An occasional post serving the dual purpose of sharing some of the darker corners of wibblyverse and to act as padding until I can be bothered to write something interesting. Yes I know you’ve been waiting a long time. No it’s unlikely to be anytime soon.

Firstly something good from those whose corporate philosophy is either “don’t be evil” or “Capitalism and Capitulation” – I can never remember. The Pedometer builds on their mapping to provide a nifty tool for calculating routes and distances anywhere in the UK. I nicked it off a Cycling Plus thread where it had gone Nova and everybody was sharing their route with nobody who cared. For me the joy of finding my computer under-reads by 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} instantly upgraded my cake intake by the same amount.

Now something not quite so good – Car Crash InternetVision. Possibly the dullest man in the world resides here. A rather unbecoming mix of hocum management maxims represented through the medium of sports, and righteously anal offerings on snow shovelling and how to pack your wallet. It’s either very very subtly ironic and self parodying or it’s pretentious nonsense. Since he’s a wannabe sci-fi writer, my money’s on the latter.

By the power of dull, I invested further time in winkling out sites with far more content than hits.

• London Road Signs
• Amazingly another site dedicated to road signs and junctions
• The unmissable world of concrete
• Boring postcards what I have collected
• And the incomparable Sand Lovers collection site

Take time to browse in these chambers of horror; you can learn stuff. Did you – for example – know that a sand collector is actually called am arenophile. Well it sounds close to what I thought one might be called.

All these and more are available at the dullman site where you can lose hours of time better spent doing almost anything in slack jawed amazement at the vast array of special interest and no interest at all groups. I know Mountain Biking can be a bit obsessional and geeky but we’re not even on the radar of a bloke measuring grass length.

I don’t want to judge but let me say this; in the bad old days there was only so much damage you could do with a slide projector and open toed sandals. The Intenet has changed all that. And maybe not in a good way 😉

Stolen from the BBC website. An Ig-Nobel is defined: “The Ig Nobels – the guiding principle of which is to reward research which makes people laugh and then think – celebrate the unsung highlights of academic research” says Mr Abrahams.

He continues: “There are 10,000 academic journals out there which publish original research and which are mostly ignored by everyone except those who wrote them”

This year’s winners include papers revealing in depth information on:

• Salmonella Excretion in Joy-Riding Pigs
• The Effects of Unilateral Forced Nostril Breathing on Cognition
• An Analysis of the Forces Required to Drag Sheep Over Various Surfaces.

And my personal favourite:

• The Effect of Country Music on Suicide

This is clearly research money well spent. A further quote caught my eye:

“Every prize winner has a story worth telling but they wouldn’t get that attention from anyone were it not for these,” he says. He draws on the example of John Trinkhaus, an octogenarian Ig Nobel winner who had rigorously written more than 80 detailed academic reports about things that annoyed him”

So essentially an Ig Nobel is a prize for scientific blogging. It appears my stuff meets all the criteria of uninteresting, unread nonsense so I should be a shoe in for an award.

Ace. The last award I won was a bronze swimming certificate. My mum is going to be proud.

I promise I am not making this up – from the venerable BBC no less.

Just fantastic 🙂

I can offer impeccable working class credentials; an outside toilet, hand-me-down everything and a spider infested coal cellar. But for incontrovertible class warrior providence, look no further than my strictly limited eating out opportunities.

Pub lunches were a much vaunted occasional luxury and the main dish was always served in a wicker basket sometimes garnished with the Chef’s discarded fag end.

But hey that’s fine. I’m not in therapy or anything. Well not for that anyway. But it did leave me a little undercooked when faced with proper big city restaurants. The first time Scampi – having escaped the deep fat friar – aggressively wiggled it’s proboscis at me, I didn’t know whether to fight it, fuck it, eat it or run away screaming It’s alive¦.”

So the whole car keys in a basket swinger scene kind of passed me by. I’d always assumed it was either an extravagant tip or some kind of executive valet service.

It is fascinating though. I can easily picture myself selecting the keys of some unfulfilled petrolhead fantasy. None of those awkward silence for me; oh no I’d be straight in with so the Audit Quattro 2.8 V6 with the leather interior “ how does it handle on those swoopy ˜b’ Roads?”

Not wishing to be parted from this fantasy, I’d include the keys in a three in the bed scenario and attempt to sequence the main event with the flashing of the remote locking. It’d be like Jean Michelle Jarre’s electronic harp. Only possibly slightly more cheesy. Vorch Sprung Technik Baby!

Lights on, off, on, on, on, oh yes on, (pause, remove pants), offffffff, on, off, onnnnnnnnnnn,off,on,off,on,offfffff (sorry about the elbow), on, on, on and then it’d all go Fibonacci strobe off on off on off on off onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn and ˜lock’

If we could remotely fire up a blast of Aretha Franklin on the 6 speaker stereo, then that’d be about as classy as you could hope for.

And then wouldn’t it be great if the entire swinging party took the same approach? That’d guarantee an audience and possibly a police presence. Pre-dogging dogging perhaps?

I’d love to write some more but Google has offered some fascinating opportunities that’ll need some frantic Ebaying for chest wigs and medallions for me to fulfil

This seemed a lot more amusing when it was composed. There are two likely, and possibly, interlinked reasons for this. First up is the pub based context in which it originated roared on by quite a few people having already had quite a few beers. The second is trainwritingâ„¢ which reduces transcription to something akin to a inky spider with broken legs perambulating sideways across the page before entering some kind of operatic death sprawl.

It’s frankly incredible the words form actually sentences. Oh. I see. Right. Thanks for letting me down gently.

I have no problem with direct taxation. No really it satisifies my wishy washy liberal thinking.

The goal is wealth distribution between rich and poor. And a laudable goal that is. In my experience that’s all it is with the rich paying accountants to get richer and the poor getting screwed by the evil of indirect taxation. And what’s left is spunked away with such grandiose incompetence it takes your breath away. According to a friend of mine, we’ve doubled the spend in the NHS within the last 8 years. Is it just me thinking well where the fuck did all the money go then?”

And after direct taxation, we get national insurance and then council tax. And then Car Tax, Airport Tax, VAT (originally a post war tax to boost regeneration capped at ten years), tax on Fuel, tax on books, etc.

The fuckers get you coming and going. And yet as minority shareholders in this incompetent monolithic organisation, we have no vote or right of reply. Oh sure, every four years there is beauty parade that parodies an enterprise AGM, but it leaves me cold and disenfranchised. With less than 40{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} turnout, we’re our own worst enemy but nowhere on the ballot paper does it say “none of them, I’d like a beneveolent dictatorship”

Your vote is essentially worthless and even if a change of talking heads appears to offer representation, this is merely a honeymoon period where talk is cheap and taxes continue to be expensive and misused.

I remember why I don’t do politics. I can get enough of this impotency feeling at work.

This morning, I have suffered the greatest affront to democracy since the traitorous Stanley’s switched sides at the battle of Bosworth Moor. Some direct descendent of that false King, Henry VII, has performed an underhand trouserectemy in the lockers.

The usurper has only gone and moved my kit from a locker that is forever England and exciled it to some lawless region that for the sake of this metaphor can be thought of as Bolton. Now there’s an unwritten law for locker-space where newcomers fit in where they can and respect the heirachy of those of us who came before. Yet this full blooded Lancastrians’ approach has the appearance of ethnic cleansing with all his (and it has to be said rather nasty pink shirt and brown shoes) stuff anchored against a prized wall while my belongings have been banished far and wide.

This will not stand. There are battles worth fighting and battles worth running away before re-writing history to your advantage. So this is where the shifting sands of personal space stop shifting. To this end, I’m prepared to upgrade this minor border skirmish to total war including the use of archers and siege weapons. I’ve re-established the correct front line garrisoning my clothes with a damp towel. His stuff has been roughly re-housed squeezed between other locker users moist smalls. Stretching the metaphor yet further, while my trousers are enjoying an elevated view of the Vale of York, his garments are treading water in the Wigan outfall.

For his sake, this had better be the end of it. Otherwise the changing room will split down regional lines and inevitably an all out conflict will ensue. Except, I expect the southern softies shall mince around in their Calvin Klein underwear whining oh no don’t hurt each other, I’m sure we can resolve this by talking”. Like hell we can. It may have been 550 years since Richard III was wrongfully deposed but that’s a mere chronological bagatelle to a card carrying Yorkshireman. There’s unfinished business and after this outrageous slur to my personal space, I’m the man to finish it! He’s thrown down the gauntlet and I’ll be picking it up to both accept his challenge and give him a good slapping.

For those unknowing of the Vietnam of the middle ages”, I can recommend the tragically impartial War Of The Roses site. Others prefering a somewhat more partisan summary of that conflict, let me offer up the line taken by my History teacher back in Yorkshire: It was a lucky draw and we didn’t want the throne anyway. Plus those cheating b@stards ended up with Manchester so that’s all right then“

In other news I’ve been offered a Full-on Tax Simulation from our payroll department which has the hallmarks of a low budget porn movie. Probably worth attending then.

Behold! The pant crisis is over. Probably.

Look I know that the trials and tribulations of a family forlornly wandering in the land of stinky laundry isn’t terribly interesting, but I’ve paid good money for this bandwidth. And I’ve spared you any photographic evidence for which you should be profoundly grateful.

You can tell this washing machine is German. It has absolutely no truck with the argument form over function”. It is essentially three mechanical generations downstream of a Tiger Tank. Already the other appliances are twitching nervously “ I expect them to be whipped into shape within a fortnight. None of this lounging about, working when they can be arsed or randomly displaying smug red warning lights. Oh no, soon the toaster will be doubling up as a microwave and the tumble dryer as loft insulation or some such thing. I fear for the kettle as the water filter is already wiring itself into a plug socket.

Clearly a detailed and thorough plan has been hatched to annexe the remainder of the kitchen before moving on to other rooms in the house. The machine has a certain fanatical bearing around the chromed drum and an expansionist bent to the simple programming switches.

My wife is diligently following the “ very precise “ installation instruction whereas I’m lurking around the box hunting for the turret attachment.

I’m getting flashbacks to electric dreams

No Germans were needlessly offended during the making of this post 🙂

Update: Installing it was not without complications. I usurped the missus in the installation position” as the manual was want to call it, and only just resisted the urge to out the tool belt and fire up the power tools.

Here are some practical tips for any would be washing machine installers out there:

1. Install drainage cable before inserting washing machine. Failure to do so will involve removing both washing machine from its’ orifice and skin from fingers.

2. As tip#1 but this time for cold water feed.

3. Removing a washing machine from a very tight kitchen fitting is analogous to a 3000 point turn. Do not try to rush it. Once you’ve done it twice it gets easier.

4. Pushing in the machine on a wooden floor whilst wearing socks invokes Newton’s laws of motion. The machine doesn’t move while you end up on the horizontal, gamely hanging onto the worktop before sliding gracelessly down – face first – onto the floor. Pretending you meant to is a key part of an anti humiliation strategy.

5. The Freeride gut and extreme grunting are the fro washing machine installation option. Yeah I just hucked off the worktop, rode the skinny down to bevel height and then, calm as you like, knocked out a thrucking manouevre” to get the bastard aligned

6. Do not keep doing German jokes. You better half gets bored and the machine seems to have spawned a new setting to go with Rinse/Spin/Final. It’s Attack“

Still when it did slot home, I couldn’t help but think Battle of the Bulge”

I’ll stop now. I promise. Especially if someone firebombs the Manchester Inland Revenue office. It’d be an act of mercy compared to what I’m considering 😉

… the other one snatches away. Last months pay slip was somewhat skewed in favour of the taxman (remember it’s not the Government’s money when they’re funding war by ego, it’s our bloody money robbed via the means of direct taxation). Actually think of it as a financial mugging which rapidly arrested the development of a tidy little upgrade project planned for one of the bikes. Not actually required of course, rather another tweak in the endless/pointless (delete as applicable) search for component perfection.

On enquiring why the Inland Revenue can rape and pillage my wage packet at will, the response was both complex and barely understandable by a man to whom anything beyond log tables requires the use of an accountant. However said accountant summarised it thus: Because they can, mmmwaaaahhhhhh”. That little financial snippet cost me an additional thirty quid.

As each delivery van roars down the road, removing at source the problem of dog-shit by mowing over the odd dim witted turd producer, hope briefly rises that the great pant crisis” is close to being over. But no, here we are at lunchtime “ hope crushed “ with only the smell of canine roadkill to keep me company. It’s cheering me up but has yet to out-stink the pile of smouldering washing.

So far today, it’s been all demand and very little supply. The only sign of the many and varied products recently ordered has been their descriptions in the debit columns on the credit card statement. What a great business model: pay now, possibly deliver in your lifetime. And then only between 8am and 6pm on any day except a weekend or if the van has broken down, or when the shit hot logistics system has accidentally shipped you a dolphin rather than a washing machine. Easy mistake to make eh?

Assuming you can ever get past the cry to barely restrained violence that is your call is important to us, all of our agents are responding to other customer needs”, your reward is a cacophony of pealing laughter, when enquiring if it’s possible to reserve a slightly less ambiguous delivery slot.

I’m expecting the Milkman to pop round, in a minute, demanding money with menaces to the value of a couple of grand. And we don’t even buy milk off the Milkman but living in the world of less service for more money, don’t even think about arguing. Not unless you want to spend some quality time held in a call queue suffering endless Music to slash your wrists by” arranged for Children’s xylophone.

Anyone had any experience of shelf stacking? Or failing that, what’s the minimum age you can realistically send the kids up a chimney?

Our washing machine has finally expired. It passed away noisily after a terminal illness brought on by repeated abuse from my mouldy cycling kit. In this world of throwaway commodity, repairing it was both undesirable and highly unlikely. Even if we could still locate a balding overall’d bloke further defined by tuneless whistling and sporting a stubby pencil behind a grubby ear, he’d have taken one look at the ruined bearings, pointed accusingly to my innocent person and declared your husband? He’s fecked it”.

Obviously in this Internet age, we were spared the slack jawed base grunt and multiple pearcings of a high street sales assistant. Instead our trawling of the world wide wibbly resulted in a net full of complex variants each proclaiming to offer some USP or at least a nifty start button. Further delving rendered these choices irrelevant as all the brands are made by a single factory in Taiwan. Except the German ones which I was keen to reject on the grounds they may feel the urge to invade Czechoslovakia.

Eventually as with all these things and regardless of the selection process, we bought the most expensive one.£550. Five Hundred. And. Fifty. Pounds. For a drum, a few lights and a hole for water. I was aghast until it was cruelly pointed out that once I’d spent more on a set of forks.

For that much money, I assume it has a some kind of cosmic interface that connects it directly to the laundry basket. Continuing that theme, I’ll be mightily disappointed if a small robotic arm doesn’t winch itself out of the drum and collect the kids discarded and dirty clothing from around the house. Apparently the myriad of programmable settings – although I was disappointed not to find the “locate sock” one – requires more processing power than the space shuttle. I’m not sure I feel entirely comfortable with that fact but it’s certainly shifted any career aspirations away from astronautics

According to the “ and I’m quoting directly here “ up to the minute logistically enhanced stock control system”, one of these beomoths could be delivered at the weekend for an additional£20. Seemed like a small price to pay for laundered smalls come Monday morning, but no in fact the system was representing a stock state last updated during the Vietnam war. We are anxiously (and I do not use that word lightly, I am pant counting as I type) awaiting a new delivery date having so far received nothing other than an electronic version of the sharp intake of breadth.

Remind me “ is the secret of single pant longevity to turn them every day or to air them during my lunch hour? If it’s the latter, the whole property strategy of open plan offices could be thrown into disarray.

Maybe it’s my quasi-liberal bent but I can’t help noticing that the best freebies go to those who can most afford to pay full price.

In February, I accepted an invitation for a “corp-hosp”(sic) day at the rugby. From the moment I arrived until my drunken exit some eight hours later, my wallet remained firmly in my pocket while my nose was stuffed deeply in the trough.

Firstly, pretty girls in short skirts express transparently exaggerated delight that you’ve deigned to honour them with your august presence. Then you circulate amongst social climbers and crocodiles thinly disguised as sales directors. “Oh come and meet so and so, he’s right up the arse of the chief executive at BP” they say and those whose noses spend as much time in the brown as in the trough gleefully explain “I’ve been to twenty England matches and never had to pay, not bad eh old chap? Marvellous isn’t it”

No it bloody isn’t.

At£600 a ticket, I’d like to say it’s killing sport for the common man; the problem with that statement is it is clearly bollocks. The success of the team sees every ticket sold twice (mainly by rugby clubs who use it to fund initiatives such as youth rugby which somewhat deflates my argument) and the small percentage of us frauds troughing it up probably makes little or no difference.

So why do I feel so bad? It’s either pretentious introspection or half forgotten student socialism. I’m really not sure but the majority of my besuited sheep at the trough would fail the no.1 rule of “Life is too short to drink with arseholes”. Obviously I’m far too craven to say so instead satisfying myself with a working class smirk.

After drinks and a four course lunch, in what is essentially a tented double glazing showroom with outside toilets, we perambulate unsteadily towards our seats where reality bites. I’m sat next to a couple of passionate Welshman who’ve spent a good chunk of their own cash to watch their team get stuffed. They are -by degrees -macabrely amusing, incisive and gracious in defeat. Representing the English I’m proud to offer up patronisingly magnanimous, slurringly misinformed and pissed.

We retire victorious to the (free) bar back at double glazing central, for yet more drinks, deep mined bullshit and the odd comment on 80 minutes of barely sanitised violence. I may not approve on a moral level but a healthy dose of hypocrisy sees me nose down in the beer trough only occasionally surfacing for air.

There’s some desultory selling -which is of course the point of these things -but they are not really trying and that’s fine as we’re not buying. Man, we barely retain the power of speech by this time. If someone had given me something to sign, we’d probably own a thousand timeshares by now.

But I’m done with it. I know that even if it’s not me, then someone else will be filling my place. Yet by ascending to the moral high ground at least I’ll feel better while actually achieving feck all. So that’s alright then.

Well when I say I’m done with it, that actually means until the next time. But I’ll console myself that my attendance is contextualised in a post modern ironic framework. I’m a bit worried that no one will notice.

Today I’ve set my moral compass to “idealistically arsy”