father Johnson rubbed his hands in glee. The church pews had been moved aside, stacked below the arched stained-glass windows. An assortment of tables and chairs filled the main body of the church, most of them occupied by people with laptops and even a few desktop computers. Cables trailed along the floor, providing power to the clattering keyboards and glowing monitors.
“If only they paid as much attention to your sermons.” Eddie scowled at the rows of people, all staring intently at their screens.
“Oh, they will, eventually.” Father Johnson smiled and gave the thumbs up to the women who worked the cake-and-tea stalls on either side of the church. “Once they get used to coming to church, I’m sure they’ll remember the real reason they used to come here.”
“How far back do their memories go, I wonder?” Eddie muttered.
Father Johnson’s reply was cut off by a parishioner, a middle-aged man in a tired suit, who approached them with an apologetic look in his eyes.
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me?”
“This is the Lord’s house. All who ask shall receive.” Father Johnson smiled his widest, most sincere smile. The man responded with a weak half-smile, half-grimace.
“Yes, well, it’s just that your internet connection doesn’t seem to be working properly.”
“Ah.” Father Johnson looked to Eddie, who shrugged and shook his head. He forced a new smile on the parishioner. “Well, you see, my particular expertise is more, shall we say, spiritual than technical.”
“I see.” The man raised an eyebrow. “Well, surely you have a technician around here somewhere?”
Father Johnson coughed. “Why don’t I take a look?” He followed the man back to his computer. On the way, he noticed Eddie respond to a raised hand from a pretty young girl in the second row.
“Look. The web pages are coming through scrambled.” The man pointed at the screen. Father Johnson took his spectacles from his pocket and put them on. The image, whatever it was supposed to be, wasn’t in English. He found it hard to focus on the typescript against the bright red background, but the letters weren’t even recognisable. They did seem familiar, somehow. Russian, perhaps?
“Have you tried restarting the computer?” Father Johnson hoped the man had not, because his knowledge of computers extended no further than this.
“Yes. Several times. Whenever I access the internet, this is all I get.” The man sat and stared at the screen. Father Johnson suppressed a groan. He glanced at Eddie, who was leaning over the pretty girl, tapping at her keyboard. His face was deathly white. Father Johnson guessed Eddie was faring no better than he was.
“Excuse me, Father.”
It was Muriel, from the Women’s Institute. She clasped her hands in front of her ample figure.
“Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a phone call for you. In the vestry.”
“Thank you, Muriel. I’ll see to it.” Relieved, Father Johnson straightened. He looked down at the perplexed man who still stared into his screen. “I’m sure it won’t take long. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” The man made no answer, gave no indication he had heard. Father Johnson made his way to the vestry.
He sat in his chair and stretched his neck before reaching for the phone.
“Hello. Marchway parish church. Father Johnson speaking. How may I help you?”
“Ah, hello. My name is Brian, I’m calling from your ISP.”
“Well, hello, Brian.” Father Johnson pursed his lips. “May I ask, what is my ISP?”
There was a pause on the line. Brian coughed. “Your internet service provider. We run your installation.”
“Ah, of course. How can I help you?”
“There seems to be an enormous amount of traffic on your line at the moment. We were wondering what you were doing there, if you had some kind of virus problem.”
“No, no, we’re just having an open day. There are around fifty or sixty computers here. Nothing to worry about. The engineers told me the equipment could cope with a hundred at once.”
“These are ordinary computers?”
“As far as I can tell.” Father Johnson raised his eyebrows. This conversation was likely to get out of his depth very soon. “The parishioners brought them in.”
“Well, there are gigabytes coming down the line every second. Your connection isn’t designed to handle that kind of speed and we’re wondering how it can be happening. It’s causing some problems for us at this end.”
“Aha. Maybe that’s what’s causing our problems too. Some of our connections are messed up. Gibberish on the screens, that sort of thing.”
Another pause. “It may be best if you disconnect for now. We’ll get an engineer out as soon as possible.”
“Is that really necessary? We’d have to refund most of the money we’ve made, you see.”
“I’m afraid so.” Brian spoke to someone in the background. Father Johnson listened as the exchange became heated. Brian came back on the line. “There’s a fault of some kind, we can’t disconnect you from this end. The traffic is tying up our computers, and some of them have locked up. We can’t even restart them. You have to unplug your modem.”
“Right. How do I do that?”
Brian grunted. “Just pull the plug from the mains. Go to the installation we put in, find where it’s plugged in, and pull it out. We can’t check the line until we get our computers working again.”
“Okay.” This wasn’t going to be a good day after all. “I’ll see what I can do.” Father Johnson hung up. He stared at the phone, rubbing his lower lip between his teeth. If this idea failed, his church was doomed. While he considered his options, the door burst open and Eddie came in.
“Have you seen what’s on those screens?”
“Yes. A load of rubbish. I’ve just been speaking to the computer company. They want us to unplug our modem.”
“It’s not rubbish. It’s runes.” Eddie trembled as he spoke. “Something’s coming through all right. Something that shouldn’t be there.”
“Runes?” Father Johnson raised an eyebrow. The ancient stone in the graveyard was covered with runes. That must be why the text on the screen looked familiar. He had taken little notice of the stone in his years here, it was just a historical artefact. History was dead, surely. Something from the past could have no effect on modern technology. On an impulse, he stood and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Eddie followed him.
“I just want to look at something.” Outside, Father Johnson picked his way through the gravestones to where the monolith towered over them. The markings in its surface were, indeed, very similar to the tangled letters on the computer monitor. He turned to Eddie, whose jaw hung open.
“That’s what the screens are showing. The writing on this stone.” Eddie reached for the slab. He touched it with his fingertips, then withdrew his hand. “It’s hot.”
“Hot? In October?” Father Johnson brushed the monolith with his fingers. Searing heat made him close his fist. “This is silly. It’s just an old stone.”
Eddie ran back to the church. Father Johnson hurried as fast as his unfit body would let him. Breathing hard, he arrived in time to see Eddie pulling at the wooden panelling behind the altar. He stepped forward, into silence.
Even when empty, the old building managed to produce the odd creak or groan. Wind, even a small breeze, normally whispered through the gaps in the window frames. There was nothing. Father Johnson’s congregation stared at their computers. Nobody clicked a key. Nobody moved a mouse. Nobody coughed, scratched, sighed.
The women at the tea-and-cakes stalls stared at each other, at the silent congregation, at Father Johnson. It was Eddie who broke the silence.
“Father. How do I open this panel?”
Father Johnson hurried to join Eddie. With a deft shove and a twist, he pulled the panel free, lifting it to one side. Behind the panel, nestled among the pipework and wiring of the building, a silver box flashed green lights. A deep moan from behind made him drop the panel and surge upright.
The congregation moaned again, their voices in a perfect chorus. One note issued from each mouth, blended together in the air. Something, somewhere, tapped. Eyes open, their attention fixed on their screens, the people in the church produced a single tone, at the upper limit of human hearing. Father Johnson reeled and fell to his knees. The tapping grew more insistent. It came from everywhere at once. The women on the tea-stalls ran for the doors.
“I think I see where it’s fitted.” Eddie reached into the hole behind the panel. “If I can pull out this wire…”
The tapping was rain. It grew to a roar, battering the roof of the church in a wet drum-roll. Drips appeared at several points on the floor. A stream of water ran onto Eddie’s arm, trickling down his sleeve.
“For God’s sake, Eddie. Don’t worry about breaking the thing. Just yank all of the wires out.”
“I’ve got it. This must be the one.” Eddie grinned up at Father Johnson in the instant before the flash. There must have been a bang with that, Father Johnson thought, because his ears rang with a continuous pitch. He lay on his back, shaking his head. When he pulled himself into a sitting position, Eddie’s charcoal corpse grinned up at him.
Father Johnson lunged for the modem, but strong hands restrained him. Two men, their eyes glazed, smiled down at him, then pulled him to his feet. They pinned his arms to his sides and marched him to the people waiting in the church.
The man in the tired suit spoke.
“Father. We need you.” He moved a seat back from one of the tables. “Perhaps you’d better take a look at this.”
“Let me go.” Father Johnson slipped on the wet floor, but the men held him. He struggled and twisted, trying to break free of their grip, but they forced him into the seat. The bright red screen flickered, showing strange symbols in rapid succession. He closed his eyes.
“The old gods have come home, Father. We need a priest to guide us.” The voice whispered in his ear. “Open your eyes. Let them explain.”
“No.” The Lord’s Prayer came into Father Johnson’s mind. He started to say it aloud, but a hand clamped over his mouth. Fingers pressed into his eyes and lifted, pulling his eyelids open.
The symbols sank into his mind, awakening memories so old they were coded into his genes. Not his memories, but those of his forefathers. Memories from the dawn of Man. Father Johnson held his breath. The symbols changed at an increasing pace. To his eyes, the screen was a blur, yet his brain noted every line, every curve, every geometrical explanation as it was offered to him. Voices as old as time spoke in his head. He exhaled. The hands released him. The crowd took a step backwards.
Father Aaron Johnson rose from his seat and walked to the altar. He pushed Eddie’s smouldering remains to one side and faced his new congregation.
Behind him, a small silver box relayed an ancient message to the world. Today, everyone was listening.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
The Clegg Ultimatum.
Everyone else has it so... Nicky the Clegg wants to know which laws should be repealed. Personally I like Longrider's answer.
I can't get anywhere on that site. It runs like treacle in January. I did get to see the one manwiddicombe pointed out - the dozy bint who thinks that freedom means the freedom to round up smokers and gas them. She doesn't like them, so they must be eradicated.
War is peace.
Then there's the one who thinks smokers - and the obese - should have to pay for NHS treatment.
Ignorance is strength.
A clue for the clueless - we already have. We have no choice but to pay. If we are not to use the NHS then we should be able to opt out of National Insurance payments and we should not be paying tax on cigarettes either. Otherwise every one of you has to pay for personal indemnity insurance whether you need it or not. Well, I pay it so everyone should, right? Although those who don't run their own businesses should have to pay more if they want to make a claim. Fair? It is exactly the same. All in the name of freedom and equality.
Slavery is freedom.
That's the whole slogan represented in just two posts on one of Nicky's forums. If I can catch that site at a point where less than a million people are logged in at once, I'll take a look at some of the others.
If I was in the Westminster ivory tower, as out of touch with reality as most of those in there, I would be horrified to read the comments left by the antismokers on those threads. They are the ravings of Nazi Germany, the frenzied rantings of Soviet Pogroms, the wild-eyed madmen of Pol Pot's regime. There they are, on the screen, baying for the blood of their brothers and sisters and they want it still warm.
If I had never seen it before it would scare the crap out of me. That is what Labour have created, a Socialist baying mob of self-important, self-righteous Nazi supporters. Oh, sure, the Dreadful Arnott instigated it but Labour enacted the laws, Labour encouraged the persecution and Labour imposed the heavy hand of the State on dissenters. They even set up a 'Shop a Smoker' line so these wannabe Stasi could play informer. And they loved it, these small minded, perpetually offended, weak and worthless people. They had power over someone and they were keen to get on with abusing it. Now we have 'No Smoking' signs in churches and greengrocers and bus stops and anywhere with a lid on it and still it's not enough. Now these weasels in human-ish form complain that we are smoking outside! Where they forced us!
Well, I have seen it before. I'm a smoker. I see it every day. On every forum, on every street, outside every pub, nasty, spiteful, feeble people walk past smokers and fake coughs, they scream anonymously across the internet demanding 'freedom from other people's freedom'.
In their minds - what remains of their minds after 13 years of Labour - their only route to freedom is to curtail everyone else's. It makes sense in their indoctrinated, truncated thought processes. They cannot conceive of another side to that argument, even for a moment. They cannot allow smoking rooms indoors, they cannot imagine a compromise, they cannot allow a smoker's club, because they might want to go there one day. Nowhere can be off-limits to them, everywhere must be off-limits to us. That, in their twisted imaginings, is freedom.
Antismokers call us filth, they call us names which, if applied to any other group at all, would get them arrested. They call for violence and wish us a painful death, even though they have never met us and have not been even slightly inconvenienced by us at any time. They consider that to be perfectly acceptable behaviour. Oh, what lovely people they must be in real life. They are certainly approved of by the government who do nothing at all to curtail their behaviour.
What the Clegg has done here is not what he thinks. He thinks he'll get popular approval for his policies or at least enough to spin the 'popular approval' line.
What he has done is to set up a forum where the rabid antismokers can pour forth their bile and hate on a government website. Not on some obscure forum or backwater blog. Right there, in Parliament, where the government cannot ignore the sort of people they support with the ban. Where they can see what sort of people are happy with that ban. You know, the ones they mean when they say 'the smoking ban is pretty much accepted'.
Those Stasi, those hate-filled monsters, those vicious thugs, those gangs of raging maniacs, are the ones you support with the smoking ban, Clegg. They are your nasty little army of spiteful, selfish scum. Will you follow the Labour lead and turn them on the obese next? As you see, they've already started. Then drinkers, and I'm betting motorists are on the list. Will you have a 'hosepipe hotline' this summer, Clegg? These are the sort of people who would delight in selling your their neighbours, you know.
So, if the ban stays in place, then the government can be said to be happy to champion those sorts of people. Those are the sort of people, that is the sort of behaviour, the government wants to see. If the ban is broken, the government believe in choice and freedom. For everyone, not just for the most deranged. If it is not, the government want people to be vicious to each other.
If that's what they want, that's what they'll get.
Decision time, Clegg. This one is not going to quietly go away afterwards.
I can't get anywhere on that site. It runs like treacle in January. I did get to see the one manwiddicombe pointed out - the dozy bint who thinks that freedom means the freedom to round up smokers and gas them. She doesn't like them, so they must be eradicated.
War is peace.
Then there's the one who thinks smokers - and the obese - should have to pay for NHS treatment.
Ignorance is strength.
A clue for the clueless - we already have. We have no choice but to pay. If we are not to use the NHS then we should be able to opt out of National Insurance payments and we should not be paying tax on cigarettes either. Otherwise every one of you has to pay for personal indemnity insurance whether you need it or not. Well, I pay it so everyone should, right? Although those who don't run their own businesses should have to pay more if they want to make a claim. Fair? It is exactly the same. All in the name of freedom and equality.
Slavery is freedom.
That's the whole slogan represented in just two posts on one of Nicky's forums. If I can catch that site at a point where less than a million people are logged in at once, I'll take a look at some of the others.
If I was in the Westminster ivory tower, as out of touch with reality as most of those in there, I would be horrified to read the comments left by the antismokers on those threads. They are the ravings of Nazi Germany, the frenzied rantings of Soviet Pogroms, the wild-eyed madmen of Pol Pot's regime. There they are, on the screen, baying for the blood of their brothers and sisters and they want it still warm.
If I had never seen it before it would scare the crap out of me. That is what Labour have created, a Socialist baying mob of self-important, self-righteous Nazi supporters. Oh, sure, the Dreadful Arnott instigated it but Labour enacted the laws, Labour encouraged the persecution and Labour imposed the heavy hand of the State on dissenters. They even set up a 'Shop a Smoker' line so these wannabe Stasi could play informer. And they loved it, these small minded, perpetually offended, weak and worthless people. They had power over someone and they were keen to get on with abusing it. Now we have 'No Smoking' signs in churches and greengrocers and bus stops and anywhere with a lid on it and still it's not enough. Now these weasels in human-ish form complain that we are smoking outside! Where they forced us!
Well, I have seen it before. I'm a smoker. I see it every day. On every forum, on every street, outside every pub, nasty, spiteful, feeble people walk past smokers and fake coughs, they scream anonymously across the internet demanding 'freedom from other people's freedom'.
In their minds - what remains of their minds after 13 years of Labour - their only route to freedom is to curtail everyone else's. It makes sense in their indoctrinated, truncated thought processes. They cannot conceive of another side to that argument, even for a moment. They cannot allow smoking rooms indoors, they cannot imagine a compromise, they cannot allow a smoker's club, because they might want to go there one day. Nowhere can be off-limits to them, everywhere must be off-limits to us. That, in their twisted imaginings, is freedom.
Antismokers call us filth, they call us names which, if applied to any other group at all, would get them arrested. They call for violence and wish us a painful death, even though they have never met us and have not been even slightly inconvenienced by us at any time. They consider that to be perfectly acceptable behaviour. Oh, what lovely people they must be in real life. They are certainly approved of by the government who do nothing at all to curtail their behaviour.
What the Clegg has done here is not what he thinks. He thinks he'll get popular approval for his policies or at least enough to spin the 'popular approval' line.
What he has done is to set up a forum where the rabid antismokers can pour forth their bile and hate on a government website. Not on some obscure forum or backwater blog. Right there, in Parliament, where the government cannot ignore the sort of people they support with the ban. Where they can see what sort of people are happy with that ban. You know, the ones they mean when they say 'the smoking ban is pretty much accepted'.
Those Stasi, those hate-filled monsters, those vicious thugs, those gangs of raging maniacs, are the ones you support with the smoking ban, Clegg. They are your nasty little army of spiteful, selfish scum. Will you follow the Labour lead and turn them on the obese next? As you see, they've already started. Then drinkers, and I'm betting motorists are on the list. Will you have a 'hosepipe hotline' this summer, Clegg? These are the sort of people who would delight in selling your their neighbours, you know.
So, if the ban stays in place, then the government can be said to be happy to champion those sorts of people. Those are the sort of people, that is the sort of behaviour, the government wants to see. If the ban is broken, the government believe in choice and freedom. For everyone, not just for the most deranged. If it is not, the government want people to be vicious to each other.
If that's what they want, that's what they'll get.
Decision time, Clegg. This one is not going to quietly go away afterwards.
Keeping the fear going.
That's the Daily Mail's job, after all. If it wasn't for their daily blast of shock-horror, the country wouldn't have anywhere near enough cases of heart problems and high blood pressure to blame on smoking, drinking and the overweight.
They are getting desperate these days though. Now that they no longer have Labour producing four or five blasts of insanity every day, they're scraping the barrel for their stories.
One such is the story of Muslim children being allowed to drop out of music lessons because Islam, in some interpretations, forbids them learning an instrument. This is, apparently, a Terrible Thing.
I remember school music lessons. They were compulsory for two years and I couldn't drop that one fast enough. Oh, I like music, but it always sounds better when someone else is doing it. If we'd had the rule that Muslim children could be excused music lessons I'd have been turning up with the Quran tucked under my arm.
We had to learn to play a perforated wooden tube called a recorder. No drums, no guitar, none of those instruments played by the bands we liked. Instead we had to learn an instrument we'd never heard of and which really didn't fit into the heavy-rock mould at all. I'm sure, in the hands of an expert, it must sound very nice but all most of us ever managed to produce was a fair impression of an asthmatic owl hooting into a drainpipe.
You can only make a living at music if you're good at it. I'm not and never will be. That was evident long before I left the infants' school and there should have been a note on my file saying 'On no account allow this child to sing'. It would have saved later music teachers considerable anguish.
Joining the school choir was compulsory. I was ejected on the first day (I think it was the second or third note), along with a couple of others, in case our tunelessness infected the entire group. This was in Wales, remember, where they are serious about choirs. We still had to attend the music lessons. It was pointless, it was like forcing blind people to sit in front of a silent movie for an hour, and there was really only one reason for it.
All subjects were compulsory to start with. Art, history, Spanish, French, Latin, music, woodwork - everything. Including those subjects that we could demonstrate complete incompatibility with by the end of lesson one. Even at that early stage we had separate biology, physics and chemistry lessons, not this watered-down green-tinged nonsense known as 'science class'. I don't know why there is such resistance to teaching Creationism in 'science class' since most of the rest of it is now based on 'this is just so, now shut up and believe' anyway. Perhaps it's not apocalyptic enough for modern green science.
Everyone tried everything and then we could choose which ones we wanted to do in detail for O level. Most of us had a pretty certain idea of which subjects we wanted to do by the end of the first term. After that it was an endurance test.
If those early music classes had not been compulsory they would have been smaller - but they would have contained only those who were interested in learning about it. If those art classes had not been compulsory I might have been spared the wrath of the art teacher on more than one occasion. He could whack harder than the chemistry teacher, too.
Some things must be compulsory. Maths and English are skills nobody can get by without. Everyone needs at least a basic grasp of those. Art, music, sciences, don't need to be compulsory quite so much. If you plan to be a builder, you'll be well served by knowing about gravity, about the reactions that set cement, as well as arithmetic and geometry but you don't need to know how to mix colours. That's the decorator's job.
These Muslim children are unlikely to grow up to be musicians, not because they have no skill but because their religion forbids it. If they leave their religion (assuming they survive that) and find they have musical ability after all, then it's never too late to put a skill to use. In the meantime, the fact that some Muslim children aren't learning to play Wheezy the Owl on a little wooden pipe is not a big deal at all. If they were being kept out of maths or English lessons, the uproar would be justified but music? It's not limiting their future career choices by very much, is it? I mean, they're certain to be allowed to take home economics classes. Chemistry, too.
I'd say the uproar is more likely to come from the other kids in the class. "Why do we have to keep doing this if they don't have to?"
The poor hacks at the Mail will soon be reduced to bikini shots and speculation on the biology of Lady Gaga's reproductive organs. They're pretty much at that point already. Today's paper includes another 'Oh my God! A fox!' story. The fox didn't bite anyone, it was just... there. Foxes can thank their lucky stars they don't smoke because then they'd really be in trouble.
I blame the government, you know. Their new, not-completely-lunatic approach is a hell of a culture shock for the rest of us.
Still, it won't be long before they do something outstandingly stupid. They are politicians, after all.
Just hang in there, Mail reporters. There'll be some proper insanity along any time now.
They are getting desperate these days though. Now that they no longer have Labour producing four or five blasts of insanity every day, they're scraping the barrel for their stories.
One such is the story of Muslim children being allowed to drop out of music lessons because Islam, in some interpretations, forbids them learning an instrument. This is, apparently, a Terrible Thing.
I remember school music lessons. They were compulsory for two years and I couldn't drop that one fast enough. Oh, I like music, but it always sounds better when someone else is doing it. If we'd had the rule that Muslim children could be excused music lessons I'd have been turning up with the Quran tucked under my arm.
We had to learn to play a perforated wooden tube called a recorder. No drums, no guitar, none of those instruments played by the bands we liked. Instead we had to learn an instrument we'd never heard of and which really didn't fit into the heavy-rock mould at all. I'm sure, in the hands of an expert, it must sound very nice but all most of us ever managed to produce was a fair impression of an asthmatic owl hooting into a drainpipe.
You can only make a living at music if you're good at it. I'm not and never will be. That was evident long before I left the infants' school and there should have been a note on my file saying 'On no account allow this child to sing'. It would have saved later music teachers considerable anguish.
Joining the school choir was compulsory. I was ejected on the first day (I think it was the second or third note), along with a couple of others, in case our tunelessness infected the entire group. This was in Wales, remember, where they are serious about choirs. We still had to attend the music lessons. It was pointless, it was like forcing blind people to sit in front of a silent movie for an hour, and there was really only one reason for it.
All subjects were compulsory to start with. Art, history, Spanish, French, Latin, music, woodwork - everything. Including those subjects that we could demonstrate complete incompatibility with by the end of lesson one. Even at that early stage we had separate biology, physics and chemistry lessons, not this watered-down green-tinged nonsense known as 'science class'. I don't know why there is such resistance to teaching Creationism in 'science class' since most of the rest of it is now based on 'this is just so, now shut up and believe' anyway. Perhaps it's not apocalyptic enough for modern green science.
Everyone tried everything and then we could choose which ones we wanted to do in detail for O level. Most of us had a pretty certain idea of which subjects we wanted to do by the end of the first term. After that it was an endurance test.
If those early music classes had not been compulsory they would have been smaller - but they would have contained only those who were interested in learning about it. If those art classes had not been compulsory I might have been spared the wrath of the art teacher on more than one occasion. He could whack harder than the chemistry teacher, too.
Some things must be compulsory. Maths and English are skills nobody can get by without. Everyone needs at least a basic grasp of those. Art, music, sciences, don't need to be compulsory quite so much. If you plan to be a builder, you'll be well served by knowing about gravity, about the reactions that set cement, as well as arithmetic and geometry but you don't need to know how to mix colours. That's the decorator's job.
These Muslim children are unlikely to grow up to be musicians, not because they have no skill but because their religion forbids it. If they leave their religion (assuming they survive that) and find they have musical ability after all, then it's never too late to put a skill to use. In the meantime, the fact that some Muslim children aren't learning to play Wheezy the Owl on a little wooden pipe is not a big deal at all. If they were being kept out of maths or English lessons, the uproar would be justified but music? It's not limiting their future career choices by very much, is it? I mean, they're certain to be allowed to take home economics classes. Chemistry, too.
I'd say the uproar is more likely to come from the other kids in the class. "Why do we have to keep doing this if they don't have to?"
The poor hacks at the Mail will soon be reduced to bikini shots and speculation on the biology of Lady Gaga's reproductive organs. They're pretty much at that point already. Today's paper includes another 'Oh my God! A fox!' story. The fox didn't bite anyone, it was just... there. Foxes can thank their lucky stars they don't smoke because then they'd really be in trouble.
I blame the government, you know. Their new, not-completely-lunatic approach is a hell of a culture shock for the rest of us.
Still, it won't be long before they do something outstandingly stupid. They are politicians, after all.
Just hang in there, Mail reporters. There'll be some proper insanity along any time now.
Entertainment time 3.
I spent too much time chasing the virus to get properly worked up this evening/night/morning.
So instead of a rant, here are some short ones that were published, in all their primitive embarrassment.
To start with, one that was in Quietus volume 1, issue 2, (http://www.quietusmag.com/) in October 2003.
Facing Eternity
Nigel sat at the remains of his desk, idly twirling the paper-knife in the fingers of his left hand. With a swift motion he grasped it and thrust it through the palm of his right hand. His head pressed the high back of the chair as his body stiffened against the pain, his teeth clamped shut to avoid biting the end of his tongue. With a gasp, he forced his body to relax and looked at his shaking right hand.
Bright red life oozed from both sides, running along the blade and handle of the knife and forming crimson lines along his wrist. His face set into a grimace as he quickly pulled the blade free, then he sat sobbing as he watched the wound close, the flow trickle to a stop. As the last traces of his self-inflicted injury faded, he roughly wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. Standing, he walked to the shattered window, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wrinkled, filthy sleeve.
It had been his invention, his own work. Why should he share it? If he had told his supervisors they would simply have taken his idea and left him behind, alone and forgotten. He couldn't let that happen. He had decided to keep his success secret until he could announce his invention himself. He would wait until the time was right.
He had tested his invention on himself, of course. Nigel recalled that day, months ago, when he had injected his microscopic robots into his veins. He remembered that first thrill as they set to work. His chest pains had vanished as his heart was healed. He had discarded his spectacles as his vision was restored. The arthritic ache in his shoulder simply disappeared. What an invention! He would be famous, or would have been.
Nigel felt tears returning to his eyes as he surveyed the desolation of the city. Four days ago - maybe more, Nigel wasn't sure - nuclear Armageddon had arrived and everyone had left in a flash of radiation. Nigel could recall the pain as the wave of gamma-rays had followed the edge of the blast through his beautiful suburban house. His carefully tended garden had turned into a desert of brown, twisted stalks, although still in their perfectly ordered rows in the sterile soil.
He watched as the bulging wall of a distant building suddenly gave way, showering bricks and mortar onto the dust-obscured street below. The sound traversed the distance easily, unhindered in the silence of this dead world.
The flash had killed him, but it hadn't killed his robots. He had no idea how long it had taken them, but they had repaired him. They had brought him back to life. He had invented more than just a medical dream. He had invented immortality.
If only he had told someone else.
___
Finally, a bit of unseasonal Christmas cheer. This one had to be exactly 69 words for a real-print magazine called NFG (Canadian, eh?), issue 5 volume 2, 2005. It was called 'Santa's Claws'.
Harry smoothed his Santa suit and climbed the ladder. He loved Christmas Eve.
He tapped on the window until the curtain opened and a small face appeared.
Ruffling his beard with one hand, he watched delight bloom in the child's eyes, then he scowled and pointed a finger.
"You're getting nothing," he said, laughing at the tears as he descended the ladder and moved it to the next house.
I think I fixed the virus. if I did, it won't be there tomorrow...
Oh, and I like to think my writing has improved since those old ones. Whether it has or not, I like to think it.
So instead of a rant, here are some short ones that were published, in all their primitive embarrassment.
To start with, one that was in Quietus volume 1, issue 2, (http://www.quietusmag.com/) in October 2003.
Facing Eternity
Nigel sat at the remains of his desk, idly twirling the paper-knife in the fingers of his left hand. With a swift motion he grasped it and thrust it through the palm of his right hand. His head pressed the high back of the chair as his body stiffened against the pain, his teeth clamped shut to avoid biting the end of his tongue. With a gasp, he forced his body to relax and looked at his shaking right hand.
Bright red life oozed from both sides, running along the blade and handle of the knife and forming crimson lines along his wrist. His face set into a grimace as he quickly pulled the blade free, then he sat sobbing as he watched the wound close, the flow trickle to a stop. As the last traces of his self-inflicted injury faded, he roughly wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. Standing, he walked to the shattered window, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wrinkled, filthy sleeve.
It had been his invention, his own work. Why should he share it? If he had told his supervisors they would simply have taken his idea and left him behind, alone and forgotten. He couldn't let that happen. He had decided to keep his success secret until he could announce his invention himself. He would wait until the time was right.
He had tested his invention on himself, of course. Nigel recalled that day, months ago, when he had injected his microscopic robots into his veins. He remembered that first thrill as they set to work. His chest pains had vanished as his heart was healed. He had discarded his spectacles as his vision was restored. The arthritic ache in his shoulder simply disappeared. What an invention! He would be famous, or would have been.
Nigel felt tears returning to his eyes as he surveyed the desolation of the city. Four days ago - maybe more, Nigel wasn't sure - nuclear Armageddon had arrived and everyone had left in a flash of radiation. Nigel could recall the pain as the wave of gamma-rays had followed the edge of the blast through his beautiful suburban house. His carefully tended garden had turned into a desert of brown, twisted stalks, although still in their perfectly ordered rows in the sterile soil.
He watched as the bulging wall of a distant building suddenly gave way, showering bricks and mortar onto the dust-obscured street below. The sound traversed the distance easily, unhindered in the silence of this dead world.
The flash had killed him, but it hadn't killed his robots. He had no idea how long it had taken them, but they had repaired him. They had brought him back to life. He had invented more than just a medical dream. He had invented immortality.
If only he had told someone else.
___
Finally, a bit of unseasonal Christmas cheer. This one had to be exactly 69 words for a real-print magazine called NFG (Canadian, eh?), issue 5 volume 2, 2005. It was called 'Santa's Claws'.
Harry smoothed his Santa suit and climbed the ladder. He loved Christmas Eve.
He tapped on the window until the curtain opened and a small face appeared.
Ruffling his beard with one hand, he watched delight bloom in the child's eyes, then he scowled and pointed a finger.
"You're getting nothing," he said, laughing at the tears as he descended the ladder and moved it to the next house.
I think I fixed the virus. if I did, it won't be there tomorrow...
Oh, and I like to think my writing has improved since those old ones. Whether it has or not, I like to think it.
Infected.
I picked up a virus while browsing blogs. Since I have several open at once it's hard to be sure which one was hacked. Oddly enough, I was browsing with Firefox but it's broken Internet Explorer.
This one pretends to be antivirus software and won't let you open programs or link to sites other than the adult/viagra ones it sends you to, or to its own 'buy our shit' page.
If you get it, open in safe mode (F8 for XP, press it after the computer signs in and before Windows comes up) then search the registry for AV listings you don't recognise. Delete them. If you mess up and have to reinstall, well there's a good chance I'll still have to do that anyway because I'm not sure I've picked out all the bits of this thing.
My own antivirus is working once more and is now scanning every single file. Fortunately I have a backup so I haven't lost much of anything, even if I have to wipe the disk and start again.
So no babbling from me tonight. I'm far too annoyed for a rant.
If I ever find out who put this computer virus out, I have some real life infections I'd like to introduce them to.
Update - the IE problem is fixed. They'd made it run through their own poxy server.
So the infection lasted less than six hours. Pathetic.
I can do so much better than that, should I ever meet this git.
This one pretends to be antivirus software and won't let you open programs or link to sites other than the adult/viagra ones it sends you to, or to its own 'buy our shit' page.
If you get it, open in safe mode (F8 for XP, press it after the computer signs in and before Windows comes up) then search the registry for AV listings you don't recognise. Delete them. If you mess up and have to reinstall, well there's a good chance I'll still have to do that anyway because I'm not sure I've picked out all the bits of this thing.
My own antivirus is working once more and is now scanning every single file. Fortunately I have a backup so I haven't lost much of anything, even if I have to wipe the disk and start again.
So no babbling from me tonight. I'm far too annoyed for a rant.
If I ever find out who put this computer virus out, I have some real life infections I'd like to introduce them to.
Update - the IE problem is fixed. They'd made it run through their own poxy server.
So the infection lasted less than six hours. Pathetic.
I can do so much better than that, should I ever meet this git.
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