Odd Omissions in Education

The identities of the following have all been obscured.

First, the gentleman who was under the impression that DNA was a recent invention, therefore surely it's impossible for there to be a DNA link between someone living and someone dead. Oddly, he was a fairly young person, so one might have assumed he would be conversant with such recent instances as Neanderthal DNA and Richard III. As they say in America, when you assume, you make an ass out of "u" and me.

Second, the married lady in her forties who was asked to juice an orange for an elderly acquaintance. She looked alarmed at this, but a while later returned from the kitchen, saying she had done so. Later on the elderly lady popped into the kitchen and found things were not as she had hoped. Following a conversation with the younger lady the next day, it became apparent she had used a potato peeler to get the skin off, then attempted to crush the orange with her bare hands. A soggy heap of orange flesh sat on a plate.

Finally, there's an entertaining TV show on these days called Gotham. For those of you who have missed it, it's a rambling, weird and thoroughly divisive show which sets out to tell the story of Batman's city before there was a Batman. Viewers are divided into those who, like me, think it's enjoyable - in my case it's largely because of the mixture of camp and seriousness - and viewers who think it's dreadful - seemingly because it's so camp. The show has a grimy, worn feel, and the cars are deliberately big old things, which has led some younger viewers to believe (and declare online) that the show is set in the '70s. The characters have and use mobile telephones.

I hope this brought a smile to your face.

Happy Vinalia!

Since it's 23rd April, I think we all know what day it is. That's right: the feast of Vinalia urbana.

The Vinalia were Roman festivals of the wine harvest, wine vintage and gardens, held in honour of Jupiter and Venus. The Vinalia prima ("first Vinalia"), also known as the Vinalia urbana ("Urban Vinalia") was held on April 23, to bless and sample last year's wine and ask for good weather until the next harvest. The Vinalia rustica ("Rustic Vinalia") was on August 19, before the harvest and grape-pressing.

So remember to sample a spot of wine after work, folks! Spill any, and you can always claim it's an offering to Jove or Venus. :D

Also, Happy St George's Day, 450th anniversary of Shakespeare's death and thousandth anniversary of the Battle of Clontarf!

Disguises are Jolly Effective!

Back in the first year of the current millennium, old John Simpson of the BBC crept carefully into Afghanistan, disguised in a burqa. A decade and a bit later sees that nice Mr Mohammed Ahmed Mohamed (I presume his parents got bored, hence their inability to spell Mohammed the same way twice in a short span of syllables) disappear in the UK in just such a fashion. I recall that back in '01 there was a certain amount of amusement that Afghanistan was so cowed by the concept that a man might not see a woman. While I certainly wouldn't be a Kilroy-Silk of a man in suggesting that every woman must be stripped nude and photographed for pornographic consumption (N.B. Kilroy-Silk surely didn't suggest this, no matter how bloody awful that massive twazzock is), it seems a bit weird that twelve years is all it takes to angle an element of Britain sufficiently as to provide a facsimile of Afghanistan, which is widely-regarded not to be quite up-to-date in . . . one or two ways.

Damnfool nonsense, eh? I shall be back in a few days with something less risible and acid. My Irish travels have been lovely, and I was very happy to see my friends wed!

A True Wargamer?

I espied this over at Big Lee's Blog, and couldn't help myself!

EDIT: I don't know what the heck I did to the formatting last night when putting this up! I seem incapable of fixing it. Ugh, technology!

To genuinely call yourself a Wargamer, then you must have done most or all of the following:

* Spent at least £500 on figures / tanks - and you get extra kudos for every £500 you've spent

I remember totting up spending just on tanks for 40K back in the early 2000s, and even at that point I had expended between £1,000 and £1,500. Let's pretend I haven't spent more than another £500!  (3 points)

* Pricked your finger or thumb on a pike block - several times
Goblin spear...men? and Empire Halberdiers back in the early '90s, and more recently Great War BEF lancers. A definite yes! (1 point)

* Tried at least 10 different rule sets and vowed never to play half of them ever again
No glory for me here. Most of the sets I've bought I haven't even tried, lacking opponents! Those I have tried I am always up for a game with. (0 Points)

* Bought an army off EBay
Like Big Lee, I have never bought a whole army on eBay, but I have picked up the odd bargain or two. (0 Points)

* Sold an army on EBay
Perhaps a million tanks (a few scratchbuilt, and many converted somehow) have made their way to other loving arms, yes. (1 Points)

* spent months painting an army - then used it in anger once
Again, like Big Lee, I am going to add "or never" here. (1 Point)

* tried several different periods and genres
Oh, yes! The Great War with infantry on the one hand, and on the other battleships! Napoleonics, GW Fantasy, &c, &c, &c. (1 Point)

* dropped a box of figures on the floor from a great height
I winced in pain. I tend to find that it is less a question of dropping than of inadvertent brushing with a sleeve. (1 Point)

* lost a battle on the last throw of the dice
I don't know about this one. I tend to screw up pretty comprehensively! (0 Points)

* made at least one enemy for life
I don't think so. (0 Points)

* had a proper, stand up argument over a wargamers table
I had an inadvertent demi-argument about whether one could turn an immobilised Leman Russ, under rules from ten years ago. Nowadays I'd regard my former self as a frightful rules-lawyer! (1/2 Point)

* thrown a dice across a room
Merely growled at them wrathfully. (0 Points)

* rebased an army for a different rule set
Never. Though I admit to dabbling with the thought at one point. (0 points)

* inflicted a whopping defeat on an opponent
More than once, but since I tend to make up for it by crashing and burning, no harm is done! (1 Point)

* suffered an embarrassing defeat due to a stupid tactical decision
This is my regular style of play! (1 Point)

* joined a wargamers' club
Back at uni I was even Treasurer of our Club. (1 Point)

* bought a ton of lead that remains unpainted
II can even offer up items that Dad must have acquired - and he isn't even a wargamer! (1 Point)

* been to a wargamers' show
I have not, in main part because until the other February strangers scared the kerjigger out of me! (0 Points)

* have more dice than is logical or necessary to own - and have used most of them
  Er, yeah, definitely! (1 Point)

* have taken boxes of troops down to a club just to show them off to your mates
I, ooh, the question is vague . . . yeah, definitely! (1 Point)

* You have reference books on each period / army you play (I must have ten samurai books now)

Hell, yes! (1 Point)
* Having played so many different games you confidently quote rules for a totally different period, scale or ruleset to the one you're playing at that moment
Er, repeatedly. Granted, a lot of this is down to GW changing their 40K rules every few years. I play so seldom that I have no idea what's going on! (1 Point)
* You have lied to your partner / spouse about how much you've spent on the hobby
I'd be happier if I were saying yes to this! (0 Points)
* You get genuinely excited when a package arrives in the post
Every single time. (1 point)
* You have joined a re-enactment society (5 points for this one!)
No, but I have a number of mates involved in 'em, and once worked under a lawyer whose recreational activity was to fire a Springfield musket into his obsolete law books! (0 Points)
* You have played in an unsuitable venue 
  Ooh, is there really an unsuitable venue? Er, maybe that kitchen, with everyone going in and out all the time. OK, yeah! (1 Point) 
* You continue to search for the perfect Napoleonic / WW2 / Ancients / ACW etc. rule set (knowing that it doesn't actually exist).
I know I shouldn't! (1 Point)
* For that reason you have developed your own house rules for certain periods.  And think them far superior to the original author's efforts.
Nope. (0 Points)
* You have returned from a wargames show and sneaked upstairs to hide the stash.
Ah, having never been to a show... (0 Points)
* You have an irrational aversion to some genres and vow never to play them regardless of how much fun they look.
I have a mild aversion to Ancients, but not so strong as it'd put me off playing a game. (0 points)
* You have made your own wargames scenery.
So much of it that I am tempted to give myself 4 points, but I'll be parsimonious and stick to 2, given 1's the maximum. (2 Points)
* You have reached a painting 'wall' 
Perennially. (1 Point)
* You have lost - and regained - your wargaming mojo.
Perennially! (1 Point)
* You have the occasional (and short lived) sense of guilt with your wife/children when complaining to them about the money spent in clothes, shoes or toys/Xbox games when you have £200 of unpainted metal stuffed in an upstairs drawer.
I am not ignorant of this experience! (1 Point)
* You have done armies in different scales for the same period 
ACW in 6mm and 15mm, Napoleonics in 1/72 and 6mm, and surely others abound! (1 Point)
* You have jealously coveted someone else's troops.
Indubitably! (1 Point)
* You have laughed (secretly or otherwise) at someone else's paint job 
I have but raised an eyebrow! (0 Points)
* You have provided a piece of useless trivia relating to the troops on the table to show off your wargaming knowledge. 
Yes, and more than once! (1 point)
* You have contradicted someone else's trivia - demonstrating your superior knowledge and giving you a warm glow inside.
Glorious Evil! (1 Point)
* You have caused a major disaster on a wargames table (spilling a pint, collapsing the table, dropped someone else's figures on the floor). 
In a sense you could say that I set up a game so dreadfully that everyone was screwed over by it! (1 Point)
* You have cheered when an opponent's dice lets them down at a critical point (I have literally danced in front of someone when he failed a morale roll) 
Who has not? (1 point)
* You have lied to your partner about going gaming.  "Mother's not very well - just popping around to see her.  I'll be back in about - oh - seven hours".
Deplorable honesty is my forté! (0 Points)
* You have lied to an attractive woman (man) about your hobby.  
Uuuuuuum, yeah. Is there a way to avoid this? (1 Point)
* You have made an opponent cry.  It doesn't count if they are under 8 years old though.
No. (0 Points)
* You have painted the same army in the same scale more than once (Monty, you dawg!)  
No. (0 Points)
* You have reference books on armies you haven't even got.
This is so! (1 Point)
* You have bought figures for a period you have never and will never play - because they were cheap.
We're all guilty of that, aren't we? (1 Point)
* You have inflicted grievous bodily harm on a dice that has let you down. 
No, no, no! (0 Points)
* You blog or have a web-page about your Wargaming activities
Indubitably! (1 Point)
* Your book collection is almost all war and wargames related
Er, no. Sizeable amounts thereof, yes! Almost all? By no means! I include Dad's collection among mine (lots of trains), Mum's (genealogical stuff), my brother's (Garfield and some Japanese things). (0 Points)
* You critique 'war' movies (especially Hollywood war movies) for historical accuracy.
Forever! (1 Point)
* You spend car / train journeys checking out the lie of the land - considering which way you would attack from and whether it would make good wargaming terrain.
This accounts for my whole childhood! (1 Point)

Right, I think that adds up to 37.5/57, but since I somehow managed to forget my tally about three times, let's say that's an approximation!

Star Fleet: Reinforcements Painted

I had hoped to be able to present a Batrep of Saturday's game today, but due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, there wasn't enough time to fit in a game of Star Fleet: ACTA. Maybe next time! We had a comic time playing Artemis. With slightly too few people, everyone behaved as though they and everyone else were captain. I failed to realise (remember?) that the Helm position also controls the Shields. So we got a bit shot up in our first fight. I bet this is why Kirk always used to shout it: it slipped Sulu's mind! Mawbs was our Mr Chekov, firing missiles in quick succession into the enemy, always bidding me to follow their tail. I sounded like Scotty: "I'm doing the best I can!" Then Nathan, controlling engineering, would divert power to manoeuvring thrusters so I could get behind them. Most of the piloting involved heading right at the enemy, and then zooming away at warp before turning about and trying to get behind them.

After beating someone, we'd get a new message that Outpost 7 (or something) was under attack, and Berni bid me set course 040. Then I'd behave as Captain, having noticed we'd run low on missiles and power, and head us to another space station to refit and re-arm. The last battle was the funniest. Having engaged several enemy ships, we'd taken a heck of a battering, with damage markers covering half the locations on the ship. We turned away, letting a friendly AI cruiser get destroyed protecting our flight, and that's when things went a bit Sink the Bismarck! The damage control teams had all died in the fires, so Nathan couldn't get them to repair anything. Our manoeuvring thrusters were out, but the main engine was fine. We could go to warp and maintain normal sublight speeds, but we couldn't turn at all! So Mawbs fired off some EMP warheads which were our sole armament, and the enemy squadron turned ponderously toward us. Nath decided we'd self-destruct in hopes of taking them out, but I think their combined firepower destroyed our ravaged hull before that could happen.

It was a great deal of fun. It's a bit reminiscent of Quasar or paintball: you throw yourself into it, wholly aware that it's ridiculous, and you have a great time. That is the key: one can't have a sense of self-importance if one wants to have a good time. A sense of the ridiculous is a key element in my enjoyment of almost everything, and an element in everything else. Remember Monty Python!

Having made the point that all is ridiculous, join me in welcoming the painted additions to the Federation and Romulan fleets: the War Eagle Cruiser and the Manta Ray-class New Fast Cruiser.

The things kids say!

Well, that's grossly unfair to children. Children say silly things because they know no better. When adults talk rot, however, one has licence to laugh one's head off - or raise a sceptical eyebrow if one is a follower of Surak of Vulcan, or as we Earthlings may know him, Zeno of Citium. One example that always makes me sparkle with sarcasm is Marilyn Monroe's comic line, "I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best." To be honest, I doubt I could have handled Marilyn Monroe at her worst. I am none too fond of drugs or mood-swings, and she seems exceedingly scatty and unreliable. She was inarguably pretty, but not over-burdened with insight. It gets even better when people misremember "handle" as "love", yielding the absolute nonsense that one has to begin by loving someone who is awful, expecting them magically to improve. There's a phrase that describes that situation: abusive relationship.

Some people are worth handling at their worst so that we can enjoy their best, but it's a fallacy to believe that all are. Worse, it's a dangerous fallacy, one that can leave the deceived party stuck in an awful and irremediable situation for years, working like an ass. Yes, I know whereof I speak. Let's leave that aside; it's a tired discussion. Let's look at the other side of the coin. I am flawed, "But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best." This is nothing but an excuse to stay flawed. It isn't a rallying cry to personal satisfaction but to stagnation and indolence. Rather than bother with self-improvement, one should simply remain as one is until death takes us and we decay. It is an idea that is depressing in the most fundamental sense, assuring us that we are right not to bother pushing ourselves, learning and growing. I am not arguing that we should all rush out and book parachute lessons before moving to the Congo to become aid workers, but the static life is no good for people.

Having begun with the heights of philosophy, I shall end in the same way. Consider these two thoughts of geniuses of our (I use that rather loosely) age.

These are my principles. If you don’t like them I have others. Groucho Marx

Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog. There’s just so little hope of advancement. Snoopy

Facebook Fantasies

I glimpsed some odd adverts on Facebook today. I am to buy cheap Jaguars (the car) with a military discount, go to Manchester Metropolitan University, and while in Manchester avail myself of Manchester Escorts, get myself some public liability insurance and some heavy-duty shelving. Clearly, this is how I should be arranging my life. I should sign up at MMU, join the TA, buy a car to collect escorts, and then stack them on sturdy shelving - once I have registered myself as a company. If the ladies fall off the shelving, I shall be all right, because my public liability insurance should cover any legal problems resulting from such a fall. I just have to register my company's purpose as being to store young ladies on shelves, and have a health and safety risk assessment done.

I admit that this is not the way I had planned to live, and I'm still not at all sure how to make a profit out of having young ladies on evening gowns sit on resilient shelves. Perhaps I have misconstrued the adverts. What do you think of this alternative reading? I hire several young ladies, one to join the military and buy several cars on my behalf, another to attend MMU and learn how we can make a profit out of this, and a third to assemble some redoubtable shelves on which I can stack all these cheap Jaguars I shall be buying. I'll get the public liability insurance for her in case she injures herself while assembling the shelves.

No, no, how about this? I go to MMU, and get myself a student loan. Rather than study, I sign up and buy myself a new car, which I register as a public company, making one of these escorts the Finance Director or somesuch. I take it with me to a war zone on completion of my training, and wait for someone to start taking pot shots at it. I also have to take some sturdy shelves, from which I shall construct a barricade behind which I can hide from whoever's shooting the car. With the large insurance payout I can repay my student loan.

I think that's pretty much a foolproof plan.

De rerum magicae artis

Do you use magic? I find I do. You will not find me dancing naked in a field at the full moon, attending a seance or excising newts' eyes. There are some things I do that are irrational yet produce results. Yesterday I was filling out a form. I finished around lunchtime and left it on my desk. I did not put it anywhere else, nor did I tidy anything up. Today I needed that form. I saw it and got on with filling my bag with some other bits and pieces. My brain was a little distracted, so I assumed I had put the form in my bag along with some music, a book, a pen, some paper, an umbrella, some sunglasses and some sunscreen (the weather here is very mutable at the moment). After I had walked half a mile, I had one of those panicky little moments. "Did I pack the papers?!" Sure enough, on rifling through my bag the papers were not there.

Darn. Well, I shall just have to ring home and get Dad to find them for me. They're probably on my chest of drawers. I rang. He looked. He did not find. I returned home. The papers have gone. They are not on my desk, my chest of drawers, my bed, my floor, or anywhere. "Yeah, Pete, that's because you clearly put them somewhere else!" Nuh-uh! I shall run through the events, Mr Holmes, and let you solve this problem. I had the papers yesterday. I was working and finished with them around midday. I left them on my desk. I then did a little painting around the house. I did not take the papers with me. I have never tried taking a form with me when painting a window-frame. I did a few other things, none of which involved me removing the papers from the room.

I was distracted this morning by a problem with my laptop. It's new and so much better than the EeePC I had before. Funnily enough, it's another ASUS. The problem was that Rome: Total War is a little too old for it (vintage 2004, would you believe?). So I was in a bit of a hurry when it came time to leave. I knew the papers were just on my right, and must have thought I would grab them when I had got everything else together. I loaded my bag, and went downstairs where I put my boots on. I have retraced my steps from here to the front-door via the kitchen (an erstwhile fire-place in there is now a cupboard where my footwear lives). The papers are not in any of the rooms I passed through, nor on the staircase I descended. They are not in the hall or the porch. They are not commingled with the other papers I put in my bag. They are not scattered among the papers remnant in my room. Yesterday they were here and today they are gone.

The options I can see are these. 1) My papers fell out of my bag in the first nine minutes or so of my walk. This is unlikely. I habitually wedge them down among heavier items, and my bag, although not zipped shut, had a flap covering the contents. 2) The papers are still in my room and I have developed a selective psychosomatic blindness. That sounds a bit alarming. 3) I ate or otherwise destroyed the papers in my sleep. Nobody has ever mentioned to me that I sleep walk, so I doubt this. 4) My papers have disappeared somewhere and will only reappear when I perform the correct ritual. I am going with this as an explanation, as I have had success here.

Have you ever put something down, and reached for it only to find it had gone? Perhaps it reappeared on the other side of the room, perhaps to your left when it was on your right. Maybe it never came back. I do think you should have a proper look for stuff when you lose them. We are absent-minded creatures, and it is almost always the case that a few minutes' search will solve The Mystery of The Missing Pen. In fact, this is always the first part of my magical ritual. I search the area where I know something has gone missing. It is best to mumble the name of whatever you are looking for, say researchers. People may well think you are a bit mad when you do, especially if you cite an article in The Daily Mail as your back-up. Once I have searched the area, I start searching any areas where I might just perhaps have left what I have lost. If I have walked into a room since I last had the item, perhaps it is there. If I've lost a pen, maybe I really did just pop it down on the table while pouring a glass of water, only for someone to ask me a question and distract me from picking up the pen.

So far you might be shaking your head wryly, "Pete, where's this magic?" Well, that's it. I think of magic as doing something that doesn't make any sense. I know exactly where those papers were, where they could be, and should be. They are not there, so I am looking in a lot of places I know they are not. If they turn up, that is magic. But that is not the last stage on this ridiculous trip. Next I have a look in places where the missing items could not be. For instance, I know which rooms of the house I have been in since filling out the form yesterday. So if the piece of paper turns up in a room I have not been in, that is impossible. I have experienced that before. More normally the final result is that I search everywhere: the place I left the item, the places it could be, the places it isn't likely to be, the places it cannot be, and I come back, ritual complete, to find the missing item demurely in exactly the place I left it and searched so exactingly originally. I get the missing thing back. I like it. Not a lot, but I like it.

EDIT: The story has the expected ending. I filled out another form with as much detail as I could piece together, placed it very carefully and consciously in my bag, and went to bed. I got up the next day and stripped my bed to wash the bedlinen, which I would have done the day before if I had not been rushing about trying to find the missing papers. Underneath a pillow - where I'm sure we all secure our important papers! - were the missing documents.

Masked Crimefighter? The Owlman!

If you can see the picture below, having seen repeated trailers for The Dark Knight Rises, and not think "That guy's trying to look like a supercriminal/crime-fighter", then you're endowed with special skills. Or you think I look like a slightly blue SAS dude. Why am I so attired? Well, there are two reasons. First, I realised why I have lately been coughing like a machine specially designed to cough. It's because I have been spending too much time in Dad's room. This EeePC is now so outdated that I can't add photos. The photo below will have been added after the post was written on the EeePC. Second, I have been painting my bedroom window. So today I picked up one of those masks - from a Jewson's about twenty miles away - to protect one from particulate matter in the air.

However, it would not have been Friday the Thirteenth without a little comedy. A little while ago I looked closely at the stickers on the two big circular bits. When I bought these they were in a plastic bag. I read it. It said they were the right bits. I didn't trust myself. I asked the guy at the desk. He thought so, but asked another guy to confirm it. He did so. I bought the stuff. Several hours later I saw the stickers: "Batch 98040 Use by May 2009". I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest that nobody ever buys anything from that DIY place. I thought the container was dusty, but there was a wood workshop through an open door! Aiaiai!

The Dreaded Thirteenth began well, as I lay in bed outside, wondering what the hell that noise was. I had heard it some nights before, and written it off as a rusty bicycle that some jerk was pushing slowly up the road. It had recurred since then, and from about half past midnight on the "morning" of the Thirteenth, it had been intermittently preventing me from sleep. As time went on it changed location, and I could tell it was coming from about thirty feet away, in the very garden I was sleeping in. I hadn't heard anyone drag a dying bicycle through a hedge, so it had to be an animal. But what? The only novelty we'd had lately was the hedgehog, and why the hey-diddle-diddle would he be impersonating a rusty bike? Moreover, who taught him to do it?

So after enduring half an hour of this, I got up, and went to find out just what was making this distinctly un-soporific racket. The noise stopped. I stepped down the stairs into the Side Garden. I swung my torch below the steps, before me, to the left, to the right. The Hokey-Cokey failed, and I saw no creatures. I flailed about again with my under-powered lightsabre, and saw only the guinea pigs' enclosure. Nothing stirred save the stereotypical branches in the breeze. All was still. Then the bicycle squeaked! It was behind me. I turned. I'd like to be cinematic and say I spun round, but let's be honest. If you're half-asleep and looking for a mysterious animal, you'd turn round sluggishly. I did. Nothing. It squeaked again. Above and before me it squeaked again, demanding oil like some tiny, rusty demon. I aimed the torch up and espied an owl in a fir tree. He didn't take kindly to my pointing a torch at him, and so he squeaked all the more rustily.

Simultaneously grumpy at being kept up and with my thirst for knowledge slaked, I sloped off to bed. The young Long Eared Owl sloped off to a different tree where jerks would not point torches at him. It sounded as though he sat right outside a neighbour's window. Apologies to that neighbour if that's true. I then managed a fairly consistent sleep until five minutes before my alarm was supposed to wake me. I find alarms never wake me up. I either oversleep or I wake up before they go off, my unconscious mind being a slightly poor timekeeper.

Joining the dots: general ignorance and prejudiced juries

Earlier on today I popped downstairs and caught an episode of Pointless. It's an entertaining BBC quiz show, hosted by Alexander Armstrong, ably supported by his "Pointless friend", Richard, and one I have mentioned before. A pair of friends of mine have even been contestants. None of that is relevant tothe topic above, but who doesn't like a bit of local colour before visiting the boring relations? ;-) The show revolves around a central conceit. They ask a hundred people to list or name something in a hundred seconds. One of today's tasks was to cite a year in which a British general election occurred. Two contestants seemed to think that the UK is America, believing that elections run on a four-yearly basis. They don't. I'm not unhappy saying I couldn't pin down whether it was five or six, as the current government has faffed about with the previous system for no good reason, reducing it from a possible maximum of six to a steady tick-tock of five. I would be happier if I had known without doubt, but that the change is so recent makes me feel less alarmed that I possess the right to vote. ;-)

The hundred people asked to list years in which elections had occurred since the end of WWII then managed to muster a score of thirty-eight people (38 of the 100) who were aware that there had been an election in 2010. That's the most recent general election we have had. I cannot offhand think of a reason to know when elections happened. I know that Thatcher came in around the time I was born (actually 1979), and Blair got in when I was at school (1997), and that Churchill got turfed out at the end of WWII (1945, though I couldn't recall whether it might have been '46 - sorry, Mr Atlee!). But I make an exception for the last election that happened. If it happened two years ago, you can remember it. Or if you can't, then let's slide onto the second point to which I referred in the title.

I just ambled downstairs to bestow my wisdom on the folks, as I am nothing if not generous, and happened to see the ticker running along the bottom of the BBC News screen. It told me that as a result of someone's evidence to the Leveson Inquiry into press standards, it had been said/claimed/declared that any jury considering some claim would be inevitably biased, and so there was no prospect of a fair trial. A couple of years ago, some folks broke into my house and stole some of Dad's things. The police's system of protecting the identities of suspects is hialriously full of holes, so we know who they were. That is to say, Mum told me and I shortly thereafter forgot. But Dad surely remembers. So if one of us had to serve on a jury considering a charge against one of them, it'd be reasonable to consider us biased, and remove us from the jury.

But the country I live in has tens of millions of people, tens of millions of people eligible for jury duty, and a large share of them don't even know when the last general election was. In the face of that sort of evidence, I don't think it sensible to believe in the impossibility of a fair trial. There is a vast number of totally clueless people out there. And, hey, in here! Ask me to consider a matter of economic theory and watch how speedily my brain turns to jelly. Ask me even to look at my bank statement and you'll get a glare, a flicker of the eyes toward it, and a wholesale flight from the room! In a word, if you just ask enough people, you will eventually find a dozen - enough to fill up a jury - who know bugger all about whatever's happening. Your only problem then is that they might not know anything about everything, and if that's an argument against juries, then they should never have been brought into existence. Unless you happen to believe that everyone a thousand years ago was brighter than wot we is today, milud. Of course, juries are older than that (don't strike me, fellow Classicists), but I'm mainly discussing the biggest nation on the British Isles right now.

We have evidence of ignorance of facts absolutely fundamental to participation in our democracy. So why not see this as a good thing? We'll never, not even if we fasten everyone to chairs for spoon-feeding of information, get everyone fully up to speed on all the details of the nation. So let's use this as a positive and refute the idea that it's possible to pollute juries to the extent that they cannot give a verdict. These days we simply have too many people for that to be true.

Trips and Travails, Wales and Wassails!

This weekend just gone saw two birthdays of great import to me. My father has long celebrated his at this time of year, and more recently my friend, Kev, decided to cash in on this, and be born on the same day. It being the former's sixty-second and the latter's thirtieth, the former kindly allowed me to visit the latter. I'll stop using former and latter now. Sorry. Kev lives in Wales. Oh, that's insultingly simplistic. I don't mean to talk down to my readers. See Spot run. Actually, we have a rabbit of that n- "SHUT! UP! PETE!" Erm, yeah, ok. Right, so I set off for Wales at half twelve on Friday. En route to Kev's I was to drop in on the mysterious Grey Wolf, a chap I've known for some years. I had misapprehended a communication from him, and so was laden with all the fresh vegetables I had been able to pluck from my fridge. Top Tip: if someone jokes that they're being forced to eat dog food, explore the possibility that they are actually joking that X, who was supposed to give them nosh, carelessly directed them to a cupboard, bidding them eat its contents, only for them to discover that all therein was dog biscuits.

Anyway, having given GW (don't get confused, wargamerinos) a spot of fresh nosh, I set about securing some windows. I think a rubber seal had never been installed, so I have filled the gap with some Tetrion powder I mixed into a paste. I also inspected the wall of the shower. Some kindly workmen had been the day before and applied tiles to the wall of Grey Wolf's bathroom. The plumber had thereafter arrived, and attempted to fit a shower . . . but there wasn't a gap for the water to come through. Impressive. I hear this has already been dealt with, though. We two (GW and I, not the mysterious plumber and workmen) had a chat for a bit, and then it was on to Port Talbot, City of Light! Someone might have called it that at some point. Maybe.

At Kev's I was reunited with Martyn, whom I knew at uni, his young lady, Vickie, the eponymous owner of the dwelling, dear Peter, and Mark - whom I have not seen in a month of Sundays! - and met his affianced, the delightful Amanda. The sense of humour of our group may be gauged to a degree from the sort of gibberish I come out with on here, so her sliding easily into dealing with it all is a credit to her and the future Mr Amanda. We then proceeded to drink. Amanda and Mark had recently discovered a delightful new recipe: tear some mint leaves, add rum, ginger ale and ice, and imbibe the resultant diluted inebriant. Martyn and Vickie departed first, having drunk little, as he, poor fellow, had a shift beginning at 6am the next day. Amanda and Mark sensibly sidled upstairs around midnight, and Peter, Kev and I were up till gone 2am consuming the concoction.

The following morning I was surprised to learn that over the course of the evening we had gone through three bottles of rum (two of Mount Gay bought for the cocktail, and one of Captain Morgan, which I had brought with me). It rather explains our (or at least my!) somewhat delicate state the next morning! We trundled out for a brief walk with Kev's dear dog, Jess, then pottered back to see Ireland defeat Italy at rugby. Well, we saw about a third of the match at Kev's, then strolled into town and caught the last third. We had set out in (not quite) good (enough) time to get enough seats for the England-Wales game that followed on its heels. I have to say that team sports have never done anything for me. I dig (but do not seek out) martial arts (boxing, fencing, Judo, &c), and will equitably (see what I punned there?) watch showjumping (though horse racing does nothing for me).

Despite that, and the resultant staring at a screen of muscular chaps
running hither and thither, I rather enjoyed the end of the game. Wales and England seemed evenly matched (to my admittedly unaccustomed eye) for the greater part of the game, but toward the end Wales leapt forward and then in a separate incident, prevented England's attempt to claw back her way to victory. The pub in which we sat erupted with cheers. I recall as a teenager being thoroughly startled when a classmate erupted with a scream of joy at England beating someone (Germany?) in a football match we were watching in 1997 or 1998 or 1999. I'm older now, and I burst out laughing, which was an excellent reaction to have. Everyone was grinning from ear to ear at having defeated the villainous English, and so I fit right in. :-D There then followed a traditional Welsh song. I couldn't follow the words, so remarked to Kev that I would imitate his practice of thumping my palms on the table. He told me I'd soon know the words, and it was true that "As long as we beat the English!" are pretty easy to recall!

The villainous Saxons and Angles having been defeated, we retired to a lovely local eatery for a spot of nourishment. Mm, curry. Thus restored we returned to town, where we stood on a very sticky floor with lots of people bumping into us. We circled the wagons around Amanda, as she was more susceptible to buffeting than were we. It was an odd Wetherspoon's, resembling rather a club in Newcastle-under-Lyme than any Wetherspoon's I've ever been in before. After one drink we headed over the road. The volume of music was about the same, the floor slightly less sticky, and there were fewer people. Er, result! Then we pottered home, temporarily collecting a young couple. The feminine half of which was very happy about the rugby result, so I tactfully (and pointlessly - what would she have done? Stabbed me with a grin?) covered my Englishness by laughing in agreement rather than speaking.

Right, er, so we got back, collapsed into our beds (settee in my case), and woke up the next day. On the Saturday Jess the dog had kindly woken me at half six in the morning to see if I wanted to play. I misapprehended this, and tried to let her out into the garden and then into the kitchen. Happily, on the Sunday morning she was asleep upstairs, so I didn't wake until a little after ten, and dragged myself out of bed about twenty minutes thereafter to bid good morning and bye to Mark and Amanda. Poor Martyn, having had to get up for a shift starting at 6am the day before, was today bound to start a shift at 2pm. I'd never be a nurse. My uncle was tried to persuade me to become something in the City, which involved several years of sleeping for perhaps as much as six hours each night. That at least had the benefit of being ordered sleep, albeit insufficient. Looking after people seems to involve neither regimentation nor enough!

Peter, Kev and I thus drove into Swansea. I hoped that a small Hare Krishna restaurant would be pen, while suspecting this would not be the case. We arrived, checked, and ended up at Pizza Express. Lovely pizza, and oilier than normal.! We trundled over to Watserstone's - or whatever they're calling it these days - and I picked up a Richard Morgan book, Market Forces, on Peter's say-so. Then I decided we would treat Kev by watching this new Muppets film. He had been unable to justify it to himself, assuming it to be a kids' film. It is not. Or it is at least enjoyable by all ages. We three enjoyed it greatly!

I quickly dropped Kev and Peter off at Kev's, collected my accoutrements, and darted off to visit my friend, Mark. He's very kindly asked me to be his Best Man at his wedding in May, but owing to my erratic visits to Wales, I've never met his wife-to-be, Marie. I had intended for this to be a chance to say hi, but their wee Lily, who is only some weeks old, was poorly, and their dog, a somewhat less wee hound, was a bit shouty, so Mark and I adjourned upstairs instead. I hope to remedy that omission next time I'm in Wales! I then fixed a dead headlight, as I happily chanced to have a spare in my glove compartment, and set off home again.

On my way down I had stopped the car. It seemed that my Tom-tom was directing me a way that differed from that which the AA's internet service had suggested. This turned out to be so. But on stopping the car beeped and pinged at me, flashing that there was a problem with the oil. I checked the oil. There wasn't a problem. I continued my journey down. On the way back it pinged and beeped and flashed at me again. I checked the oil. It was fine. I very, very cautiously checked the radiator's adulterated water, not being desirous of covering myself with hot steam or boiling water. It was fine. I decided that the car was lying to me and drove back without any trouble. Bonza!

On the way back I saw a bunny sat on a verge, somewhwere on the road between here and J17 of the M6, and got home after 01:00, which meant I was a bit tired. I was driving up the M5, and kept seeing warnings that the M5/M6 interchange was shut. That is in Birmingham, but there is an alternative route! So I turned onto the M42. I pulled over to use the facilities, and the traffic monitor they have told me that the M42 was shut from the next junction. I don't know whether to curse the halfwits who decided to close both of the motorway routes around one of England's major cities simultaneously or to condemn the idiot who decided to pretend that this had happened and hack computer systems to support his amusing lie. Either way, give me an axe, somebody! So I got home around one in the morning when I would otherwise have been home around midnight. I had some stuff to do online, so was then up until gone four (my brother was up for ages).

In short, I am worn out by a wonderful weekend and by two ridiculously implausible evenings of driving! Happy late Birthday, Kev and Dad! Amanda, Vickie and Lily, it was lovely to meet you all! Peter, Martyn, Mark and everyone else I had already met, it was a delight to see you all again. I love you all! :-)

Warhammer Empire Insurance Salesman

 This image is not mine. I found it here.
I haven't posted for a few days, for which I make no apology, as my great-aunt's been visiting us. We've had a nice time strolling round some local stately homes and high streets. But that is not what I wish to speak of to you today. Before I go any further, let me remind you of my Ebay sales. Right, now those of you not enamoured of toilet humour may want to stop reading right away, as the following is very silly.

I haven't played Warhammer (as opposed to 40K) since I was a teenager, but bubbles occasionally burst on the surface of my mind. For some reason that errant thought today was about flying creatures. Orcs and Goblins have their wyverns, dragons are good for everyone, griffons here, pegasi there, great eagles are over in the woods.If I remember properly, there's even a zoo in Altdorf where assorted monstrosities live, such as the Emperor's griffon, Whatsisname the Half-Fluffy. Yeah, my memory isn't that extensive. Anyway, there's a fair number of flying beasties both roaming about wild and in private menageries. My mate brought this to mind by pointing out to me how annoying seagulls can be with their droppings. How much worse it must be when the creature's as big as a horse.

Think of blue ice from aeroplanes. Granted, magical beasties may have a lower flight ceiling, but I have heard that dropping a penny off the Eiffel Tower is enough to kill some person stood at its foot. Be that as it may, it would give you a hell of a ding. Now imagine some flying beast the size of an elephant has voided its bowels above you. This sort of thing is not to be taken lightly! That sort of load could demolish a roof or mangle a man. Or at least generate a Back to the Future reference as Baron Biff von Tannen screams his rage at the blue . . . through the brown.

But if a peasant dies in Bretonnia, the local lord doesn't really mind too much. He would be in a bit of a situation if he demolished the roof of the local shrine to the Lady. The Empire has its aristocrats, too, but it also has merchants. Grand men who travel here and there, or who sit still and send their subordinates to take wool or bring brass. You can't risk the sort of damage flying monsters can do to your precious load, so it's probable that - if insurance exists at all - it covers "the sky falling on one's head". If you live in a city, it's probably still wise to take out a policy. There's a gap in the market for a short story about an insurance salesman warning people of the dangers. "Did you know, my lord, that you are seventeen times more likely to be slain by plummeting excrement than by marauding goblins? I have the figures in my bag."

Of course, it isn't all bad. There are potential benefits to agriculture. Although one has to weigh the benefit of more manure against it crashing into your wheatfield at a speed of ten metres a second. I fancy that might damage the crop. Of course, nobody would ever assume crop circles to be of alien origin in the Warhammer Fantasy world, as they are probably accustomed to all sorts of patterns, such as an exclamation mark, say. Another possible benefit is in warfare. There is surely room in Warhammer Fantasy to expand the rules to cover feeding laxatives to winged creatures, giving them the option to launch a "bombing run", but carrying negative impacts on their WS or whatever. I know I don't feel at full strength when I'm hit by such things! Though I have to admit that I'm just a human, not a flying feathered fiction.

If you have read this far and are dismayed at the toilet humour thus far displayed, I did warn you right at the start! So, naughty reader who is unshocked at all this, ah, filth, I leave you with a short ditty composed by my mate (his blog is here) which can be sung to the tune of Where the Buffalo Roam. The next update should cover making stuff for vehicles in some more detail. Until then farewell!

Alone on my own,

Where the pegasi roam,

Dropping s**t that could kill a bear,

I'm so happy, you see,

For protecting me

Is Altdorf travelling Merchant Insurance care!