All posts in category: Technology

New York hotel bank of Elevators win gold at synchronised swimming and why my etiquette rules can mean death

Why...

Can no one programme elevators so they don’t all go up and down in unison? It is nearly fifty years since man started leaving litter on the moon, yet we can still spend a lifetime watching a bank of elevators all going in the same direction and stopping at the same floors... at the same time. I’m no early riser so can cut leaving a hotel a little fine to get to an airport or meeting on time. I once spent 15 minutes in a New York hotel waiting for an elevator to make it up to the 35th floor. Rather like waiting for a bus, long periods of nothing happening, then suddenly all six elevators arrived at my floor at the same time. I suspect to this day if you dusted the elevator call button for fingerprints, mine would come up as I had pushed the damned fluorescent decent arrow so often in exasperation they must still be engraved on it.

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Why do so many movies keep me in the dark

October 19, 2018
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Technology
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Why...

Are Directors so obsessed about shooting in the dark? In a fit of masochism and boredom I decided to watch the latest Star Wars extravaganza, Solo, on a plane. 85% was shot in the dark. I hardly could make out anything (except the actor playing Solo had all the verve and personality of a week-old halibut). Now all that darkness might look uber cool on a screen wide enough to land a Millennium Falcon on, but puh-lease.... more and more people watch movies on TV screen tablets or even smart phones. Dark Don’t Display. This is a classic case of creatives sticking heads up collective arses and ignoring reality. To see all those effects on tiny screens needs brightness. Here is a tip for the major studios. You want a few extra $ million in downloads? Shoot an entire picture during the day!

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Your call is important to us... because we are charging you suckers $1 a minute to wait till we bother to answer

Why...

Do I bother trying to track down customer service? Nearly all consumer product company websites are designed to keep the customer service email and call centre numbers harder to find than spotting ‘Where’s Waldo’. If I do find the telephone number in the haystack of info, rise early and call in the first seconds of opening time, I always seem so unlucky! As if by magic, that very day it appears everyone else is doing the same thing. “Due to a high volume of calls...” Translate that into: “Due to lack of us staffing this place with enough people to bat away the volley of complaints raining down on us like arrows in the battle of Agincourt, we will at least make money out of you suckers by increasing call capacity to 1,000 idiots at $1 per minute so we can make $60,000 an hour doing nothing but reading the papers.” To add insult to injury these customer call centres are usually located in Nowheresville Uzbekistan, Mongolia or possibly Scranton. Get through and you might as well talk to an aardvark as all you get is a script with no room for nuance or common sense. In addition I am sure most of the call centre staff would have more chance, blindfolded, pinning the tail on a donkey, than into a map to identify where I am calling from.

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It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it

August 3, 2018
Entertainment/Media/Arts Fasion Health & Beauty Technology
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Why...

Do I care what pattern kitten heels British PM Theresa May is wearing at the next Brexit battle or that the President of the EU is so plastered he cannot even stand up? Surely it’s the outcome of events that matters, not the window dressing surrounding them... but of course it isn’t. Hats off to the English football team (though how are they 4th in the world when losing three games out of six) but most people associate our World Cup campaign with Manager Gareth Southgate’s waistcoat rather than wasted opportunities in front of a goal. Trump is all about haircuts, wandering hands (admittedly the size of G.I. Joe’s) and being rude/blunt/economic with the facts. All quite amusing and the best news fodder any President has gifted to the press since Washington’s teeth got woodworm. But in the long lens of history all irrelevant, which is a shame. The trouble is far reaching results are not instantaneous and do not fit prime time schedules. We focus on things we can control and in our pre-set time frame. So we obsess on the minutiae of events rather than the bigger picture.

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I say, anyone for tennis?

July 7, 2018
Fasion Health & Beauty Food & Drink Politics Sport Technology
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Why...

Have some events managed to stay essentially the same in character whilst others have changed beyond recognition? Wimbledon is in many ways gloriously anachronistic and has stayed resolutely the same since 1877. My late father was on the board and I was immensely lucky to have watched every men’s final from 1969 until his death in 2004. Yes the event is old fashioned but still managed to sneak in the odd dollop of progress. It took till mid 60s before the All English Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club, to give it its official name, allowed professionals to compete. In the 1970s skirts went high and in the 1980s rackets just went high tech. In the 1990s Wimbledon led the way in taking a little pressure out of the balls to stop short serve and volley rallies that threatened to ruin the game... but those two weeks in July are still rooted in Agatha Christie’s England. Pimms Number 1 cup to drink, smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries & cream to eat, and a fearsome dress code. All men must wear jackets and ties in the members enclosure, trousers are frowned on for women and no one raises their voice (John Mcenroe in his prime, the exception that proved the rule). Even now the men’s and ladies champion pair up at the opening dance at the Gala finale ball. You almost expect to see Maggie Smith as Dowager Lady Grantham complete with lorgnette inspecting the crowds to make sure no riff-raff have gained entry. And yet Wimbledon has survived, even thrived. Unique in the tennis world as a Grand Slam on grass yet with the atmosphere of a smart village fete. It’s not the quaint atmosphere that puzzles me, but why no one else has tried to copy it.

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Do you wanna be in my gang?

June 22, 2018
Finance/Law Food & Drink Life Politics Sex Technology
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Why...

Do we seek solace mixing with people who on joining a group or club revert to stereotype? “I never want to be a member of a club which would let me in,” may be a classic Groucho Marx line and a cliché but for good reason... It’s true. I have been very lucky to have been invited as a guest to several clubs and they break down into the following seven categories. Back to school There are a handful of Gentlemen’s Clubs in London holding a male only policy. They are all in Pall Mall and St. James and distinctly different to other Gentleman's clubs that can only operate by having scantily club members of the opposite sex. The London Gentleman’s club is really just public school (private school in the US) for boys who never grew up and miss nanny. The place runs on old fashioned rules. The Nanny organises the social desk and membership fees but that’s the only woman you will see. You better turn up in a tie, shoes polished, nails clipped and hair brushed. Yes, you can drink, but do not get rowdy. Most of the food is what I call nursery menu. A perfect lunch would be: Windsor soup, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Jam Roly-Poly, & Welsh Rarebit. Conversation through the meal with other members sharing your refectory style table equally as stodgy and bland. This is followed with a port and a snooze reading yesterday’s The Times. These throw-back establishments work on handed down privilege, who you know and how you behave. I am sorry to delude new members who have fought their way up in society through hard work and brains to join but… Old Biffo and Squiffy in the corner still look down on you as nouveau riche; the same way they dismissed Johnny Foreigner as a new boy at Rugby or that boy with the flash watch as parents “working in trade”. Back to Basics Health clubs. No frills. Over sophisticated gym equipment and eye wateringly expensive juices, drinks and rabbit food. Staff preachy and superior with bodies buffed to within an inch of their lives. Off peak these caverns of sweat are filled with the bored and rich. These poor souls have nothing else to do except cheat on their partner and sneak off for plastic surgery to show the results of all the dieting and training they pretend to follow. Peak time it’s just an overcrowded dating agency. Back to the Future The Lovie playroom. Media based haunts are filled with overloud voices recalling their last meeting with Brad and Angelina, how genuine the Spielberg’s are and what a shame about Amy’s drug abuse. Always in slightly seedy parts of town set up by failed media wannabes who see this as their entree into the glitterati. The propeller head equivalent of techy clubs are full of earnest members trying to convince you to invest in some crypto crapto currency or hint they might get you into an angel start up fund with guaranteed returns. “So, you’ve invested yourself,” is a sure-fire way of getting rid of them... and leaving you with absolutely no one to talk to. Pointless. Back to the Wall The exclusive nightclub. Exclusive because there are only so many people willing to spend £10k a year for membership to an overcrowded noisy hell-hole that charges prices that are an insult and a door policy that admits only good-looking people with an IQ quota the same as their shoe size. To make it worse should you be insecure enough to have to order a five litre bottle of vodka or a jeroboam of champagne for £1,000, the staff bring attention to your vulgarity by having sparklers light up the bottles as they bring them to you and alert everyone else in the place who is tonight’s soft touch. If you have to go to one for a night of drug fueled fun, you never want them to have your real name anyway. Always make sure someone else is the member. Back in the saddle The Horsey Club. Filled with overweight florid faced men and woman who bray when they laugh. If you ask for the bridal suite it’s a large room full of saddles, riding crops and Gucci buckles and the last place you’d want to spend your honeymoon. If you can separate the bullshit from real horse manure you might get a good tip on a horse. The Back Nine What can I say about a golf club except I don’t want to join one. Ever. It’s a chance for you to dress up like an extra from a Blaxploitation movie, though ethnic minority representation still remains low. Members may slice their tee shots to the left or right, but politics is invariably to the right. I speak with some experience here when in Myrtle Beach a club member made the mistake of asking me my opinion on abortion. “The obvious answer is it is not really a man’s decision; though if it were men who got pregnant, I suspect termination would be so easy it would come from an ATM machine. “No religion recognises a miscarriage or the trauma that causes. So, until they do they cannot go on about the rights of a foetus.” He pulled a gun on me and called security to eject the “limey liberal pinko”! Back Inside There is a great line in the TV series set in a woman’s prison Orange is the New Black with a character greeting a new inmate saying… “Welcome to the 1950s”. The speaker is not referring to the building or facilities. But to the clubs. The Narco Mexicans stick to one group, The Neo-Nazis another, right down to the Nepalese Horse thieves or Belgian child molesters. Everyone has a group. It’s basic. It’s for protection. So, on that note console yourself that Bernie Madoff is not the wife of some 6’6” ex Cripps member but closely closeted with some other fraudster both cheating at monopoly but a least paying protection money to keep their balls.

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The Village Idiot has gone global

May 25, 2018
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Politics Technology
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Why...

Are complete idiots so keen to show the rest of us how stupid they are and why do we lap it up? Now this is not me having a rant and sour grapes. I happily peddle this blog for mainly selfish reasons… I simply enjoy doing it. But honestly who would have believed that a format that is literary in nature would see as the pinnacle of success the scribblings a bunch of self-obsessed wannabees. Originally the internet gave us a lovely set of rose tinted spectacles and we were encouraged to believe the ether would be filled with undiscovered literary titans. China no doubt would produce a dozen Mark Twains, (his little-known book Running for Governor was actually taught to every Chinese kid in school). Instead we got Fang Junping, who is an overnight blogging sensation there… as he explains cosmetics to a population that a few decades ago all wore the same uniform and the only bestseller was Mao’s little red book!

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Funk me, Mark Zuckerburg wants to put me on the naughty step coz I talk like a sailor

Why...

Has swearing become the big no-no on Facebook... as opposed to: how to build a nuclear bomb on a rainy afternoon, five different ways to slice and dice a noisy next door neighbour or learn to shish-kebab the infidel in ten easy steps? I understand that algorithms are being introduced as electronic bleepers to cull blogger’s profanity. Therefore this might be my last blog for a while as I dial down my language. So what happens to my friends on Fanny Hands Lane in Scunthorpe or Butt Hill road in Penistone who are ornithologists and want to discuss the mating habits of a blue tit, a skiddy-cock, nicker-pecker, boobyalla or assapanick? Will the marine biologist from Cockermouth in Cumbria and their aholehole and bummalo fishes be banished from showing pictures or the insect lovers and their cute six legged cockchafers have their accounts closed? No more stories from holiday-makers out to catch a dik-dik (a small antilope) or out for a sail with a fuksheet (foresail). Clearly one man’s passion is Facebook’s poison.

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This call is in confidence....right?

Why...

Do people believe anything indiscreet they commit to an electronic device will not come back to haunt them? The only way you can be sure some witticism, rant or personal video you have sent into the electronic ether will never be disseminated is: kill the recipient blow up every server in existence. As this might prove a bit tricky, you’d think the alternative of only whispering things in confidence into someone’s ear (so long as they don’t have a hearing aid that records) is as obvious as a Donna Versace face lift. And yet........ Privacy started to leave planet earth with President Nixon. He was brought down by recordings in the White House that played back some remarks that ultimately cost him his job. The irony is it was Tricky Dicky himself that started recording in the Oval Office so that Presidents remarks could be recorded for posterity. Doh! Hilary Clinton’s biggest mistake (apart from believing Bill when he promised her for the umpteenth time that was his last peccadillo) was not what she wrote in her emails... it’s that she was dumb enough to write them at all. Sarah Palin was furious when a stash of her emails were leaked with details of a possible ‘mix’ between business and politics… yet her password on such sensitive material was her birthday! If half the rumors about Jack Kennedy are true, there is no way he could have kept a lid on things in today’s world of email message trails and camera phones. Indeed a recent survey showed that a smartphone is the number one hand held device... relegating what men keep in their underpants to second place.

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Ashley Madison, Tinder, Match.com and E- Harmony have a lot to answer for.

Why...

Do people believe a computer will find Mr. Right, or Mrs. Always Right? I believe it was Bill Clinton who said he came from a town called Hope. Perhaps he forgot the prefix No.... Of course everyone should experience love. However if you have hit every branch of the ugly tree, are pushing 70 and can count the number of teeth you have left on one hand, let me be blunt. No dating site is going to send you a Brad Pitt clone with a ribbon tied to his gentleman’s sausage or an Angelina Jolie facsimile wearing a T shirt saying ‘Treat me like a postage stamp. Lick me, stick me and send me on my way’... well not without presenting you with a large bill. Wake up! Internet dating is fine, so long, as Clint Eastwood said, ‘A man must know his limitations’. It is fine and laudable for a dating site to attempt to provide a soul mate. A sex crazed bed mate will almost certainly require a cheque, mate.

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Zip it, stupid!

Why...

Use the postal service? I know handwritten letters are on the endangered species list along with intelligent British Tory MPs but to me they are still a thing of wonder. We are approaching Christmas (not the Holiday Season, not the Festive Season, Yuletide or any other mealy mouthed watered down in case I offend anyone Holiday) and my wife sends out Christmas cards to all four corners of the globe. I am not so impressed that a series of electronic impulses from my computer in Malta can flash this blog across the planet. But a letter? How, in all that’s holy can anyone read the scribble we write on envelopes. To be able to decipher that is black magic. The ZIP code is of course the key. These are the vital numbers read by a computer that send your letter on its merry way and has helped hugely in the efficiency of the postal service... except in England. In dear Olde England the equivalent of the Zip code (which in USA is only numbers) is called the Post Code. It is usually two letters and one number followed by one number and two letters. NW1 0NE You would therefore think to avoid confusion the Masterminds at the GPO (General Post Office) would never use the letters I and O to avoid confusion with the numbers 1 and 0. Er... No. It is simply staggering how many codes in the UK use one of those four. In fact over 75% of Post Codes on our cards have one of those four letters or digits. And as for my friend who lives in OA1 0IU if you don’t get a card, not my fault. Get the clown who gave you that Post Code to change it. How about FU2 GP0

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Upselling to the downtrodden

Why...

Buy a Coke at the cinema that is so big an Olympic diver could use it for high board practice… and you will need a pee half way through the movie if you drink it all? Sucker! You were upsold something useless… and probably with a box of popcorn deep enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa. As I trundle about my everyday life it's becoming nearly impossible not to have some snake oil salesmen try and upsell me on everything I buy. Let’s start with useless upsell number 1- High Octane Performance fuel. The Octane is a flammable hydrocarbon added to petrol and is basically the optimum compression point in the piston cycle when the fuel explodes. If my car can do that with 95 Octane it is an utter waste of money to buy 98 Octane ‘High Performance’ fuel. It will do nothing, zip, nada, blobski-bloojah, f*ck all in terms of performance and just cost me a few more cents per litre. Now that I have been conned out of a few bucks filling up, it’s time for a trip to my supermarket where I am inundated with upsell offers…the result of this is the interior of the car is filled with enough loo paper and fish fingers to supply a battalion of men in Helmand Province. Unless I have amoebic dysentery and only eat fish morning noon and night for thirty years I ain’t ever using it all. Time to go home and watch something on TV? Most digital services make you stack package on top of package before you can get to pay per view movies or entire series box sets. Why? It is irrelevant now with on line services offering pay per view circumventing the need to even have packaged TV… and to add insult to injury the pay TV services then want to charge me more on pay per view than iTunes!!

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We'll always be together, Forever, ? In Electric Dreams...

Why...

Do I not shed a tear for the death of the combustion engine? From 2040 with the banning of all diesel and petrol cars, the UK has scheduled it to go to the great garage in the sky. Even earlier in Norway... but they have Santa power that allows Ingrid and Lars to visit the entire globe in one night on a sleigh, so they are not worried. However under current technology this swap-over just ain't going to happen. Those boffins at the UK's National Grid already have a problem at half time in a big football match when the Brits all flick on the kettle for a cuppa. Imagine what 9 million cars all charging at the same time in will do? That's before we work out where we will find enough lithium to make all these batteries as well as work out how to transport them without blowing up. A small question here dear reader. If a lithium battery can blow up in transit, what makes it not catch fire when subsequently in use? No no no, I still give a huge bow of respect to the propellor head's who Elon Musk has corralled together at Tesla, but the knee jerk reaction from the other car makers to buzz down the same electric path is wrong. Hydrogen, the most plentiful gas in the universe must be the long term answer. Water out your exhaust pipe, fill up time same as petrol and no one has a monopoly on the stuff. In a hundred years, electric cars and Hybrids will be seen with the same affection as other backwaters of transport; the steam car, the Segway and Wankel engines.

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When customer service absolutely positively has to be destroyed overnight...

Why...

Does my courier company sometimes think I'm psychic? Not only must I know when their little websites tell me my goodies are on the van, when in reality they aren't, even if they are due to be delivered over a 13 hour time spread from 6am to 7pm, it's just a guide. I clearly would not sit pining for the delivery van all day and half the night when I really know the window during the day he will come, so can arrange my day accordingly. The company also knows I get a tingling in my head on those days the driver gets lost or fancies a quick one with that lovely lady at number 22 and joshes to say I was out anyway and could we do it all again tomorrow. My how we laugh at that one! Now, as my courier thinks I still believe in fairies, unicorns and that La Donald is not bald, I must also have faith in Customer Service.... a contradiction in terms right up there with New Classic, Civil Servant and Gourmet Pizza. Nevertheless after three days of hide and hide (nothing to seek) I give them a call. Punching in more numbers and data than on a battalion of lottery tickets I eventually get a voice that asks again for all the same information… only to be put on hold… listening to music so awful as to make me bless Kenny Gee. But hope springs eternal and just as I am about to hang up some one chirps: “I am putting you through now"… to listen to more music. The call centre based out in Ulan Bator might offer to call me back and if by some miracle they do I note the number is withheld. God forbid a customer might want to initiate contact! When I get to be king any customer service (yes you BA, Vodafone, Insurance claims departments, etc., etc.) that does not have listed names with emails or direct phone lines will be made: A)to cut the White House Lawn with nail scissors and then B)to pick up the cut blades with tweezers.

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Rare is only good for beef...

April 21, 2017
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Technology
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Why...

Do we collect rare things that need repairing? I suppose my wife is blessed that outside of her all our family and close friends, the only thing that floats my boat are classic cars. Expensive but a snip compared to yachts, a string of polo ponies (or mistresses) let alone a drug addiction that would trouble the resources of Pfizer. However I soft soap all this malarkey by saying that these cars have proved great investments. The truth is however if I added up all the money I have lost by selling cars too early and instead had kept them in the garage, my caviar pot would be so deep a soup ladle could not reach the bottom! A baboon could have made money in classic cars over the last decade as the market just shifted. If you had owned a car you bought in 2008 for £150,000 it could easily be worth £1.5m now without lifting a finger ...except you do have to look after it. And this is when 'rare' bites you firmly in the butt. If you own a Renoir sculpture, an 1851 Franklin stamp or even a Disney cell from Steamboat Willie you have to look after it but not repair it. Much of the upside of owning something that is rare evaporates when it is mechanical and you find the grobulator needs replacing or the elegiac couplet is worn out. Tiny bits of metal take on a value as if made from kryptonite and suddenly an engine rebuild on your rare Maserati requires a second mortgage (or third if you used the second to pay for the darn car). The sucking of teeth when I ask a builder how much a bit of point work will run me is nothing compared to the shaking of heads and look of pity were I to need a new handbrake for a 'Duesy SSJ' or even a gear knob for an Alfa Montreal. Remember that ten fold increase in the price of the car? Well the parts prices will have shot up at the same rate! A nut and bolt have to be weighed out on jewellers scales. Luckily technology, if not originality, has come riding over the hill like the 7th Cavalry. 3D Printers. Forget worrying if these machines are able to whip up an ICBM for Kim Jung Un or a fancy set of shoe lifts for the small but perfectly formed President Putin; what really matters is in a few moments this machine can make a window winder for a 58 Corvette! Yup suddenly the cost of making a spare part at last is on nodding terms to the price it sells for.

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Come back Muzak....all is forgiven

March 18, 2017
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Technology
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Why...

Does background music sometimes morph into foreground noise? There was a time when stuck in a lift and hearing an instrumental version of the uber soppy song 'Feelings' had the same effect on me as fingernails on a blackboard. I even checked out of a hotel in Grand Canary as it insisted on piping out to the swimming pool, Beatles hits played on a flute. Luxury. I had no idea how blessed I was. At least it was bland. I had breakfast in New York recently where I was subjected to everything from Acid Techno to Xylophone Rap Music. Yesterday I was wandering round a local Computer store accompanied by Death Metal so loud my teeth rattled. Clearly to the Goths who were working the tills that day this racket was aural nectar but not when I am trying to remember which type of connector my wife has on her iPad. When I am subjected to a music genre that slaps me in the face and actually pisses me off, is that really the effect the store owners want to foster? Music is for the customer, not the staff.

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I'm sorry. There will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.

January 13, 2017
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Technology
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Why...

Are we so surprised that people die. It's the one reliable thing all humans do. In 2016 some people believe that the Grim Reaper cruelly took his scythe and cut down a larger than normal number of celebrities. Of course it's nonsense. It's a statistical certainty that every year more and more famous people die as fame itself exploded in the fifties and sixties by quintupling the number of celebs with the advent of TV and pop stars. Sadly some are just getting old or a lifetime's effect of drugs and booze takes its toll. (OK I can't explain Keith Richards. Does he actually cast a shadow? Has anyone seen him out in sunlight?) Not only has the internet given us professional offendees (http://andanotherthin.wpengine.com/so-who-made-you-a-professional-offendee/#andanotherthing) but now we have remote mourners. Allegedly Clint Eastwood said the strangest by product of being famous for a long time is people believe, as you have been part of their life, they somehow are a part of yours. This must explain the tsunami of tears that drown out every other aspect of news when someone famous shuffles off the mortal coil. People openly howl with grief, lay out flowers and even take a day off work when pop star Bent Axl, sixties glamour puss Lavinia Nightly or TV reality star Booty Licious pegs it but care not a hoot for a hobo who died in the street. Please don't tell me one life is worth the same as another. In the mourning stakes column inches in the tabloids is directly related to decibel level of global wailing.

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The Digital Water Cooler and the End of Suburbia

Why...

Actually go to work? As some of you know, a while back I hightailed it out of the UK to settle in Malta. Contrary to popular belief this was not to retire and endlessly gargle drinks with little umbrellas in them and discuss the good old days with expats and people in Witness Protection. It was to set up a digital business; a revolutionary App that makes language learning fun. LingoZING! (www.lingozing.com) uses the visual storytelling of digital comics and graphic novels with an interactive multi language interface. Basically you can hear and read in two languages switching between the two with an onscreen slider. The actual App goes live in January 2017 but you can get a glimpse on Kickstarter, https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/446245694/lingozing-the-fun-way-to-learn-a-language?ref=recommended) One of the early meetings with a friend (and now investor) started with: "Why should I invest in a company whose people are spread across the globe like so many ticks on a dog's back?" "Coz these ticks bite 18 hours a day, " I snapped back faster than knicker elastic. You see we have a team in Bulgaria, two of us are in Malta, the CFO in South Africa, the CTO in San Diego and marketing people in the USA, France and Brazil. So in the highly unlikely event of anyone working only eight hours, there is someone working 18 out of 24 hours a day. That's pretty impressive for a start up with low overheads. We of course are not the only disparate group of people all bound by the same digital umbilical cord rather than being anchored to the office water fountain. Connectivity comes from phone, email, SMS, Skype or Zoom. However I feel no less of a homogenous whole than if we were all crammed into expensive office space. In fact it's better. Sure occasionally you take a Skype call at a ridiculous time in the night with a shirt and tie on top but still in dressed below in sweat pants! I have no commute and the coffee is excellent. My computer screen is the Alice Through the Looking Glass that binds me to my friends and colleagues.

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Light bulbs. The devil's own testicles!

Why...

Is the simple light bulb really the work of Beelzebub? Whenever a lightbulb goes 'ping' in my house, my whole day gets dimmer. Bayonet, screw in, full width, half width, 40 watt, 60 watt, clear, pearl.... pointless and endless variations.....yet on top of all that nonsense I now have to deal with eco friendly bulbs. These are a giant stride backwards. Firstly they are all fugly (f*cking ugly). The shape looks like Mr Whippy has poohed a glass. I guarantee Thomas Edison's prototype got brighter quicker. These new things need an eon to warm up before on full beam. It's like going back to old cathode ray tube tv's. I used to turn those on, go make a cup of tea, have a cigarette, a wee and when I came back my TV was just flickering into life. Eco bulbs.That's progress like saying a cannibal uses a knife and fork! However the palaver of changing normal bulbs pales compared to swapping out a halogen ceiling light. There are more variations how these little bastards screw into the ceiling than excuses Justin Bieber gives for speeding. Firstly as I try and get the inner socket out, ceiling plaster always gives my head a nice quasi-dandruff coating. Next, whichever catch spring or twisting technique Torquemada the builder fitted, the burnt out bulb clings to the socket like a slinky twenty year old Russian to a fat billionaire. So then I make the mistake of grabbing the bulb which is hotter than Satan's underpants and I a) burn my fingers, b) drop the bulb to the ground where it smashes. I try and reverse the whole procedure fitting a replacement. Another dusting of plaster this time in my eyes so I'm half blind as I try and screw the new one in. After wrestling with the fixture until I get neck camps I eventually get the bulb in...only to turn the thing on and discover it's not the bulb but the transformer that's bust. Frankly I'd rather use the man who invented these things as a human candle than have to change another.

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You have a vocation...? My arse!

Why...

Am I most jealous of people who know from the get-go what they are going to do in life? The kid who instinctively knows he or she wants to be a vet, concert pianist, architect or pilot and seemingly glides into his or her chosen life path. The rest of us stumble across jobs both weird and wonderful but as far from youthful aspirations as you can get. Do kids fantasise about being an arbitrageur, systems analyst, account manager, VAT inspector or Border Control/Customs Official as opposed to firemen, nurses and astronauts? Proctologists really worry me. I cannot believe that among the fresh faced interns at Med school there's a clutch of them burning with desire to spend their working day with their digit stuck up a strangers butt. Indeed if there were such people, counselling is what they need rather than medical training. Nope I suspect many proctologists flunked their first choice. "Sorry, grades not good enough for brain, cosmetic or heart surgery but there is an opening (in more than one sense) in the proctology department". Shock, horror, forlorn look on student. "It's not so bad...though no one wants to shake your hand. The pay is stratospheric and you don't take your work home with you." Job sold!

..and another thing (continue to read this post)

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