Grrr! I know!

I've just been completely patronised.

I was showing a work colleague an amusing vicious circle on Facebook running on Firefox. Basically, when I visited someone's profile, they had some sort of rubbish application installed which required my Flash player to be updated. A pop-up appeared informing me that I needed to download the latest version of Flash player in order to continue. I clicked "YES" upon which I was informed that in order to continue with the update I needed to CLOSE FIREFOX. Closing Firefox will mean I'm not downloading any updates, won't it. Clever pop-up.

Anyway, in showing this stupid situation to my work colleague, hoping for a laugh, Firefox decided to STOP RESPONDING. I hit ctrl-alt-delete to get to the Task Manager to forcibly close it myself. There were 5 instances of Firefox open. I was too lazy to click PROCESSES, so instead clicked each instance one by one and closed them down manually myself. My work colleague said, "Hey you know there is a tab called processes - you probably wouldn't know about it - here let me show you, if you click this, then sort alphabetically, you can close the program this way."

Er hello, of course I know about processes. I also know that if you sort it by MEMORY you can close all the programs which are causing your computer to hang and STOP RESPONDING, thus freeing more memory for the other struggling applications. DUH.

I've been using computers since 1984. I am in a bad mood now.

There's no place like 127.0.0.1

Both Worlds, Gibraltar

Over the years I've lived in quite a few places. I was born and grew up in Plymouth, then moved to Gibraltar when I was 11, then had a spell in uni, then moved out and got the first in a series of my own rented flats, then I bought my own flat, and then I sold it to move back to England where I once more joined the slew of renters. I've also worked out that in my life I've owned ten beds. When you travel for 40 minutes on a tube, it gives you time to think about these random things.


I've had more beds than this

This is a quick rundown of the places I've lived.

Age 0 - 11 / Semi-detached house / Plymouth

I loved this house. Looking back I don't suppose it was anything special, but for me it was the definition of "home". Growing up here my brother and I spent most of our time on the Commodore Plus/4 or out in the streets on our bikes. We used to taunt "the bullies" at the end of our street (who were probably only 13 years old but seemed like scary grownups to us), push eachother about in trolleys in the Asda carpark on Sundays (in the 80s, shops used to close on Sundays and trolleys were not chained up), and hang about in our various dens built in or around trees in the area. Then our parents made us move to Gibraltar against our will.

Age 11 - 19 / Parents' Flat / Gibraltar

There are no houses in Gibraltar. Everyone lives in flats unless they are extremely rich, as there is not much land to build on, so building happens in an upwards fashion. It was ok being a teenager here, even though I complained initially about not living in England anymore and missing out on everything that was going on back home. In Gibraltar the social life was different, the TV was mostly Spanish TV (until we got Sky hooked up) and the music on the radio was terrible. Culture shock. Anyway, we got an Atari STE and that shut me up for a few years while I became a geek. In between playing Gauntlet and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on the STE, we also got a Sega Mega Drive on which I spent a couple of summers playing Sonic and Sonic II indoors. (Also Micro Machines and Double Dragon) Summer in Gibraltar is terribly hot, and the whole populace descends on the 3/4 beaches. You can't swing a cat, and if you try you get sunburnt in about 2 minutes. So I stayed indoors and moped.

Age 19-20 / Uni / Bath

Finally moved out of parents house for a year. Got back into some sort of decent social life, which at that time was full of Britpop and the Prodigy. Made loads of friends and never wanted to go back to Gibraltar ever again. However the course just wasn't for me so I had to go back to start working as a web designer for their first ISP, Gibnet.

Age 20-24 / Rented flats / Gibraltar

In the 90s there were not many places you could rent in Gibraltar. There are simply too many people there and not enough space. I think at this time there were only 2 buildings you could rent in, Ocean Heights (in the City centre) or Both Worlds (on the beach). I chose the beach. I rented 2 flats in Both Worlds, and loved them all. I kept moving just to upgrade to bigger ones. They all had balconies facing the sea and were small but brilliant. I never regret moving to Both Worlds. Finally the landlord sold the building, it was refurbished (as I lived in it... which was not fun) and then people could buy them. So I bought one.

Age 24-29 / My flat / Gibraltar

My flat ruled. I've got pictures but I don't want to post them as it upsets me. I hated Gibraltar so much by this point, the only good thing about it was my flat. If I could have picked it up and dropped it somewhere on the beach in England that would have been perfect. As it was it was a 1 bedroom flat with a massive balcony, on the end of a corridor so nobody else had any reason to walk past my property. As soon as I noticed this I put up a big iron gate - which the landlord's lawyers (ugh.. flat in Gibraltar are all leasehold for some reason) tried to argue with me about, but I ignored them. It's great having your own flat. You can paint it any colours you want. I painted my dining room purple. Including the ceiling. I hope the new owners had fun trying to paint that back to magnolia.

Age 29-Present / Rented flats / London

Gibraltar nearly drove me mad so I moved to London. Everyone said I wouldn't be able to do it, like jealous people tend to do to try and put you off things they don't have the guts to do themselves. So I just did it. I even flew my cats over. They love it here. Lived in a really nice place in Wapping, unfortunately it was only a 6 month lease so I had to move to a temporary place in Walthamstow which was hands down the worst house I have ever lived in. Met my current flatmate there, and we've since moved to Camden (which was so cool but the landlord was an unprintable word) and now we live in Willesden in the most amazing and massive flat, with our own bathrooms. One thing I have learned is never to share a flat with BOYS because all they do is pee on the floor and leave hairs in the bath.

And now I suppose I might do some work instead of blogging halfheartedly.

Blogger Mortis

What happens when you die? I don't mean what will become of your body and possessions, how many people will turn up to your funeral (probably nobody), or who will get all your money (what money?.

Every day you log in to dozens of websites, many with different logins, emails and passwords. You remember these details just because. There's no need to write down what you've known for years. Also, it's bad internet form to have a hard copy of your logins and passwords as it's a security risk. So when you die, how will anyone else be able to access your blog/myspace/facebook/MUD/Warcraft/ebay/lotto account to let everyone else know of your untimely demise?

Also, when you die does this mean someone else will go through your laptop(s)/computer(s) and trawl through all your private stuff? Think about it.

If someone has the answer, please feel free to post it in my comments.

OMG STFU PLS FFS THX

As I write this entry I can hear a hammer hitting a steel girder from the office above ours, three customer service agents talking on the phone at a normal level, one customer service agent talking on the phone at an unnecessarily loud and belligerent level, a lot of fingers hitting a lot of keys, and the superfluous, tinny, yet overwhelmingly distracting overtones of my closest colleague's choice of death metal emanating from his vastly expensive yet utterly useless sound-isolating headphones.

I cannot even hear myself think. If I would like to gain enough focus to actually be able to do my job without the onslaught of this aural distraction I must arm myself with my own pair of sound-isolating earphones (Shure E5Cs to be exact) and drown out all the surrounding cacophony with some of my own music.

Short of bringing some industrial grade earplugs with me to work, this is about the only solution I am able to come up with. The earphones also offer protection from the noise I encounter wherever I am, be it from the rushing noise of the tube on my way in to work, in the supermarket dodging screaming toddlers in trolleys, or practially anywhere I can think of in London - apart from the very middle of Green Park. And even there I usually have the unfortunate knack of attracting whichever rowdy group of kids like to play their music from their mobile phones while sitting on the grass that day.

When I get home, I usually have about half an hour of peace and quiet before the upstairs neighbours arrive home and literally stomp up their stairs - which are positioned next to my bedroom - as loudly as they possibly can, before slamming their front door shut and stomping around their house barefoot for the rest of the evening and, frequently, well into the early hours of the morning, on their heels.

My inconsiderate neighbours are then usually followed shortly by my housemate, who likes to wind down from her day by listening to loud country "music" on her trebley "hifi" in her room - until an hour after my bedtime.

I sleep with earplugs in. I frequently miss the sound of my morning alarm.

</RANT>

Text Withdrawal Symptoms

I've noticed people only ever seem to text me back when I've texted them to say hello first. As an experiment I am not going to text anybody for a week and see what happens.

Not that I really give a shit, I'm shooting Radiohead in June and Supergrass all summer. Bite me.

Supermassive Black Hole

Today is the day those doughnuts at CERN (The European Organisation for Nuclear Research) switch on the much-anticipated Large Hadron Collider in the hopes of artifically creating their very own contained black hole.

Yes, that's right, they want to make a black hole appear. In a tunnel somewhere underneath Geneva lies a device so mind-boggingly amazing it can actually simulate outer space and create an energy-sapping phenomenon - albeit on a slightly smaller scale than those naturally occurring in the cosmos.

Now, I'm no astrophysicist but I have read a bit about this. They're calling it a "micro black hole" or "strangelet". I don't care how small they say it is, a tank full of baby tigers and sharks is still a tank I wouldn't be in a hurry to replicate. And yes this is about the strangest thing anyone could ever want to create.

The logic behind this whole experiment is fatally flawed anyway. I thought scientists were meant to have more than one brain cell between them, but listen to this. After plans to build the particle accelerator were announced, apparently CERN issued a statement with the purpose of assuaging the general public's fears of a catastrophic worldwide disaster culminating in premature armageddon.

A spokesperson said that there was "powerful empirical evidence against the possibility of dangerous strangelet production."

But let's build a 27km wide tunnel and try it anyway, eh lads? Just in case we're wrong.

I hope you all know where your towels are. I'm waiting for a Vogon constructor fleet to pass through our galaxy so I can hitch a lift out of here.

Eye Blog

...infrequently. Sometimes I have a way with words, sometimes I prefer to take pictures.

The pictures usually win.

Commuter says no

Try to be positive about everything. After all, you only live once and there are always people who are worse off than you. Count your blessings and appreciate everything available to you. Modern life is actually not that rubbish.

Among plenty of other reasons, I love London because of the public transport. You don't need to drive a car because there are loads of buses, tubes, trains and even boats to get you from point A to point B, via various other points if necessary, or unnecessary.

When I travel, I'm usually in a pretty good mood. I also like to think I'm quite a considerate commuter, giving up my seat for people less able to stand than I am, standing out of the way to allow people on and off the train/bus, not poking or slapping people, and so on. However, some people just seem to set out to ruin other people's perfectly good journeys to and from work.

Now, I'm going to bitch about commuters who do the following:

Applying makeup on the train.

I'm sure it's fine to put on a little bit of lippy or your mascara, because we all know time is short in the mornings, but why did one girl insist on plucking her eyebrows in front of me? Not only this, she kept totally missing her eyebrows and was visibly and painfully plucking her SKIN. She put me off chicken for a week. Also, if you're going to apply a full face of makeup in front of 50 total strangers, why bother at all? We all know what you look like under there now.

Diving into a packed train as the doors close.

There is no more room. There will be another train along in a minute, and possibly plenty more after that.

Being perverts.

Please keep your hands and eyes to yourself. I seem to be cursed with grotesque guys wanting to sit next to me. The Metropolitan line is usually full of empty seats at hometime, but 3-foot-short weasly grease-monkey bloke will ALWAYS come and sit next to me. Or opposite me. And keep staring. STOP IT.

Pokey elbows.

We're not all 6 feet tall. Please remember this when you randomly fling your elbows about a packed commuter train. My nose thanks you.

Swipe your Oyster card, not your hand.

Similarly, please do not randomly wave your arms about as you leave a busy train. Let go of the pole you were using to support yourself BEFORE you begin to walk, and your arm will not snap away from it and slap some poor commuter in the face. I recently had some disgusting bloke swipe his sweaty hand right across my (thankfully closed) mouth. Even the most copious use of wet wipes to clean my poor tainted face was not enough to assuage the onslaught of my gagging.

The pits.

Unless the train is in the process of being derailed or being picked up by Godzilla, there is really no need for you to hang Simian-like from both handrails at once. Especially if you have neglected to use an effective antiperspirant.

Pickpockets.

Just keep your hands out of my bag.

Ketosis.

If you're going to go on a faddy diet like Adkins or the Cambridge Diet, or anything which eliminates carbohydrates, fat, protein, or anything resembling nutrition from your daily dietary intake, then please do not use public transport. I can smell the ketosis on your breath from the other end of the carriage and I don't appreciate it.

Smelly people.

See above. Also, please wash not only yourself but also your clothing. And dry clean your coat.

Goopy window.

It's great when you manage to bag that elusive end seat, separated from the entryway by a little plexiglass window, as you can sometimes lean on this for "comfort" (hah!) and you also get around 1cm extra space. However, when the seat's previous occupant wore a whole tub of hairgel and subsequently fell asleep leaning against said window, it's not so nice.

STALKERS.

Please do not follow me from one train to the next, unless you are validly completing the same journey as I am.

Rude pram pushers.

I will happily vacate the pram space on a busy bus so you can place your pushchair safely out of harm's way. You might not feel the need to thank me, and I won't hold this against you. However, please refrain from scowling and ramming my ankles with your pram while I attempt to move out of your way on this already overcrowded bus.

Balzac.

Why do some men feel the need to sit with their legs as wide apart as possible? Answers, please, on a postcard.

Free newspaper shoving.

I have one thanks. Yes, this is it - in my hand.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I'm shopping

Did you ever read those stories about life in the post-apocalyptic world? You know. Books like Stephen King's "The Stand" - where (as my memory serves me) small groups of pandemic survivors travel cross-country to meet up with eachother; or Robert C O'Brien's "Z for Zachariah" - which chronicles the life of a 16 year old girl who thinks she is the sole survivor of a nuclear disaster, until a stranger arrives in her valley. Ooh I love that last one.



That reminds me, I need to buy button mushrooms...

The thing which always gets me in these stories is how the characters have to enter deserted supermarkets in order to obtain provisions to live off. I've always loved the idea of having free reign of a shopping centre. If it happened to you, would you go crazy and eat up all the junk food, or would you continue to eat healthily? You'd definitely have to learn how to garden, and quickly. All the perishables in the supermarket would, well, perish pretty quickly. So you'd need to know how to grow some more. Same goes for meat. You'd have to become a pretty good farmer in next to no time, or die.

Since a lot of people nowadays can't seem to even tie their own shoelaces without written instructions, I wonder how people would cope if there was a cataclysmic population-decimating event in the near future?

Anyway, I got to thinking about all of this while scanning my shopping for the first time at the Tesco self-service checkout. I've always been a bit hesitant to use it before, partly due to laziness (the cashiers are paid to do it for me aren't they?) but also, shockingly, due to my fear of "new" technology. I don't tend to embrace change. How do they know you're swiping everything and not just sneaking the odd item into your bag?

Turns out I'm not very good at self service anyway. I picked up someone else's receipt instead of my own. They bought Still water, Cheese sandwich, F/Coated Biscuit (which they then cancelled - I wonder what "F" was). Sounds like they had a very dull lunch.

Nostalgia.com

There once was a place, long ago, where you could spend hours wandering around a new world - meeting new people, chatting to old friends, admiring ascii pictures, reading sumptuously detailed descriptions of glittering objects you encountered, battling the occasional dwarf, and picking up loot.


A megabyte? What's that?

The screen was black, the text was frequently green or yellow, in the style of old monochrome green monitors.

You didn't have to do battle and chat all at the same time, but many people did. Other people preferred to forego the battling altogether, in favour of international chat and dabbling in a bit of roleplay. This place was known as a MUD or MOO. If you look very carefully, you can still find them. IF you know where to look. I am glad few people know how to find MUDs and MOOs, for it keeps the tedious MySpace generation away, and lets the inner sanctum retain some of it's olde-worlde charm - circa 1991.


North. North. West. Sniff dwarf. Slay dwarf. Sit. Page wizzen "I'm bored, wanna chat?"

MOOs are good for the soul, in the same way that doing laundry and relaxing on a sofa are good for the soul. I know it might seem weird, but having to do all that reading and typing in order to get your point across did mean that there was a more intelligent species of person online. God I'm such a geek.

It's weird that I can get nostalgic about something which is seen as a relatively new thing. The Internet may not SEEM that old, but it has been going since the late sixties, when the US army developed its predecessor, ARPAnet. Most of us (I am speaking of people I know) got online in the early nineties. I know I started in 1989 with a brief appearance on a bulletin board via compuserve on my Atari STE. However, my first proper trip into cyberspace was in 1993 on a PC with a 14,400bps modem. Remember them? I doubt you do.

It's a sobering thought that most of the people who make up the online community nowadays weren't even born then.