SaneScientist

Like Athlete's foot..

2007-06-21T19:53:00.000+01:00

Just when you all thought I'd gone away, I'm back! Like a particularly nasty case of Herpes, I've been dormant for ages, only to be awakened by UV.

In answer to the many (unasked) questions,
1) No I'm not dead.
2) No I've not been ill.
3) Yes, I have.
4) Only the once, but I promised never to talk about it.

I have been shockingly idle on the blogging front, I haven't even been lurking. I'm dreading looking at the spam that's no doubt accumulated in the "hidden" comments from old posts. I've noticed that untended blogs are rather like untended dinner plates, after a while they accumulate strange and malodorous growths.

But anyways, I thought it time to check back in.

I'm still working, although we haven't had any overtime for a few weeks. This is probably just as well, since although the money was great, the gain of half a stone in weight and incipient RSI wasn't.

I have just finished a creative writing course at my local college. I'm already missing it. It was a real kick in the arse to get writing properly. Next term I'll have to try and find a course at my local Uni, once I've figured out my work load.

And most importantly, I got into my first-choice University for PGCE. I shan't elaborate any more, suffice to say it is a well-respected Uni Daan Saarf and I'm really looking forward to it.

Next week, I shall be off to Paris on Holiday, then visiting a local Primary school for a day, as part of my course preparation. Although I will be studying to teach Secondary Biology, we are expected to visit a couple of Primary Schools to see where the kids come from, and get a feel for what level they are at before they start secondary school.

Au revoir

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-04-17T21:45:00.000+01:00

No. 86. Cats.

Now I realise that this may be a touch controversial. That there may be readers that have a fondness for these nasty little brutes.

My Blog my rules.

Why my ire I hear you ask?

Well, two weeks ago, my best mates went on holiday. Seven AM the day they were due to go, my phone rang.

"Uh, Hi. Can I ask an eensy weensy favour, please?"

"ooohhhkkaayyy."

"Last night, when we were preparing to take the cats to my parents, we found a flea".

As a biologist, I felt obliged to point out that fleas aren't like Leopards or Eagles. Where there is one, there is usually a shit load more nearby.
He agreed, hence the favour.
Would it be possible for me to drive 10 miles every night to feed them and clean out their litter trays?

Hmmm.

My only pets as a child were numerous short-lived Goldfish and an elderly budgie. I'd never had anything that required that sort of looking after.

"Don't worry, you don't have to pet them or anything."

They've got fleas - you're damn right I'm not fucking petting them.

"Oh, and they have to stay in. They'll probably try and get past you when you go out the back. Don't let them".

Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

Now here's the thing. I don't mind driving over there every evening. It's a fairly pleasant, relaxing drive and twenty years of friendship is worth a few minutes behind the wheel I think.

So, OK. How bad could it be.

Bad.

Let's just put it this way, the cats were on dirty protest at their unexpected confinement. Shunning the litter tray and leaving small landmines all over the hallway, I realised just how smelly cats are. Add to that the fact that one of the cats appeared to be off his food (he's always a bit funny for the first 24 hours I'm told), and the scene reminded me of the Maze prison during the troubles (PS don't tell my mate, but I've renamed the one off his food Bobby Sands).

Something I also discovered rather quickly is that cat food is revolting. The smell made my stomach churn. Even worse, lifting the litter tray I discovered to my horror that one of them had the runs and had half missed the tray, causing it to pour off the side on to the carpet - to this day, I don't know how I didn't vomit on the spot.

In all fairness, by the end of the 2 weeks, I appear to have gottten used to the odour of cat shit and don't lose my appetite at the faintest wiff of cat food. However, if this was an attempt to convince me that my life would be more fullfilled if I owned a cat - I'm afraid it has failed dismally.

My friends got back last week.

"How was it - I hope it wasn't too bad for you?"

"No, of course not it was fine. Just don't go in the kitchen barefoot".

Well, that's what being a mate is all about innit?

Thinking the unspeakable

2007-04-14T15:14:00.000+01:00

Apologies for my tardiness of late. I have a new job (I'll blog about that in the future). Fortunately for my ravaged bank balance, but less fortunately for my blog, they have removed overtime limits for the next few weeks, so I have been working 14 hour days to earn as much money for next year as I can. Making hay and all that.

However today I just had to share this with you all.

There are certain things which are always taboo. They are part of the unwritten rules of society, and whilst we can think certain things, we can never, ever, say them out loud.

For example, several of my new colleagues are parents or proud aunts and uncles. Last week, a few of us were chatting over coffee. One of my workmates has two small girls, and had been away for the Easter weekend. After detailing their exploits, she pulled out her mobile phone and showed us some delightfully cute pictures of her beaming kids. Naturally, this sparked a bout of benign one-upmanship with other pictures duly produced. Not wanting to feel left out, I started showing pictures of my gorgeous three year old niece taken on Easter Sunday. Like all modern three-year olds, the moment someone takes their phone out she gets into her cutest and most photogenic pose. I am of course very biased, but I like to think that my pictures got the biggest "Aaahs" of anybody's.

Finally another co-worker's turn. We've heard a lot about her little niece and nephew, whom she clearly dotes on. I saw the pictures first.

Oh dear.

There is no kind way to put this. The kids were ugly. Butt ugly.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not mocking the afflicted they are clearly healthy, lovely kids. By all accounts, there is nothing wrong with them. They are apparently, bright, happy and popular.

They're just... ugly. A face like a bulldog chewing a thistle covered in piss, as one of my friends might say.

"What a pair of cuties!" I lied, feeling like an absolute shit. Is there something wrong with me? Small children are always cute. That's an inviolable rule.
"They're lovely!" I fibbed passing them on to another guy, who'd been proudly showing off his 5 year-old step daughter. He blinked hard twice, his adams apple bobbing.
"Gorgeous!" he enthused.

Our eyes locked for an instant. Nothing will ever be said. Our traitorous thoughts will never be spoken aloud. But I know the truth.

It isn't just me.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-04-03T19:27:00.000+01:00

No. 85. Blind Drivers.

Last Sunday, my Dad insured me on the family car. After an enjoyable pub lunch (sans alcohol I might add), I drove us back home. Three hundred metres from our family home, we stopped at a set of lights. As we sat waiting for the lights to change, I glanced in my rear view mirror. "That's strange," I thought, "Unless the rapidly approaching car behind is left-hand drive, it would seem that the driver has covered her eyes". My thoughts were then rudely interupted by a loud bang and a violent jerk.

Yup, for the FOURTH time since I passed my test 12 years ago (bearing in mind that in that time I have spent less than 2 years in total on the road), some TWAT has driven up the back of me when I've been stationary. Fortunately, as in all the other cases I had my handbrake on (thrice bitten, four times shy!) and so I didn't go up the back of the van in front. Getting out, we went through the now familiar motions. I have to confess, I was somewhat irked and may have inadvertantly accused the other driver of having a liquid lunch. I think I was entitled.

Anywhoo, we retired around the corner and inspected the cars. We had been very fortunate. Our rear bumper was slightly dinged but all the lights worked fine and the boot opened and shut smoothly. Everyone was fine. Mum and Dad were due to go on holiday, so we decided that as the other driver didn't seem too concerned about her cracked front bumper and broken license plate, we may as well let bygones, be bygones - funnily enough, she seemed to be rather keen to leave - I wonder why?

As I said, this latest accident is my fourth. The first happened shortly after my test and was a hit and run from a drunk driver on Xmas eve. The fucker drove off and although we had his number, when he was accosted by the police the next morning they couldn't prove that he had started his mammoth drinking binge the night before. Result - my car was totalled, and I only had third-party insurance. It would be 3 years before I could afford to own another car.

Number two happened a few years later, when I was waiting at a junction to enter a busy slip road. The driver behind decided the gap in the traffic was wide-enough to take and took it - despite me still being in front of him. Result - I got pushed in front of a lorry (who swerved, thank god!), my car was technically written off (it was too old to repair in a garage cost-effectively), and I needed to change my clothes from the waist down. Fortunately, Dad is pretty handy with a tool kit and a sledge hammer and we were able to repair the damage enough for me to drive the car again.

Number three happened on a motorway exit to Dad's car. I had come off and was waiting patiently at the top of the slip road for the lights to change. Three cars back some prick exited the motorway at high speed and set up a domino affect. Result - a redesigned rear-end and months of arguing with Direct Line.

In three of these cases, fortunately, my Dad was also in the car. Obviously I'm not happy about my nearest and dearest being put in danger by morons who can't drive properly. But on the plus side, you can imagine how my father just might have trouble believing me when I ring up for the fourth time, claiming "I've been in another accident and it wasn't my fault, honest".

So, to all of you who like to drive after a beer or twelve, believe that you can drive whilst covering your eyes or are perhaps unable to see a 1 tonne lump of bright green metal between you and the open road - GET YOUR FUCKING EYES TESTED AND CATCH THE BUS!

Twats.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-03-20T18:46:00.000Z

No. 84. Over-age Goths.

This particular Twat Award was stimulated by a rather uncomfortable reunion recently. A group of my old uni mates and I had met up for an evening of drinking and debauchery (albeit, one interupted by frequent calls to baby-sitters and an early night, since we all have jobs now and can't stand to stay up past one - wimps). Enter "Jane".

Embarrassed silence.

Back in the day, Jane was a goth. Naturally, we took the piss out of her, but all in all, we accepted that experimentation in one's university years is to be encouraged. I briefly parted my hair on the other side for example. However, it would seem that not all of us have grown out of our teenage rebellious phase.

Jane discovered gothism mid-way through her second year. Overnight, she dyed her platinum blonde hair jet black, started wearing torn fishnet tights, painted her nails black and began wearing emulsion on her face. Indeed, for one as naturally pale as Jane, the effect was really rather startling. Of course, she also developed a few of the less desirable Goth traits, such as lecturing us all on how boring and conformist we all were, then sulking for days on end when one of us dared ask "how come, if goths are so indivdualistic, you all dress the same, listen to the same music and go to exactly the same pubs?".

But anyways, she was a pleasant enough lass, and I was looking forward to seeing her for the first time in years. Yet it seems that despite reaching the ripe old age of thirty, Jane still wants to be fourteen. Even more shockingly, despite no longer living at home with her parents, she still listens to Marilyn Manson, her T-shirt proving that she has attended one of his concerts within recent memory. Now call me an old fuddy duddy, but isn't the target demographic for Mr Manson middle-class sixteen year olds who simply want to annoy the fuck out of their parents "cos they don't understand me"? Why would a well-educated thirty-year old with a proper grown-up job, who by all accounts enjoys a healthy relationship with her parents, listen to him? She doesn't even suffer from acne any more. Shouldn't she have grown out of him by now?

Oh well, it was nice to see her again, and once we got past the urge to ask her which of her school teachers she hates most and how often she gets asked for ID in the off-licence, we had a great evening. But as a public service, I politely suggest that any my readers who are over the age of 21 and still listen to Marilyn Manson and dress like Ozzy Osborne - please don't. It's extremely unsettling - rather like finding that an 18 stone Rugby player still wets the bed and sleeps with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh or those Japanese business men who like wearing giant nappies and being bottle fed.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-03-07T22:32:00.000Z

No. 83. Airport Baggage Handlers.

I can't decide what's worse.

The utter contempt they show for your baggage.

The utter contempt they show for you, knowing that you are standing, watching in horror as the fuckers deliberately and unnecessarily hurl your bags off the plane.

I watched, with dozens of fellow passengers, in absolute disgust at Washington Dulles as baggage handlers lifted suitcases to chest height, before dropping them on to the floor. The windows in Dulles are floor to ceiling, so we could watch our plane being loaded. The bastards knew they were being watched as they kept on smirking at us.

And it isn't just Dulles. After just two trips between the UK and Canada, my suitcase has been consigned to the bin. Even more distressingly, the backup hard disk I had in my case was smashed and required major surgery before it worked. Fortunately, I had packed my "overflow" hard disk in my hand luggage with my laptop, so all of my irreplaceable data was safe fom these cretins.

And did I mention that they are a bunch of thieves? A close friend made it to Australia to find that whilst at first glance everything was still within the suitcase, her jewellry boxes had been emptied and the empty boxes placed back into the suitcase, presumably in the hope that she didn't notice for a while.

All in all, I am glad not to be travelling for a while, and in future I will invest in a bomb-proof samsonite and ensure that anything that these scum might regard as valuable is kept in my hand-luggage.

On the eve of my departure

2007-02-23T02:41:00.000Z

Well, that's it. I fly back tomorrow, my Canadian adventure at an end.

Naturally, in time-honoured tradition I have barely started packing, I still have three loads of laundry to do and I haven't so much as cracked the seal on any cleaning products. Yes, this post is procrastination.

However, almost all my chores are completed. I closed my bank account today and deposited over $70 of quarters, 10c, 5c and 1c pieces. I spent the best buy vouchers that I got for my birthday - annoyingly Bestbuy is still sold out of the 14disc boxset of all the superman movies, so I settled for the 2-disc special edition of Superman Returns, plus the three star trek films I had not yet got. Before anyone asks, don't worry, my laptop has a region zero plug-in, so I can watch them!

The only remaining chores are to be done first thing tomorrow. I wanted to catch Smallville tonight, so I will be donating my TV to the thrift centre tomorrow, and returning my cable TV and modem to the Rogers store - just as soon as I've found one! Now I have to call a cab for tomorrow afternoon. Rumour has it, there will be a snowstorm. Bugger. That'll make carting my suitcases around a pain in the arse, and also make it more likely that my flight will be cancelled. Oh well, my first flight to this continent went disastorously wrong, there is a certain symmetry to it all going tits up on the way home.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-02-20T05:29:00.000Z

No. 82. Bell Canada.

OK, Bell Canada have pissed me off.

Firstly, I am irrationally annoyed that they want to screw me for $140 to cover the cost of my cell phone subscription now that I am leaving. Now, I am the first to admit that it was my fault for signing a 12 month contract, and that they are perfectly within their rights to charge me $20/month to cover the rest of my contract. However, the buggers insisted on making me talk to a straight man. Why is that an issue, I hear you ask? Because straight Canadian men are immune to an English accent.

You see, something that I have found in the past few months is that the Canadian ladies are surprisingly susceptible to an English accent. Whether I should be thanking Hugh Grant, Prince William or every Bond actor after Connery, I don't know. Nevertheless, I have found that even my council estate drawl allows me to approach and flirt with women well out of my league and charm my way out of paying library fines or penalty fees (the lovely lady at Rogers Cable dropped the disconnection fee when I told her how I'd lost my job and was going to retrain and to work with children - similarly, I played the bumbling Brit abroad and got my astronomical library fines halved "just this once" when I convinced the librarian that I couldn't log-in to renew my books over christmas. This was partly true - I couldn't, but I then forgot to actually return the books for a week after returning to Canada after christmas). But no dice.

So I was already somewhat less than enamoured with Bell on saturday, when I missed my bus out of town and needed to check my hotmail to lookup contact numbers to tell my friends I would be late for a party. I found a public access terminal, run by Bell, in the train station that charged the outrageous sum of $2 for 10 minutes. Depositing my $2, I logged onto Hotmail. Nothing. After several attempts I gave up and decided to check www.bbc.co.uk. The odds of either site being down is miniscule. Nothing. The access terminal had no internet connection. It also had no refund button. For problems with the terminal, I was advised to call a freephone number between 9am and 5pm mon-fri or email support. How? There is no bloody internet connection!

So, having 40 minutes to kill, I decided to use a public payphone to call the engineer's repair line on 611. It is childish I know, but for the next 30 minutes I (extremely politely) harangued some poor call centre worker, demanding my two dollars back. The poor sod couldn't understand that I was a member of the public and kept on asking me my business account number or my home account number. He left me to talk to his supervisor three times. However, because I was being polite he couldn't just hang up on me for being abusive (calls are monitored - that works both ways!), furthermore, he didn't have the commonsense to tell me that I had called the wrong number. I suspect that had my bus not arrived, I could still be there now. What I should have done of course, was gently place the receiver on the side and tiptoed off to the bus. Instead I took pity on him and said that I would call back during office hours on monday.

Childish? Yes. Satisfying - oh yeah! I know that call centre wages are pretty poor, but I like to think that the time wasted on me cost more than the $2 Bell stole off me.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-02-13T11:48:00.000Z

No. 81. Larry King (and mini-me Anderson Cooper).

Larry King, despite rarely darkening UK screens, was known to me before I crossed the Atlantic. I knew of him as the Daddy of US chatshow hosts. He's interviewed every US President since Abe Lincoln, is rarely turned down for an interview, is watched and loved by millions of Americans every night - and was impersonated in Gremlins 2.

Why?

Since moving here, I often find my TV tuned to CNN. Sure they aren't nearly as good as the BBC, but unfortunately BBC World is a rather stripped down affair compared to BBC24, with news bulletins every half hour and a seemingly endless parade of worthy but dull documentaries on life as a gay woman in Uttar Pradesh.

Every week night, Larry King puts on his bowtie and suspenders (note to UK readers - North Americans refer to braces as suspenders - at least until I tell them that suspenders are pantyhose in the UK...) leans over his desk, and asks inane questions for an hour, interupted only by commercials every 6 minutes and the always breathless Anderson Cooper plugging his own show immediately afterwards.

Now I realise it is a bit much to expect a President or former President, or even a Presidential hopefull every night, but I have to say the old boy really scrapes the barrell sometimes. For example 3 weeks ago he basically gave over his show to American Idol. He spent the entire night (for several nights in a row) "interviewing" former Idol runner ups asking if they thought Simon Cowell was a big fat meanie and then extending the 15 minutes of fame of the Muppet rejects who were canny enough to get featured in the show and bag themselves an agent. I suppose the only interesting thing to be garnered from the interview was the dizzy blonde former contestant who cheerfully (and perhaps a little too candidly) explained the intimate details of how Idol actually works. I.E you go through 3 rounds of auditions before meeting the judges, so that only the great and the freaky get through; that you sign a contract giving the producers the right to take the piss royally ad infinitum; that they own yo sorry ass.

Basically, King will give any one who wants it, 15 minutes or more of airtime. If you are a bullshit artist like Deepak Chopra, you get even more.

Last week, however, it became nasty.
On the Tuesday, news broke that an Astronaut had completely flipped, allegedly driven 1000miles in a nappy and confronted her love rival. Despite there being no information of any note at all, every rent a shrink near a cell phone was asked their opinion. Anderson Cooper scrapped his plans (probably some trifling piffle about the Iraqi civil war - not really important) to heap speculation upon speculation and supposition upon supposition.

Then Pay Dirt! Anna Nicole Smith is found dead!
For a man with a bad heart, King was so excited I was worried. Only last week, he had been giving the two competing fathers of her child an unnecessary amount of airtime, and of course he'd had her on his show dozns of times previously. It was nauseating to watch. Somehow, King managed to keep a sombre expression and tone, despite the fact it was obvious that he was furiously masturbating under the desk.

The thing is, I have little or no time for that type of Z-list floosy, and I found the whole public custody battle just another way of distracting the braindead masses from actually contemplating anything of worth. But I was sickened by the reaction only hours after her death. I turned over after a few minutes. When I came back about 40 minutes later (my cable box cycles through bookmarked channels in a preset order), not only were they still discussing her death - they were talking to legal representatives about when was the best time to take DNA samples - before or after autopsy.

The following night, it was more of the same with added shit-slinging from the wannabe fathers.

So to Larry King and Anderson Cooper, I award you a Tuesday Twat. Put it at the front of the trophy cabinet, you actually deserve this one.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2007-02-06T23:13:00.000Z

No. 80. Canadian Online Companies

Yes, I'm in a bad mood.

With my pending exit from this continent looming, I have decided to take advantage of being over here to do a spot of travelling. I've decided to nip south of the border and fulfill a long-standing ambition to visit the Smithsonian Museum(s) in Washington DC.

Since I will need flights and accomodation, I decided to use Expedia.ca to do so. On the plus side, I got flights (leaving Canada early in the morning and returning late at night to maximise the vacation), two nights at a seedy motel 2 miles from Capitol Hill and all the museums, and airport transfers for C$550. Not bad at all.

On the down-side, the buggers won't let me pay for it!

I've hit the great Canadian online "you don't have a Canadian credit card" wall of resistance. I've noticed that Visa is only international... outside of Canada. Seriously. I first had this problem booking flights home for christmas with TripCentral.ca. I had to do all sorts of shit, like photocopying and faxing my UK credit card and passport before they would accept my reservation. Relatives hit a similar block when they tried to get Amazon.ca to send me birthday and christmas presents. I tried to reserve some stuff online... same thing.

I tried to phone in the credit card number - but even the supervisor didn't understand what my problem was. "Just use your Candian card".
"I.. don't... have.. a... Canadian... Card"
I have a Canadian bank account ("We don't take cheques sir, we are an online company").
I have a CIBC "convenience card" (That isn't Visa or Mastercard, sir. You can only use it in ATMs")
I have a Canadian address ("We need the address the card is registered to").

Why is this? I'm told that this doesn't present a problem in Australia or New Zealand.

Finally I gave up and switched to Expedia.co.uk. I booked precisely the same trip, using the same flights and same hotel (then also added a couple of sight-seeing tours) for £300 (actually slightly cheaper by my maths). I went to pay and found that on Expedia.co.uk if I were, for example a Canadian, I COULD SELECT A NON-UK CREDIT CARD.

Visa - accepted everywhere. Except Canada.

A step into the unknown...

2007-01-27T03:42:00.000Z

Today I handed my letter of resignation. A remarkably liberating experience - I highly recommend it!

Don't worry, I haven't gone mad!

The truth is, I have been unhappy for several months. Since coming to Canada, I have found it very difficult to get into my research. Since the moment I got here, I have felt out of place in the lab. I've found the work hard going and have struggled to connect with my coworkers and my supervisor. I found myself constantly at odds with my supervisor, seemingly unable to deliver what was expected of me. Despite working like a dog before christmas, then writing a grant proposal over christmas, my efforts were summarily dismissed as rubbish and not what was expected of a postdoc. Whether the demands placed upon me were realistic or not is a debte for another time.

Anyways, I have been repeatedly told that I am not PI material and questioned (sometimes publically) over my commitment to the project and to my goal of becoming an independent researcher.

After my last position, where I was miserable to the point of being ill, I decided that I wouldn't go through that again. After several weeks of feeling increasingly depressed, I have decided that it's time to move on.

Canada itself is not the problem, indeed I've enjoyed my time here. However, being so cut off from my friends and family back home probably didn't help. The time difference for example made calling people very difficult. I couldn't call in the evening and weekends are always a hard time to get hold of people. When I went home at christmas and just sat in my friend's living room chatting, I realise just how much I missed them all.

So, on to the future! After thinking about it off and on for years, I have decided to apply to teacher training college. Everyone I've spoke to (including current teachers) have been resoundingly positive, some going as far as to say it's a move long overdue. I have had some experience in the past and enjoyed it. Ironically, my time at the sportcentre last year actually showed that I can deal pretty well with kids, including badly behaved troublemakers.

When I told my boss, I really wasn't sure what to expect. To describe her temperament as "mercurial" would be an understatement. I figured the odds were even that I'd either get a hug or steaming mug of Tim Horton's over my head - in the event she was delighted for me, and as I outlined my plans for the future said that I looked happier than she'd ever seen me. We probably had the most pleasant half-hour chat since I got off the plane back in the autumn!

So I shall be returning to England, hopefully before the end of the month, to my parents' basement (as a coworker kindly put it) to start temping work again. Joy. At the same time, friends are trying to organise shadowing for me at the various schools they have contacts with. In that respect I am extremely fortunate. I hope to get at least a couple of different placements sorted.

The boss let me off my contractual obligation to work 2 more months (little point really), however I do have to give lab meeting Tuesday morning. I can't say I am looking forward to that particularly - but lets face it, they can't exactly fire me now can they?

So to all those lovely ladies I've been flirting with (you know who you are!) watch out - Sanescientist is back in town!

A bit of friendly advice..

2007-01-25T18:57:00.000Z

... to the contestants on American Idol.

By a cheap tape recorder with a microphone and record yourself first. Then don't bother.

This is news?

2007-01-17T22:27:00.000Z

TV Celebrity chef Stein's dog dies.

I'm sorry, but who gives a fuck?

Entering my fourth decade

2007-01-16T04:23:00.000Z

Yes, I'm back. I've been extremely poor at blogging lately I know, but sometimes life gets in the way and you just don't seem to find the time.

But anyways, as you can tell from the title, today I reached the big three-o. Guess it's time to grow up soon...

My christmas was pretty quiet. By far the most interesting thing was my flight home. It took three days, after the UK was blanketed in fog. Suffice to say, I spent a day in a nice French hotel and a night on a not-so-nice French coach. No toilets and drivers who were, shall we say, "Parisian" in their attitude toward customer service...

The only plus point is the 6 brand new friends I made on the journey. A mixture of ex-pat Brits and Canadians, we had our first reunion on saturday, to celebrate my birthday! WooHoo! I saw out my twenties in style. I'm ashamed to say that I haven't been so drunk in years.

I blame the shots they kept on buying. After far more than was sensible for a man who avoids liquors like the plague, for good reason, I jumped at the chance to carry on drinking at a karaoke bar. Bad move.

The bar was pretty cool. It was actually a series of private rooms (it would make a good brothel)and we were meeting some friends of friends of friends, who had booked a booth. Having turned up I treated them all to shocking renditions of Guns n Roses "Sweet child o mine" and Robbie Williams "Angels". I promised the ladies in the room that the Robster, whom none of them had heard of, would get them moist. Sadly, I didn't. Any lingering dreams of pop stardom were shattered when I heard my voice over the speakers. Ouch.

Seeing as I didn't know anyone, I didn't feel compelled to stay with our party - whom I wouldn't recognise under normal lighting anyways, and somehow found my self drinking beer at somebody else's birthday party. Then there was the Hen party who pinched my camera - when I finally got it back, the memory card was half full of random shots of people I don't know - and my (clothed) arse - the cheeky bitches had photographed a re-enactment of them stealing my camera from my supposedly secure camera case, whilst I chatted with the bride at the bar! Methinks I need to find a camera shop before I take my camera on any sightseeing tours. The next person to nick it might not return it.

Anyways, I don't remember the taxi drive home, but I do remember an additional stop at the cashpoint (shudder - you don't want to know how much I spent that night). I awoke sunday with a mouth like a sandpit, a throbbing headache and a string of shiny green beads around my neck. Now that's what I call a night out folks!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-12-19T04:14:00.000Z

No. 79. Christmas Songs.

Now I know that this is going to make me sound like a Scrooge, but if I hear one more re-fucking-imagining of "little donkey" or "When a child is born", I'll go stabby.

I had always felt (based on overseas students' comments) that Britain led the way in toe-curlingly shite christmas music. Not so. Canada has us beat, hands down. Since December the first the "lab DJ" - normally responsible for ensuring a constant stream of classic rock that soothes away our daily stresses - has tuned the radio to a local station playing nothing but christmas music. In order to fill the gaps between adverts, the DJs will play anything that has a festive theme. Anything.

Unfortunately, music companies are such whores that they have absolutely no lower-limit of acceptance for what constitutes something worth listening to and encourage all the stars on their books to ~~murder~~ re-record christmas classics to earn a few extra bucks. Whilst the novelty, made-for-christmas songs can sometimes have their own special charm (The Mexican-themed "Felize navidad - I wanna wish you a merry christmas" was amusing the first 10 times for its sheer exuberance), there is nothing worse than some "diva" warbling her way through silent night. Since they have to try and make the song at least a little distinctive, the "artists" are encouraged to use their imagination. The result is not unsimilar to the first few rounds of X-factor, where 15 year old girls with barely covered acne screech their way through Sugababes hits, cunningly skipping the difficult notes by doing that breathless warbling shit like Beyonce. Simon Cowell might be a contender for the Order of the Tosser, but at least he usually turfs those muppets out (unless they have big boobs of course, then they're straight through to the next round. X-Factor my arse - DD-Factor more like).

I'm sorry, but you are really scraping the barrell when you get someone to re-record "The Drummer Boy". That song is really only for 6 year old alterboys at midnight mass. Then they are cute. Believe me, when they reach 15 it's embarrassing for all concerned (I know this, because I have watched a 6 year old alterboy for the past 10 years, as Father has insisted that he does his party piece each year. Even his Mum looks embarrassed now).

So, much to my amazement I find myself longing for Band Aid or Slade.

I must be more homesick than I realised.

Felizes Navidad!

One last push...

2006-12-17T19:58:00.000Z

Christmas is coming, and we all know what that means!

Working like a dog to finish stuff before christmas! Hence the reason I haven't blogged this week. I've literally worked and slept for the past week. Remind me why I was so keen to leave the sportcentre again?

I fly home Wednesday, and this time last week, my "must-do-before-christmas-to-do-list" was longer than it was a month ago. As always, troubleshooting is the big bug bear at the moment, and I am determined to get all of the problems I am having solved, so that I can hit the ground running and start generating data in January. I thought I had accomplished this friday, but when I came in Saturday to check the results - nada.

So I'll do one more attempt tonight (I'm now juggling my need for our only phosphoimager cassette with a masters student who's in the same boat), then that's it.

I'm supposed to have a project plan devised for my secondary project. I probably should have done it weeks ago, and the jungle drums suggest that the boss is pissed that I haven't, but I haven't been told anything by her yet - so I am just keeping my head down. I will try and squeeze some more reading in before wednesday, but I suspect that I will be using some of the down-period between christmas and new year to do some writing. It looks like a quiet christmas this year, with various relatives away, so I should get at least a couple of days I can spend locked in my room with only MS Word for company. Fortunately, I have some new VPN software that lets me log onto the University network remotely, so accessing the library and papers won't be hampered by my 3,500 mile displacement.

I promise a special festive Tuesday Twat this week. Believe me, it's been brewing for the past 2 weeks.

Now, off to do some shopping - oh joy.

Ask before pouring...

2006-12-10T02:07:00.000Z

A salutory lesson learnt at 2am in a pizza parlour, after the consumption of large quantities of beer.

Do not assume that the unlabelled shaker of yellow powder is parmesan cheese. It might also be powdered garlic...

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-12-05T01:10:00.000Z

No. 78. Darren.

I have no idea who Darren is. We have never met. He doesn't even know my name. But I know his.

Darren is a popular bloke, with many friends. Unfortunately, few of those friends mean enough to him to warrant being given his new mobile phone number. They still have his old mobile number. Now MY mobile number.

Last week was his birthday. For two days between 8am and 10pm I fielded call after call, wishing Darren a happy birthday. I am sorry to say, but I got progressively less polite as time wore on.

"I'm sorry, this is no longer Darren's number. I got this number 2 months ago."

"This isn't Darren's number anymore. Could you do me a favour. If you track him down, could you please ask him to let his friends know his new number".

"No, this isn't Darren. Tell him to tell people his new number".

"Darren's dead".

Calling cards - a new form of maths!

2006-12-02T06:50:00.000Z

Calling the UK can be expensive on a landline or mobile, so naturally I have been using alternatives. The most common option is those little scratch cards that you get at the newsagent. For $10 (plus tax, naturally) I get a little piece of card with a scratch off pin number. Phone the local access number for free (all local calls are free here, even from and to mobiles), enter the pin and you can call the UK for 1c per minute. Allegedly.

So here is how it works in reality.
I phone the number. I enter my pin.
"You have 10 dollars and zero cents on your card".
I call my parents number.
"You can talk for one thousand minutes".
We natter for 45 minutes.
Next week, I call again.
"You have seven dollars on your card."
Huh?
"You can talk for seven hundred minutes."
I talk for about 45 minutes again.
Next week
"You have three dollars and ten cents remaining."
Still 310 minutes.
Final call, one week later.
"You have 45 cents remaining".
"You can talk for 45 minutes".
This time the parental units aren't in. As soon as I hear the BT voicemail, I hang up and call again (just in case they were halfway down the stairs when the voicemail cut in).
"You have 44 cents remaining."
Fair enough, they round it up to the nearest minute.
Still not in. Again I hangup when I hear the dulcet tones of the BT lady.
The next day I call again.
"You have 27 cents remaining".
"You may talk for 27 minutes."
They're in, great.
Ten minutes 50 seconds later.
"This card has no credit remaining." Click. Buzz.....

Nowhere on the card, or the associated website, does it mention
a) A connection fee.
b) A daily "activation charge"
c) Tax (which I paid when I bought the card surely).

It does say "Call the UK for 1 cent per minute, no hidden charges!".

And surely when it tells you that you have x minutes to talk - you have x minutes to talk?

I have spoken to other Europeans, using different cards, and they claim the same thing. Not surprising, if you look at the websites they all seem to be run by the same company.

Fucking con. I am probably going to switch to Jajah or similar, but that ties me to my computer, at least whilst I am setting the call up. The calling card was almost as convenient as direct calling the number. With the time difference, I usually call mid-afternoon from a coffee shop or wherever I may be at the time, rather than at home. I've tried using an online system that recognises the phone you are calling from, rather than having a PIN, but those bastards simply took US$10 off my credit card and offered me 15 minutes. Then refused to return my calls or answer my emails. Consumer protection seems a little lax over here.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-11-28T00:19:00.000Z

No. 77. Idiot construction workers.

Here is an absolute gem that I feel will go down in the annals of Fuckwittery. Hell, it's a contender for the Darwin Award! I saw this example of gob-smacking idiocy out of the bus window on my way to work. It was all I could do not to jump off at the next stop, run back and present him with a redeemable token for a gold-plated Tuesday Twat Award there and then.

My daily commute is slowed down (hopefully for not too much longer) by major roadworks on the bus route to the train station. Today I watched agog as a worker trimmed a piece of wood with a circular saw. Leaving aside his lack of eye protection etc, what got me was the way he used his right leg as a brace to hold the wood still. Standing, right leg extended, he balanced the 50 centimetre piece of wood against his shin, using his right foot to stop it sliding off. Using his right hand, he then proceeded to cut (and I saw the blade spinning) the wood upward toward his body. Cutting downwards, any slip would probably have meant he got 50% off at the shoe shop. Moving upwards... well, Mrs Construction worker could probably come off the pill at the very least. He then flipped the wood around and did the same on the other end.

Standing watching him was the brains of the outfit, fag hanging from mouth as he waited, either for the wood his mate was cutting for him, or for a chance to test his first aid skills. I'm not sure which.

I really wish I had a video camera with me. Forget YouTube, this ones destined for those gob-smackingly dull and patronising Health and Safety videos. Or Canada's funniest Home Videos. Definately worth $250, I reckon.

The annoying thing is, that if this genius did slip, you can bet that the poor construction company that made the mistake of employing him would be fined and his managers sued for neglecting to tell him NOT to cut his own leg off with a circular saw.

Awesome!

Hot Sushi

2006-11-27T03:28:00.000Z

It looks like the conspiracy theorists and spy novelists have just been handed a godsend in the supposed murder of the former KGB spy Alexander Litvinenko, by all accounts with radioactive sushi.

It's certainly an intriguing tale and one, I suspect, that'll never truly become public knowledge.

The fingers, inevitably, are pointed at President Putin's [sarcasm] free and democratic [/sarcasm] government. If so, it is a very worrying state of affairs. However the conspiracist in me sees several other possible culprits. Not least because of the immense political damage this could cause to Comrade Putin. By all accounts Litvinenko was a pain in the arse, but not a huge one. Unless he was building up to a big disclosure that could do serious damage to Putin, it would seem perverse to kill him in such a technically sophisticated manner. There are plenty of nasty little poisons equally capable of doing the job available pretty much off the shelf or through wide-spread suppliers. Killing him with a rare isotope that, although present in minute quantities in nature, realistically had to come from a source with access to nuclear technology seems to be clumsy at best. Is this a warning to other dissidents to keep their mouths shut? Surely a public shooting by men described as "speaking with Russian accents" would have done the job just as well?

The political fall-out could be immense for Putin. Russia has ambitions to fuly join the "World club". They are increasingly being invited to join talks with groups such as the G8, and they are increasingly influential in arenas such as the UN Security Council. However Putin's autocratic, even dictatorial, style back home, has raised public disquiet among other world powers. The US in particular is becoming increasingly critical of Russia's clamp down on press freedom etc. It's worth noting that GWB has an increasing number of advisors from his father's presidency - many of whom probably don't quite believe that the "good old days" of the cold war are over.

Thus I can think of two other possibilities. Please feel free to post your own!

1) It was a huge cockup by "rogue elements" in the Putin government.
Putin may or may not have been aware of plans to "do something about" Litvinenko - ultimately the decision to kill him by such a method may have never come across his desk. If this is the case, it'll be interesting to see if the entire sordid affair is dealt with internally or if any scapegoats will be made public to repair the damage done. Keep an eye out for senior advisors retiring/resigning due to "ill health"/pursuing new and exciting career opportunities in Siberia.

2) It was an attempt to bring down Putin.
That Comrade Putin is not Comrade Popular in his own governemnt is hardly news. Perhaps this is an internal attempt by his political enemies to kill two birds with one stone? It was obvious that the world's fingers would be pointed directly at the top guy in the Kremlin - himself a former KGB man, let us not forget. If the Russian people see their hard won international respect being eroded by Putin's apparent recklessness, perhaps the next elections won't go his way. And as a bonus, the conspirators get rid of someone who would probably have been equally critical of their regime. Everyone's a winner - except of course for poor Mr Litvinenko and his family.

Either way, lets hope that somewhere, somehow justice is done.

As a side note, I had my radiation safety training a few weeks ago and therefore feel qualified to opine on the subject of Polonium 210 as a public health issue. The UK government has been offering the worried well who may have once met Mr Litvinenko at a wedding, the chance to piss in a bottle and have all of their worries taken away. Realistically, unless they uncover a few asymptomatic diabetics, this is unlikely to have any impact on public health.

Radio-Isotopes typically emit one of three types of radiation.
Gamma Radiation. This is the strongest, and is the type associated with nuclear bombs etc. It requires thick lead shielding. Large doses turn you into a nine foot tall raging pschopath with superhuman strength and green skin.

Beta radiation is a fast moving electron. I use this at work, in the form of Phosphorous 32 and its less energetic cousin Phosphorous 33. P32 will give a satisfying screech from the geiger counter at close range, but can be easily blocked by a centimetre of perspex. I can carry it quite safely in a perspex box with a lid from bench to bench and unless I place it down my underpants, my kids are unlikely to have two heads. The biggest danger is actually from X-rays that are released if you use a metal container to block the beta radiation. That's why we use perspex.

Polonium 210 is an alpha emitter. These are funny things. Paradoxically they are both very safe and very dangerous. Alpha particles are fast moving helium nuclei. They can be blocked by a sheet of paper. Sit next to an alpha source, and the radiation probably won't make it through the air to reach you; it certainly won't make it past your clothing and failing that through the layers of dead cells that form the outer layer of your skin.

BUT if you ingest the source, it is extremely dangerous. All of the radiation is absorbed in less than a millimetre of cells - not a problem if the cells are dead already - but potentially extremely dangerous if the cells are alive. The radiation will wreak havoc on the cells DNA, lipids, proteins - you name it. Alpha radiation is therefore extremely deadly if ingested, inhaled or administered via an open cut. Mr Litvinenko may have ingested it. The metal, toxic in its own right, will then have been distributed throughout his body killing every cell it came in contact with. Hence his systemic radiation poisoning - the hair loss etc. Unfortunately, doctors could wave a geiger counter up and down him all day and find nothing. It would only be detectable, in minute traces, in his urine etc. That someone suggested Thallium at such an early stage is a credit to them. Despite the whinging on the BBC Have your say pages, I doubt the doctors could have done much for him.

All this means of course, that unless you finished his Sushi off for him or somehow ingested his urine - you could have sat next to him all day and received no dose at all.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-11-21T03:42:00.000Z

No. 76. The makers of powdered gloves.

I'm sorry, but it's 2006 - why in god's name do manufacturers still make bloody powdered latex gloves? Normally, we use powder-free gloves. Unfortunately, some muppet ordered powdered gloves from stores. Being a relatively small lab, on a tight budget, we are stuck with the bloody things. We can't really justify chucking them, and we can't get a refund.

For those readers whose hobbies/sex-lives don't involve the regular use of latex gloves, let me assure you that you aren't missing much. My entire work area is now covered in a fine coating of talcum powder; my progress around the lab can be tracked by following the white hand-prints and my brand-new, worn-for-the-first-time-today, black winter coat has two bloody great handprints on it (it was hanging on the back of my chair). My hands look like Kate Moss' top lip and I've found that if I clap them together, it looks like she's sneezed. Call me a whinger, but surely it says something profound about the design of powdered gloves that I actually need to wash my hands after wearing them?

Of course, it could be worse. These days they are full of talc. Years ago, before people started getting alarmed at the rapid numbers of people developing latex allergies (some of my friends never suffered from exczema or psoriasis on their hands before they started their PhDs), the powder was latex. Not only did you run the risk of making yourself allergic to most condoms (I have it on extremely good authority that it does happen), when you returned to work after a weekend away, your hands still smelt like you'd finished a 16 hour shift in the Durex factory. Even an obsessive compulsive handwasher couldn't get rid of the smell.

So to Sempermed et al - for christ's sake, STOP making the damn things. I've used powder free for years and they work perfectly well!!

Who ate all the pies?

2006-11-18T19:26:00.000Z

It's the little things you miss most when you are abroad.

For example, Thursday is "Free Pizza Day". What this actually means is that as a reward for snoozing through this week's research seminar, the organisers lay on a stack of free pizza. As a man who invariably rolls into bed thinking "it's OK, I'll get up 5 minutes early to make my sandwiches tomorrow" - then wakes up 10 minutes late, to find he hasn't thawed out a loaf of bread - this seems like a pretty good deal.

Unfortunately, this week our own lab meeting, which takes place before the seminar, ran over and so when we went to collect our free pizza (and listen to the talks naturally), all the pizza had gone. Although tempting, we felt it would reflect badly on our lab if, having turned up 10 minutes late, we then walked back out again because there was no free food.

So - lunchtime. What to do? In England the solution is simple. Greggs. Pies, Pasties, even sorry looking burnt "baguette pizzas" - everything a hungry man could possibly want for lunch. Here - not so simple.

Firstly, there appear to be no bakers within a half-mile radius of where I work. Oh sure there are donut [sic] shops. But we had donuts at lab meeting and diabetes looks like a real pain in the arm. There are some Kebab shops - but frankly, half a kilo of spicy meat at lunchtime will simply result in me falling asleep in a smelly heap in the corner. Not ideal when you are working with isotope. Even in England however, there are places that aren't within easy walking distance of a pasty shop (except in Devon of course - where they invented the Cornish pasty, snigger). So the next option is to go into a convenience store and buy a chilled Ginster's pasty or some sandwiches. Convenience stores in Canada sell cigarettes, crisps and newspapers. The refrigerators at the back might sell some over-priced cheese and bacon. But probably not.

Over the past few weeks, I have tried in vain to find somewhere that sells sandwiches (NOT a bloody sub - I just want two slices of bread and some filling) or a chilled pie. Nada.

In the end, I admitted defeat - what did I get? A slice of the exact same pizza everyone else managed to find - I just paid $2 for it, from the pizza shop around the corner.

Yashamack!

2006-11-11T17:31:00.000Z

Oh, if only real life was like Borat the Movie!

Earlier in the week, went to see Borat the movie. I decided to go and see it after finding out that my local cinema runs a singles evening. Pathetic yes I know, but there's only so much pr0n a man can watch on cable TV before he fancies meeting a girl who doesn't answer the door to the postman in nothing but a pair of crotchless knickers - I have standards!

The evening was actually good fun. The organisers set up speed dating, which was just a hoot. Unfortunately I was late, after playing spin the bottle and spending 5 minutes trying to engage a woman in conversation who admitted from the outset that she only came because her friend was too shy to come on her own. Therefore, being late I was assigned a corner of the room, rather than getting a chance to pick which direction I fancied heading. Needless to say the blonde Amazonians were at the opposite end of the room and I was stuck with the extremely friendly over forty divorcees. Lesson learned for next time! I'm no expert on speed dating, but I realise that there are certain things you shouldn't do.

For example, the forty-something who mentioned her ex-husband in the first sentence then said she was "feeling old", so she decided to try speed-dating. 10/10 for honesty. 1/10 for for choice of conversational gambit. I had 4 "dates", with several very pleasant women, but we didn't click and the little card with my cell phone number stayed firmly in my pocket. I'm embarrassed to say that I wouldn't recognise them if I passed them on the street. The best looking women I spoke to at length were actually the girls organising it. I got talking to another guy and we both decided to see if we could pull one of these lovelys. Sadly they must be lesbians because, despite my having bothered to shave and put on some nice trousers, neither offered me their cell phone numbers.

That's me on the left, trying to pull the organisers.

The movie was fantastic though! It's a movie for the whole family I think - everyone in my family would certainly have found something to be offended about anyway! I'm not going to give anything away, except to say "the scene in the hotel". Those of you have seen the film will probably have thrown up a little bit in your mouth now at the memory - yet will also be trying not to laugh.

Basically, if you go to see the movie with the expectation that you will be offended - you will have a great time. Speaking to people afterwards, I found people saying the same things "bits of the film stepped well over the line and were just plain wrong - but I was laughing so hard I didn't mind".

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-11-08T05:24:00.000Z

No. 75 Luciano Mares

BBC News

Yes - the Tuesday Twat is back!

And here is a classic!

Nothing quite beats seeing somebody being needlessly cruel - then seeing it backfire spectacularly!

OK, so you have a mouse infestation. You finally manage to capture one of the little buggers. So what do you do?

A) Take the mouse for a nice long drive, then chuck it in a hedge somewhere, confident you've seen the back of it?

B) Humanely kill it - easily done, HM Government's approved method is to break its neck. Equally effective and just as painless as long as you get it first time is to wallop it with something heavy. Mice are vermin, but no need to be nasty about it.

C) Chuck it on the bonfire?

Well guess what this sick fuck did? One assumes the mouse eventually perished - in a lot of needless pain. But it got it's own back - the flaming rodent raced back into the house - and promptly set it on fire, destroying it and everything in it. Sadly, Mr Mares was safe outside.

Call me a cynic, but if Mr Mares was a 13 year-old, he would be branded a sick little hooligan, and he and his parents would be booking weekly appointments with a child psychologist for the next 20 years. But Mr Mares is 81, so he'll probably get away with it. What's next, dragging unwanted puppies beind his pickup truck? Skinning kittens with a blunt potato peeler because he can't find a burlap sack, a brick and a deep enough pond?

I really hope the insurance company refuses to pay ou!

Some humour translates across the world

2006-11-06T01:21:00.000Z

Humour is a funny thing. Some things translate across culture better than others. Candid camera is the same the world over.

Over the last couple of years, the BBC has ressurected the old candid camera staple in the form of "Just for Laughs". Good clean family fun involving a jaunty soundtrack, meticulously set up stunts (often remarkably simple) and a gullible public. It's not clever, it's not sophisticated, but it's bloody funny!

Well Canada has its own version, similar enough that it's probably the same production company. As with the BBC version, it's mostly mimed, suggesting that it is intended for export. EDIT: I've just watched the credits and it's actually French "Juste pour Rire", filmed in Montreal.

The Canadian version is even more audacious than the UK version. I couldn't believe it when they had a "blind man" trying to find an empty sunlounger. I couldn't help but feel that when he groped women's arses he would probably have been slapped and/or arrested in the UK! The funniest gag had to be when a guy in a sports car pulls up to a passerby and tries to give them his Yorkshire Terrier. When they decline he climbs out of the car (surreptitiously switching the dog for a stuffed one) and hurls it, complete with comic yelp!, into the back of a passing garbage truck. Of course the strength of the gag relies on the reaction of the public. One old guy promptly set off on his bicycle wobbling dangerously across the road trying to flag the truck down. The look of relief, even as he burst into laughter was priceless.

Of course the BBC version has one Ace in the Hole that the Canadian's don't seem to have been able to secure - namely a pair of absolutely stunning, blonde, twenty-something identical twins. It's a staple of candid camera shows that gullible men will do pretty much anything if asked by a pretty girl - combine that with the ability to then do a seamless switch between them and the possibilities are endless. The best set up had to be at a supermarket. The member of the public is left standing at the till whilst the sales assistant goes to the stockroom. One of the twins stands slightly behind and to the left of the dupe. There is a CCTV camera above the till, and like men the world over the dupe can't help but check out the girl on the monitor. Except it's not. They've cleverly spliced the picture with a green screen of the other twin - who starts to strip. The look of bewilderment as these guys turn around in delight, to find the girl behind them simply demurely waiting in line is brilliant.

I've been relieved to see that Brits and Canadians have a broadly compatible sense of humour. Not everything translates of course, and I am careful not to be too crude until I've figured out the limits, but I've had a lot of laughs whilst I've been here. Jokes about US foreign policy seem to go down well, but I'm aware that I can't yet tell the difference between the two accents yet, so I have to be sure of the nationality of anyone within earshot! I've also been watching a lot of Canadian standup on the Comedy channel, and I am definately contemplating a trip to Montreal next summer to catch the festival live.

A couple of humble suggestions

2006-11-03T03:32:00.000Z

Since I started work, I have done pretty much nothing but read. This necessitates me doing the "dreaded literature search".

As I trawl the databases and the reference lists at the back of papers, my frustration has led to a couple of ideas. One slightly more controversial than the other :-)

1) If you use a specific technique please either describe it in the methods - or reference an accessible source!

In order to save space, it is a perfectly legitimate for authors to use a phrase such as "the technique was performed as previously described (ref Jones et al 2006)". The problem is that it isn't always possible to track down or access that reference. Twice this week, I have found references to a technique in an out of print text book or in a paper too old to be accessible online. For myself, it is in an inconvenience - I can always take a 15 minute walk to the University library if I have to. But for researchers at independent research institutes the only option may be an interlibrary loan (a week or more and usually a few dollars) - for people in poorer countries, even the free access to journals that PubMed central etc have pioneered is useless if the paper hasn't been converted to PDF and posted online yet.

There are someways around the problem. For example, if the technique has been utilised often then a search for other papers that cite the original reference may turn up one that describes the technique in detail. Of the two I had problems with this week, one I managed to track down this way after an hour or so of hunting (the paper was worth it!). The other I will either give up my lunch break to photocopy or carry on hunting online for.

Obviously, that source may be the only written account of the technique, however it would be of great benefit if authors and journals considered this. One solution may be to cite the original (thus giving credit where owed) and then cite another more accessible paper. With online access to papers becoming the norm these days, authors should perhaps consider which journals to reference. If neither is possible, then perhaps editors could consider asking authors for more details in the text.

2) Compulsory Deed Poll.

I'm sorry for any offence this may cause, but if your surname is Smith, Jones, Wang or Xu, perhaps you could consider changing your name to one less common! Earlier this week I was advised to look at a paper by "Wang. Umm 2000 or 2001, maybe - I can't remember the title".

This confronted me when I put that limited information into Pubmed.
Items 1 - 20 of 14708

Even guessing at a few more keywords, such as organism and a couple of vague limiters (unfortunately, it was a general review paper, so I couldn't type in a specific gene name), I still had to trawl through the titles of almost 1000 hits.

So may I humbly suggest that if your name is rather common, you choose a new one. Seriously.
Just to help you, whilst "Kirk" had over 350 hits between 2000 and 2001, "Spock" only had 8 (and 2 of those referred to a neuromuscular proteoglycan called SPOCK).

Go on, you know it makes sense!

An explosion in a paint factory...

2006-10-30T05:37:00.000Z

... best describes my bathroom Saturday morning.

That's what you get when you decide to ressurect Count Dracula for Halloween. White face paint, black eye shadows and fake blood. LOTS of fake blood. However, painting my hands white and turning the nails black and red was probably the straw that broke the camel's back. Times like this, I'm glad I live alone, since I would have been evicted in a shared house. The make up smeared the walls, the floor, the mirror - even the toilet bowl after I unwisely put soiled tissues down it.

Nevertheless, it seemed to do the job. There were probably 200 people at the party and if you told me that I was photographed with half of them, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised. It was easy to tell who had been photographed with Count Sanescientist - they had a white hand print on their shoulder. Ahem.

The party was pretty good. There was plenty of cheap beer and some really cool costumes. My favourite had to be the person who came as a fried egg. He wasn't sure why either, but it was pretty funny. When it wound down we went on and gatecrashed two more parties up in the "Frat" district. We decided to leave the second one hastily when one of our party inadvertantly sat down on the house cat. It didn't seem hurt, but it definately lost at least one life and refused to come down off the wardrobe, hissing like an angry python.

Of course, when I arrived home I was realised my slight oversight - no makeup remover. Three showers and a dozen handwashes later, my skin still looks paler than it did on Friday morning!Unfortunately, two of my towels may or may not go through the washing machine again - they might just be irredeemable. Meanwhile my bedding most certainly will be going through my washing machine and my "wedding suit" and waistcoat will be off to the dry cleaners. Oh well, the cape, teeth and makeup set me back less than $20, so a few more bucks on dry cleaning isn't going to break the bank.

All in all, a pretty good night. Unfortunately, I have to give a presentation wednesday morning (which I am seriously stressed about), so I won't be doing anything else for Halloween.

Keep safe and watch your Ghoulies.

Lazy Blogger!

2006-10-22T21:40:00.000+01:00

I've just seen the date stamp on my last post - seems like I'm neglecting you all!

Hopefully, things will change soon. Unfortunately, I'm snowed under with work at the moment. I now have over 100 PDFs in my "to read" folder - and that's still growing at a dozen a day. I've been here 3 full weeks and have yet to do much more than make a few stock solutions and grow up a few strains. The paranoid voice at the back of my head is whispering loudly "everyone thinks you're a slacker - all you do is stare at a computer screen all day".

I am still not certain what my project will be - hence the reading. Hopefully I will finally put down a detailed plan of action for my main project soon. Later this week, I hope to do some actual science and perform some preliminary experiments.

As far as living in Canada is concerned, it's still a big adventure. Everyday throws up new things that they don't tell you in the guide books. Some good, some not so good. On the plus side, Canada is a nation of coffee lovers. Within 100 metres of my apartment alone, there are 3 different coffee shops - all ridiculously cheap by British standards. Even the mighty Starbucks charges in dollars what we would pay in pounds. I have made friends with a Swedish student who lives in my street and we are busy testing them out. I bought last time and spent less than 2 pounds on two decent-sized coffees. Bring on the caffeine-induced palpatations!

On the down-side, Canadian cheese is really bad, and foreign cheese is as much as double the price we'd pay back home. As a man who regards cheese as one of the major pillars of the food triangle - that's pretty heart-breaking!

Socially, I seem to be doing pretty good. In addition to the aforementioned Swedish friend, the International society has a regular series of events including a Halloween party. Last Friday I also attended a house-warming party for a grad student in our lab and got on really well with some of his guests. Hopefully I should be going for a meal with someone I met there in the near future.

An English accent seems to be a mixed bag. On the plus side, I have been greeted with "you're English - cool!" several times (often by nice young ladies!). On the other hand, I have been reduced to sign language on a couple of occassions in shops - we really are separated by a common language. I have similar problems with the local accent also. I find I have to count the stops on public transport because I often can't make heads or tails of the announcements. Of course, when the train driver decides to sing the names of the stops even the locals are slightly bemused!

Crossing the road is still a bit dicey. For the most part, Canadians are pretty attentive of things like Stop signs - but they are allowed to turn right on red lights, the white walk sign does not give pedestrians automatic right of way - so you have to remember to check in all four directions when crossing near a junction. I am probably in the most dangerous time now. I am getting complacent and on one or two occassions I have found myself halfway across a road before realising I looked the wrong way. No harm done, but it gives the old pulse-rate a bit of a kick!

Anyways, when things calm down a bit I hope to restart regulars like the Tuesday Twat and the Sunday Snigger. I've also got a few ideas regarding some new features and tweaks.

So until then stay safe, eh.

Bleeding me dry!

2006-10-11T03:43:00.000+01:00

If there's one thing that cannot be emphasised enough when moving country - it's the cost. I swear to God, I am haemorrhaging money!

Everybody wants a piece of you!

On top of the obvious expenses, such as airfare and excess baggage and a guest house there is the need to pay two lots of rent up front. Then there are all the connection fees - internet, cable and phone - that'll be $50 please plus your first month's rental.

Once you have your place - even a fully furnished flat is empty. Fortunately, there is a GoodWill secondhand store nearby, but nevertheless I spent another $150 plus on cooking utensils, pots and pans and crockery as well as odds and sods for the flat. And of course the fridge is empty. Completely. I've been to the supermarket three times in the past week, buying not only my weekly shop but also one offs, such as condiments, coffee, cooking oil and toiletries and cleaning and laundry products. The Canadians follow the American philosophy of serious bulk discounting, so it is hard not to buy 6 months supply of dried pasta in one go for example, knowing that I will save money in the long run.

Then there are the other entirely unexpected costs. Want to join the International Society? That'll be $30 please. Need a key to the lab and an access card to the building? Two $10 deposits please. Want access to the student housing database? $22 please (worth every penny to be fair, 20 minutes in there got me more appointments than several hours on the internet). Need your cell phone unlocked? $50. And then $40 for a sim card...

And banking in Canada isn't free. Unless you intend to limit use of the cashpoint and your debit card to 4 times a month, there is a $13/month service charge. I had a brief moment of excitement when my bank manager (whom I have met 3 times since I moved here!) told me I could write a cheque from my UK account to my Canadian account for free. Of course, they would "Hold" the funds for 30 days before I could spend them... So I am trekking to the cashpoint daily, drawing out $400 (~196 quid) and paying 3 quid charges each time. At least if I queue up to deposit it, the funds are available instantly (take note LLoydsTSB).

All in all, I have probably spent 2,000 quid in the past 3 weeks. However, that is pretty much it now. The day to day living costs, such as travel and food are definately lower than the UK, even after you add 15% tax at the till point (I still can't get used to that, only yesterday I handed over a dollar for a 99c bag of nuts and couldn't work out why the shopkeeper kept his hand out asking for more). I am counting the days to my first paycheque. Hopefully, I will then simply be able to pay off my credit card bills and be back in the black for at least the first few days of December. Then of course, I have to buy a return ticket home for christmas and pay UK prices for beer...

Oh, well. It'll all be worth it in the end, I'm sure. If not, I will simply have to join an escort agency - I figure that an educated man with an English accent should be worth a small premium...

So I guess I'm a scientist again!

2006-10-08T07:34:00.000+01:00

I've just finished my first week at work and I'm knackered!

It's been a hectic week. I started the week feeling like a fraud. This is an entirely new field to me. On paper, I'm the most qualified person in the lab after the boss, with the rest of the lab being technicians, graduate students or rotation students. However, I am the least experienced in terms of knowledge of the field. My laptop's hard disk is stuffed with over 70 papers that need to be read and I find myself asking the most basic questions. After being shown my desk and lab bench (for the first time ever, I actually have my own "office" - albeit an open desk surrounded by freezers and incubators), I was promptly handed a paper to referee.

This is rather frightening, considering that I am entirely new to the field. However, after reading the paper, I was able to write extensive notes on it and tentatively recommend it for publication with extensive modifications. I handed it to my boss, and so far she has agreed with everything I've said. We'll discuss it next week.

Wednesday, we finally discussed my project. Ten minutes into the meeting I felt like a fool and a faker. Yet ten minutes later, we had come up with a concrete plan of action and I was despatched to find out the best way of accomplishing my first set of experiments. By Friday, I had finally put my new lab coat on for the first time and my scribbled notes and to-do lists were actually starting to look like a proper scientist's work plan.

This weekend is Canadian Thanksgiving and so we have Monday off. I'll be celebrating the holiday by reading some of those papers. Tuesday and Wednesday I have to attend a radioisotope safety course (oh joy, this will be the third one I've attended in the past few years - somehow I don't think it will have gotten any more exciting!), so that buys me some more reading time before I am expected to actually do some proper work.

On the subject of Thanksgiving, Friday night I attended the International Society's annual dinner. I had gone with some trepidation. As a postdoc, I am neither student nor staff and so there was some question over whether I was really invited. I went anyway, deciding that if it was full of homesick 18 year olds, I would enjoy a turkey dinner then bow out gracefully. I had a great evening! Although I was definately the oldest person on our table I met some fascinating people from all over the world, including a lass from Macclesfield who was delighted to have someone else to complain about the price of cheese with and enthuse about how friendly Canadians are. At the end of the evening, I had my arm twisted and agreed to go clubbing with three Swedish girls...

All in all, I swapped email addresses with about half a dozen people, and I am definately going to the Halloween party at the end of the month. One of the Swedes lives about 100 metres from me, and we've agreed to email each other for a coffee.

On the subject of my bed, it has collapsed again in the middle! It is still useable though, so I am going to leave it be for the moment until I can find a hardware store and repair it properly. I think I'll just have to buy some 2 by 4, nails and a saw and basically build a more tightly fitting support frame. My landlords are away in Australia for a few months and we are under the care of one of their friends, so I will try and solve the problem myself before I raise a stink and get permission to buy a new bed.

So far, I'm not feeling homesick yet. I've been really busy and thus far every day is an adventure. I've been told that it is inevitable that at some point the novelty will wear off and I will start to feel homesick. Symptoms that I have been told to watch for include getting irrationally irritated at the way things work here. For the most part, Canadian society's pretty efficient and logical. But it is inevitable that the small differences will irk the most. My status as a postdoc is, unsurprisingly annoying me the most. You really are treated like a second-class citizen. Time and again I have been either denied access to or charged a fee for using services that either staff or students have free access to. So far, nobody in the graduate office, postdoc office, staff office or student services has been able to answer the simple question "Do I have to pay income tax and pension contributions?". Apparently, in some provinces foreign postdocs don't. I've been given the address of a local law firm but will have to pay for their advice. That'll have to wait until next month, since I am flat broke at the moment.

The time difference with the UK is the only thing that really feels odd at the moment. During the week, I can't really phone my parents in the evening without having to excuse myself first. The time difference is such that Mum and Dad are getting ready for bed when my working day finishes. At the moment I am using a calling card on the lab phone. Hopefully I will get my mobile phone sorted soon, so that I can at least go somewhere private. It's hard to answer questions like "so what's your new boss like?", when she's standing 10 feet away!

Anyways, it's far too late now. I've just been to see "The Departed", starring Jack Nicholson, Leo DiCaprio and Matt Damon. Definately worth the 5 stars the local free paper gave it. I strongly recommend it!

And here I am!

2006-10-04T04:59:00.000+01:00

Finally, I'm here!

I've just ended my first week in the great white north and my head is still spinning!

Despite all of my preparation, the whole thing still took me by surprise. It started about 10 days ago. I was woken at 7:30 on Saturday by my Dad throwing a large envelope embossed with a Canadian flag at my head. My work permit had finally arrived! By 7:50h, I was in possession of a plane ticket for the coming tuesday. By the time Canada awoke 5 hours later, I had booked a guest house and was starting to pack.

The day of the flight to Canada started in a mad rush, with me desperately trying to find a third suitcase. Sometime between me leaving my apartment and moving to my parents, pixies placed invisible lead bricks in my suitcase pushing it over the 32kg weight limit. Fifteen minutes before my father was due to drive me to the airport, I was standing in my parents' kitchen with a set of scales desperately deciding what I could leave out of my luggage and have shipped over. Finally, I was left with 3 bulging cases a bursting laptop bag (thank god they relaxed the carry-on limits!) and a bum bag (or fanny pack as they call it here - snigger) full of essential documents.

Check-in at the airport was surpriingly smooth, although my total luggage weighed 3 kilos more than my Dad and nearly killed the skinny little guy at the desk as he tried ot lift it all on to the conveyor belt. Total cost was an extra 170 quid, expensive but not unreasonable given that I am actually moving to a new home 3,500 miles away.

Arriving in Canada things were a little less smooth. The limo drivers at the airport tried to rip me off by charging me $50 even though I was sharing a cab with an Aussie I met in the airport. We bartered it down and I was duly dropped off at a guest house. Sadly, despite my showing the driver the address and checking that he knew where it was - it was the wrong guest house. Needless to say, I had already hauled my baggage up a flight of stairs and was seeing stars. It cost me another $15 and a plethora of strained muscles to correct the error, but finally I arrived at my temporary lodgings. An interesting place to be sure...

The theme for my room was "Oriental", with Chinese style patterned throws on every surface. This contrasted quite nicely with the Swedish-Sauna meets childrens IKEA bathroom and painted murals on the corridoor walls... However, the place was clean, cheap and run by a staff of wannabe artists and novelists who made a jet-lagged, shell-shocked Brit feel as if he was a long lost cousin. I've kept all the details, and will be recommending it to anyone who visits me. Perhaps by then Billy, the octagenarian semi-permanent resident who likes to wander around in her nightdress muttering about the $10m lawsuit she plans to launch against the Canadian government concerning her treatment in WWII will have either moved on or started taking her medication again...

Looking back, I can't believe it has only been a week. In that time I have learnt that Canadians like gravy and melted cheese on their chips, gotten drunk at a beer festival for free and most importantly rented an apartment. Tonight will be my third night in a basement "bachelor" apartment owned by a lovely Australian couple. They even knocked $25/month off my rent if I agreed to put the rubbish and recycling out each week. No great strain, given that the rubbish is already sorted and bagged by the side of the house and there isn't even a driveway...

Yesterday I got my internet connection and cable TV setup (still no phone or mobile yet) and I hope that the combined action of 10 metres of gaffer tape and 3 large wooden planks will stop my bed collapsing in the middle of the night again.

I started work on Monday. I'll post about that shortly. In the meantime "goodnight, eh?"

Still waiting...

2006-09-08T03:02:00.000+01:00

Well, I'm still in limbo! I could leave the country with barely 24 hours notice now, with most of my essential chores completed. Unfortunately, I still haven't seen hide nor hair of my work permit yet. The Canadian Embassy tries to discourage you from phoning, but it is officially 2 weeks since somebody at the embassy signed for my application, so I have decided that I will phone on Monday. The likelihood of me flying by next weekend is decreasing, although I haven't given up just yet! I also need to arrange temporary accomodation.

In the mean time I have been back at Mum and Dad's a week now. So far I have dismantled and upgraded both of their computers. Only one still works. I have also cleared my childhood wardrobes and cupboards out. I am sure that you will be relieved to hear that I can do an A Level Microbiology exam in less than 15 minutes now. However, I am re-reading all of my A level chemistry books because, frankly, my Chemistry sucked 11 years ago, and it ain't improved any...

Living with Mum and Dad is... interesting. Don't get me wrong, I have always been close to my parents. Even in my grottiest teenage years we never had any serious fallings out. Nevertheless, I have been independent for 11 years now. In the past 24 hours, I have been yelled at twice by mum. First, for eating all of the crisps (in my defence, there were only 3 bags in the cupboard and I ate 2 on 2 separate days - bag number 3 was dad). Second, for NOT eating all of the sausages that mum had bought especially for me. How the hell was I supposed to know? I'm not even going to mention the fact that I regard late night Satellite TV as an uncharted delight (it is Star Trek's 40th Anniversary today after all!), whilst they are up for work at 0700h...

PS My last post appears to have caused some confusion - the saucy photos were NOT of me. Regular readers of this blog will know that I am cultured and refined and unlikely to indulge in such shenanigans. Rather, the photos were shown to me "cos you're leaving now", as evidence that one of the good looking badminton coaches has carried on her lap-dancing career to earn some extra cash. Hot damn...

Sanescientist has left the building!

2006-09-05T02:12:00.000+01:00

Actually, I left my apartment a few days ago, but my parent's AOL content settings were set to "Taliban" and I couldn't even access Hotmail let alone a debauched example of Western decadence such as Blogger.

Anyways, I am now back in the bosom of my family awaiting that all important work permit. It arrived at the Canadian Embassy 24 hours after I sent it (Thank God for recorded Delivery - it saves a lot of anxiety), and now I am just awaiting its processing.

I'm off to bed in a moment, so I'm just checking in. I'll write more later, now that I have fixed my internet access.

Upcoming highlights will include my leaving do (involving Polyamory and saucy pics of former colleagues) and a really lovely "bon voyage" party arranged by my oldest friends.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-08-30T03:14:00.000+01:00

No. 74. Buyers of "Celebrity" fragrances.

It seems that Posh and Becks have jumped on the same bandwagon as the likes of ~~J-Ho~~ J-Lo, Paris Hilton and Britney Spears and brought out their own scent. Feel free to insert any jokes you see fit about it not being the first stinker Posh has released.

As the marketing hype swings into over-drive, queues are predicted as fashionistas and Chavs alike race to buy the most eagerly awaited fragrance since... well, the last one.

Sheer Twattery. And for once I can back up my vitriol with cold, hard logic - rather than just asking you to tolerate my misanthropy.

They are buying something they have never smelt and paying a premium for a fashion item that nobody knows they are wearing.

The scent has just been released - the people queuing have never smelt it. Furthermore, even when they splash it on to cover the fact they got up too late to have a shower, nobody they encounter will know either! Sure, somebody might ask them "whew, what's that smell?" to which they will proudly boast "Beckham's Jockstrap" - but consider this: I can say exactly the same thing when I wear some of the dodgy bottle of Jovan Musk my Uncle picked up cheap on his travels. And how would they ever know?

Thus these fools have fallen for the advertising industry's most cynical example of style over substance.

I say, the Emperor's new clothes are very smart aren't they?

Things not to say...

2006-08-29T02:15:00.000+01:00

...when donating unwanted clothes to a charity shop.

"If I'd known you were collecting for landmine victims, I wouldn't have binned all of those odd socks"

The Sunday Snigger

2006-08-27T21:47:00.000+01:00

No. 4. Hairy

A teacher is giving a class to a group of children about how wonderful skin is. It covers our entire body; it keeps our blood inside and the rain outside; and helps us stay the right temperature and when it's broken, it fixes itself.

Trying to keep her charges interested, she decided to play a game.

"OK - hands up, who can think of something else that they would like to be covered in."

Immediately, Sally puts her hand up.
"I want to be covered in gold, cos then I can scrape some off and buy my daddy a Rolls Royce"
"Very imaginative. Who else has a good idea?"

Ashok puts her hand up.
"I want to be covered in Platimum, cos it's more expensive that Gold and I can scrape some off and buy daddy a Rolls Royce and Mummy a Porsche"
"OK, very good Ashok. Who's next."

Little Johnny raises his hand excitedly.
"I want to be covered in pubic hair"
"Errr... why?" stammers the teacher, flustered.
"Cos my sister only has a little triangle of it between her legs, and you should see some of the cars that have started appearing outside our house!"

Purchasing Power Parity

2006-08-24T03:57:00.000+01:00

Today's post, boys and girls, will be an economics lesson. Specifically Purchasing Power Parity (PPP) - or to put it simply, what it's like to live abroad.

When I got my contract through from Canada, I had a bit of a nasty shock. The exchange rate between the Canadian Dollar and the UK pound is about 2 dollars to the pound. Based on that, my pay in Canada is going to be 5 grand less than I started on as a Postdoc and about 9 grand less than what I would be earning today if I had carried on working. As you can imagine, I needed a bit of a sit down.

However, it isn't that simple. I will be earning Canadian wages, which I will then be spending in Canada, thus the exchange rate between the UK and Canada is largely irrelevant. The only time it will affect me, for better or worse, is during my first few weeks when I am living off my savings awaiting my first pay cheque (Good - my meager savings will stretch further); during holidays (Bad - getting a round in at christmas will be very expensive) and when I transfer money back to the UK (Bad - my student loan repayments etc will take up a much larger chunk of my wages relatively speaking than before).

Thus, the cost of living in Canada is the all important economic measure. PPP is the formal name for how much it costs, relatively speaking, to live in a country and it is usually expressed in US $ for convenience. There are a number of ways of measuring PPP. The best known is Time Magazine's "Big Mac Index", essentially "How much does a Big Mac cost in different countries?". A Big Mac was chosen because not only is it ubiquitous, it is a microcosm of a country's economy. To make one requires local resources, food, fuel, wages for staff and taxes at a range of points through out its production, sale and purchase. In recent years, the "Starbucks Skinny Latte Index" has also been used.

More formally the OECD calculates the cost of a "shopping basket" consisting of a wide-range of daily items and services, to generate its own measure of PPP.

In this case, it seems that the 2:1 exchange rate is far too much. By my maths, it's closer to about 1.4:1, thus my wages are about what they were when I started my Postdoc. To be honest, that's OK with me. I'm not a particularly materialistic person. My few vices are cheap and I don't have any really expensive hobbies. Furthermore, this opportunity is essential to getting my career back on track and trying a fresh start, both professionally and personally.

The only real kicker will be the loss of status in Canada. In the UK, I am treated as a full member of the University and entitled to the full range of benefits and privileges afforded everyone from cleaner to Professor. Pay is the only real difference. Not so in Canada. Postdocs are NOT members of staff. Rather we are self employed, independent contractors. This means no benefits, pension, sick pay, healthcare or vacation entitlement (although I can by agreement arrange 4 weeks "personal" time off). Most of the student and staff services are apparently off-limits or un-subsidised and I don't even get my tax deducted at source (I have to retain my own financial advisor to do so instead)!

The lack of a pension is worrying, I have already missed 12 months of my Uni pension and as I pass thirty I am becoming uncomfortably aware of how little pension provision I have. I will still have to pay into the Canadian State Pension however. What will happen to that money if and when I leave Canada I am unsure about. Ideally, I'd transfer it over to the UK into my university pension scheme, but I may simply end up having to claim a small Canadian pension upon retirement in addition to any UK pension that I am receiving. I'm going to have to get more advice on that.

In practise, I suspect that when I visit the personnel office on my first day they will furnish me with a helpful guide, and in the internet age most of what I need will be on the web (I have already done some preliminary sniffing around, and it seems that there are very few locked pages that I can't access, so even if they don't provide information for Postdocs, I can probably find it on the Research Assistant's page or the Teaching staff's page).

That all said, I'm still dead excited! I leave the sport centre on Friday and return to my parents next Thursday. Assuming that my work permit arrives in a timely manner (it is supposedly a rubber stamp affair, Postdocs are exempt from the immigration points scheme), I hope to fly out by the middle of September. I can't wait!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-08-22T23:59:00.000+01:00

No. 73. Illiterate Bank Clerks and Innumerate Posties

OK, this has been sitting on my "To Do" list for some time now, but this week has elbowed aside the planned Tuesday Twat.

Of all the jobs in the world, there are some that one assumes require at least the basic ability to differentiate between the 26 letters of the Roman alphabet and the 10 westernised Arabic numerals. Two examples that spring immediately to mind are Sign Writers (although the ability to spell is not apparently top of the list of requirements) and those performance artists that take all their clothes off and contort their bodies in such away that they can spell out the word "SALE", without achieving penetration.

Others would probably include Bank workers and Postal Delivery Operatives.

My Postie has trouble with both. I live in a large apartment building, separated into several blocks A-M with about 60 individual apartments in each block. I live in 60J. Why then do I regularly get mail for 27J or 32J? Why do I sometimes get mail for 45B (yesterday morning) or 25C? More importantly, given that several of these apartments are empty for the summer, how often does my mail go to another apartment? And could this explain the letter I received last week dated 11th of January? (It wasn't important thank god, hence me not realising it was missing).

Bank Workers seem to be little better. As you can imagine, I am up to my neck in paperwork preparing for my upcoming move to Canada. Top of the list is my application for a work permit. This requires the sending of a half dozen different forms and photocopied certificates etc etc to the Canadian High Commission. Most important it seems is the C$150 in fees. For reasons that escape me and probably have something to do with the war of 1812 (see, I've been reading up on my history!), unless I travel all the way to Grosvenor St in London clutching a fistfull of Canadian Loonies and Twoonies (that's a 1 dollar and 2 dollar coin respectively), I need a banker's draft.

What's one of those I hear you ask? Don't feel too bad about asking, because the 12 year old behind the desk in LLoyds-TSB asked that very same question. After putting me on to a woman old enough to be his grandmother (ie about forty), my details were duly copied down (correctly, I checked), the sum of £15 was extracted from my battered looking account on top of the $150 (~£70) and I was promised a phone call on Friday or, at the latest, Monday.

Friday passed. No Word.

Monday arrived. The envelope with all of my other details in it remained unsealed on my desk. I phoned them and was told it should "definately be there Tuesday".

Tuesday, a phone call! I trekked into the bank to pick it up. The woman behind the counter disappeared down to the vault. FIFTEEN minutes later, she arrived looking embarrassed.
"They've made a bit of a mistake with your name. That's why it wasn't here Friday. We sent it back to Head Office because it wasn't on our list. They then sent it back here again."
I looked at the draft. "Bit of a mistake" didn't begin to describe it.
At first, neither of us could work out how the hell they had got the name on the draft from the name on the order (which I double-checked on the carbon copy receipt was spelt correctly in the teller's very neat handwriting). Eventually I figured it out.

They had taken my (extremely common) first name, and misspelt it badly, before using it as my surname. They had then taken the first letter of my middle name and used it as my first initial and the first letter of my surname and used it as my second initial.

Feel free to keep on rereading that paragraph until it makes sense.

What kind of illiterate Fuckwits do LLoyds-TSB employ in their Head Office? Were they high? Having a psychotic episode? Or were they just trying to prove the CBI's claims that today's school leavers are shite?

Fortunately, they hadn't fucked up "The Receiver General For Canada" in the payee line and my garbled name doesn't appear anywhere on the cheque part of the draft, so the bank assures me that it won't be a problem. I will go fucking ballistic if it delays my application though!

The Sunday Snigger

2006-08-20T23:26:00.000+01:00

No. 3. Moral

A young man is due to get married. A week before the big day, he receives a call from his future mother-in-law, asking him to come over. When he gets there, a bottle of wine is open on the table and there are two glasses. He becomes uncomfortably aware that she is in very good shape for a woman of her years - and is dressed to best effect.

Pouring him a glass of wine, she sits down.
"Daniel, I cannot tell you how happy Brian and I are that you are marrying our Katie. You are a lovely young man, from a delightful family, with a good job and prospects. However, it will be your duty to keep our daughter happy and satisfied for the rest of her life. In ALL respects".
With that she stood up, retrieving both glasses and the remainder of the bottle, before heading to the stairs.
"I shall be in the master bedroom with both glasses of wine. I would ask you to follow me up and prove to me that you are man enough to keep my little girl happy."

The young man is racked with indecision. should he or shouldn't he?

Eventually, he makes his decision and heads out the front door. he has gone barely two steps before he is grabbed in a big hug by Katie's father.
"Welcome to the family my boy! Katie told us you were an honourable man. I know my wife can still turn heads after all of these years, but you still resisted temptation. I am delighted that you will be marrying our daughter."

And the moral of the story? Always leave your condoms in the car.

Those who can teach...

2006-08-18T02:43:00.000+01:00

According to a story on the BBC website, many trainee teachers are flunking even basic literacy and numeracy tests.

The most telling quote in the article is this:
"The average age of teacher recruits these days is 30. So a lot of them will have come through school at a time when spelling and punctuation were thought to inhibit creativity."

I couldn't agree more. As a 29 year old, I fall well into this category as do many of my friends.
I had the great misfortune of attending school under the previous Conservative Government. This bunch of hapless fuckwits destroyed teaching in England and Wales (and in Scotland also, since despite the separate educational systems they implemented many of the same ideas and listened to the same "experts").

Despite being highly literate, my grammar teaching was almost non-existent. Although I have always read for pleasure, automatically shunning books that I "should" read, in favour of more enjoyable Science Fiction or Thriller titles, I nevertheless had pretty high standards and whilst my teachers bemoaned the lack of Jane Austin etc, they were satisified that Isaac Asimov was a suitable substitute.

I do not exagerate when I claim that my sole knowledge of grammar and its associated terminology comes from learning French. Beyond the the definition of a noun, I couldn't tell you what the terms adjective, verb or tense actually meant until I had to be taught them at the age of 14 for GCSE French. Similarly, many of the rules of punctuation had to be learnt the hard way. It probably hasn't escaped your notice that I am comma happy, scattering them far and wide in the hope that at least some land in the correct place.

I did learn how to use apostrophes correctly, but the semi-colon remains a mystery. My PhD supervisor covered every draft I gave him with red punctuation marks - and I freely admit that it would have been even worse without the aid of those little green squiggles that MS Word helpfully places underneath crap sentences. I know full well, that if I were to use Word to blog, the posts would be almost unrecognisable.

But perhaps it is my fault, and I am passing the blame for my own failings onto others?

I don't believe so. I have spoken to older teachers in their 50s (who taught my generation) and they admit that the government of the day (and especially Mr Baker, the then education secretary) discouraged them from using "old-fashioned" "boring" teaching methods such as formal grammar and punctuation exercises. The spelling test remained, although it was reward based with prizes as an incentive. I clearly remember my first French teacher taking a bemused class of 12 year olds through the differences between "doing words" and "describing words". Of course, we knew intuitively what the were, but had only a working grasp of their formal rules.

When I apologised to my PhD supervisor for the amount of red ink he expended on my thesis, his response was a resigned shrug
"It's entirely normal for someone your age. We have had meetings about it"

And here's the kicker, do you know what his advice was for future documents that I need to write?
"Run it by one of the foreign language students first, they can correct your grammar and punctuation."

And he was absolutely right. Says it all really doesn't it?

This week, there will be no Tuesday Twat because...

2006-08-15T23:35:00.000+01:00

I'VE GOT A JOB!!!

Woo Hoo! At last! It's been 12 1/2 months since I finished my old job and I've spent the last 12 months working at a local Sport Centre, getting more and more depressed. I decided that I really liked this lab the moment I saw it. But the supervisor was going on holiday and wanted me to write a project proposal. So after almost 4 weeks of waiting by the phone and checking my email constantly, I've been offered a 12 month contract!

In about a month's time, I shall be getting on a jet plane and flying off to a new lab in Canada! I found out barely an hour ago and have been trying to find people to tell! Mum, Dad and little sis are away on their holidays. Fortunately, one of my oldest friends replied to my text message and so I've been able to share the news.

I am feeling slightly guilty. I just found out that my Nan's sister died, so I rang her to see if she was OK. Nana has been praying for this job ever since I got back from Canada, so having only just found out (less than 5 minutes before I called her), I couldn't resist telling her. Well, the gamble paid off and she told me that it had cheered her up immensly. So that's good.

Now I can start on my To Do list. First things first, there are a half dozen customers that need to be told to "Fuck Off". I think I'll do that first...

About 4 feet too low...

2006-08-13T19:50:00.000+01:00

Apparently, many women own 100 pair of shoes, often convinced that the correct pair of shoes can turn men's heads.

Sorry, not unless they are hanging off your boobs ladies.

The Sunday Snigger

2006-08-13T01:00:00.000+01:00

2. Spelling Bee

A class of primary school children were just returning from breaktime. As they filed back in the teacher questioned them one at a time.
"Jennifer, what did you do at playtime?"
"I played Hula Hoop"
"Very Good! Can you spell Hoop?"
"Yes. H-O-O-P"
"Well done! You get extra gold stars!"

"Michael, what did you do at playtime?"
"I played football"
"Very Good! Can you spell Ball?"
"Yes. B-A-L-L"
"Well done! You get extra gold stars!"

"Abdullah, what did you do at playtime?"
"I didn't do anything."
"Oh, why's that?"
"Because I am foreign and nobody will play with me"
"Children, that is disgraceful! Abdullah, can you spell Racial Discrimination?"

Naughty, Naughty, Rupert!

2006-08-09T02:41:00.000+01:00

Looks like Rupert Murdoch has just moved to the back of the queue for that Knighthood. He'll have to make some serious donations to the Labour party to make up for this last cock-up.

It seems that the Royal Editor of one of his Sunday "Newspapers", The News of the Screws (That's the News of the World for non-AngloSaxons, "Screws" being a reference to the fact that it deals exclusively in tales of who is screwing who), has been arrested following a four month police investigation into alleged phone-tapping at Clarence House, the official residence of Prince Charles and his two sons.

The BBC is also gleefully reporting that the investigation is widening to include several celebrities and politicians. Is that the deafening stampede of lawyers I hear in the distance?

I'm sure the rat-faced muckraker will deny all knowledge, but this story has the potential to just run and run. The Screws' main rival the Mirror ain't going to let this one disappear, even if the Screws' weekday stable-mate The Sun has curiously neglected to mention it on their website yet.

This is going to be fun!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-08-08T01:00:00.000+01:00

No. 72. Professional Letter Writers

Anybody who works in the service industry is aware of these people - folks with nothing more to do with themselves than write letters of complaint, over the most trivial of matters, perhaps in the hope that somebody loses their job.

I have nothing against writing letters of complaint per se - last week's Twat Award detailed my attempts to get compensation for being bumped off a flight to Canada - but when someone writes in about something utterly trivial and without merit, it really pisses me off.

Over the past few weeks, there have been a number of incidents that have spurned a spurious letter.

The first was from a local Vicar (no, seriously). With it being the summer holidays, we have been doing badminton classes for kids. Heavily subsidised by the local authority, they cost the princely sum of £1 for one hour. Since these are introductory classes for young kids, much of the class is devoted to playing fun games to improve their fitness and co-ordination. The local Reverend had turned up with dumpy wife and 6 kids in tow and left them in the capable hands of our coach. He sat and watched through the window. After asking me, two coaches and at least one manager if he could bring his kids later - and being told that we don't actually do lessons at that time - he was in a decidedly ungodly mood. So imagine the histrionics when the coach finished the lesson 3 minutes early!

She explained that first of all, they always finish a couple of minutes early with the youngest kids because getting them off the court can be rather time-consuming. Second, she was going off the clock on the court which was 2 minutes faster than his watch (and she had started the lesson using that clock) and that third, she had finished the lesson with a game, which the children had completed a little quicker than anticipated, leaving her no time to start something new in the remaining 2 minutes.

Needless to say, the letter went straight to the head of sports at the council, signed "Reverend" and laments our lack of organisation, shoddy service, our only delivering half a lesson and the appalling attitude of the staff and coaches.

Fuck you Reverend.

The second was just Twattery.
I was covering a (rare) morning shift, when a man of about twenty and his little brother (about 10) were dropped off. They wanted to play a game of badminton and had duly booked a court. The price was £5. He handed me a £50 note.
"Have you not got anything smaller?" I asked,
Opening the till, I saw that we simply did not have that sort of change. Our start of day float is only £50 and we had barely taken £20 thus far. We would have lost all of our coins and smaller notes. That just isn't feasible with gangs of kids coming within the hour, all wanting to pay for their £1 lesson with £10 notes.
"Have you got a credit card?" I asked.
"No".
"Then I'm sorry, we can't accept a £50 note. We just don't have the change. You could always nip up the road to Tesco, and see if they'll change it".
"No. Let us on, we'll pay at a later date."
That I can't do. I don't know who he is and won't be on a day shift to grab him if he does return.

The duty manager was summoned, but agreed with me. Little known fact - we are not obliged to give more than £20 worth of change. Why did he have a £50 note any way? Cashpoints don't give them, and unless you are withdrawing huge amounts of money out, the bank doesn't routinely give them out.

Anyway, he wasn't satisfied. Hence another letter will be written. Dumbshit didn't ask my name though, so it probably won't find its way back to me. Ultimately though, we offered him option of going to Tesco whilst we held his court and we couldn't do any better than that. If he had turned up sans wallet, he wouldn't have expected to get on for free, so why should he expect any different if he is foolish to turn up with a £50 note?

The Sunday Snigger

2006-08-06T06:41:00.000+01:00

No 1. Forgive me Father for I have sinned.

A young man goes to confession.
"Forgive me Father for I have sinned, I spent the night with a girl of loose morals"
The Priest shakes his head sadly,
"I'm very ashamed of you, Tommy. Who was the young lady?"
"I'm sorry Father, I promised not to tell"
"Now, come on boy. The young lady needs to be here confessing her sins as well. Was it Katy O'Malley?"
"No, Father. I'm a gentleman and I won't give her name"
"The young lady is on the path to the devil, you must tell me her name. Was it Clara Murphy?"
"As a matter of honour Father, I cannot break my silence"
"Was it Finoula O'Brien?"
"I cannot tell, Father"
"How about Fiona Finnegan?"
"My lips are sealed"
Eventually, the priest gave up, crafted a suitable penance and let the boy go.
On the way out of the confessional, the boy was stopped by a friend waiting to go in.
"What did he give you?"
"10 Hail Marys, 6 Our Fathers and 4 hot leads."

Ladies! Your help please!

2006-08-03T18:15:00.000+01:00

So what is wrong with this exchange? What mistake did I make?

Attractive Blonde Coach: "I'm in the mood to cook tonight"

Me: "What a coincidence! I'm in the mood for being cooked for"

Attractive Blonde Coach: "Piss Off!"

WTF? Women - I'll never understand them!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-08-01T02:46:00.000+01:00

No. 71. Canadian Affair and Thomas Cook Airlines.

Well, after the debacle I had in getting to Canada and the fact that I missed a job interview, you didn't think I was going to let them get off scott-free did you?

Anyways, it seems that it isn't illegal to bump you off a flight (why?) - however since 2004, there has been an EU regulation regarding just what rights passengers have in these situations. And despite their legal obligations to do so, the bastards won't advertise them. So here are those rights, copied directly from EU Regulation 261/2004:
(PDF available at The Civil Aviation Authority )

Article 14

Obligation to inform passengers of their rights

1. The operating air carrier shall ensure that at check-in a
clearly legible notice containing the following text is displayed
in a manner clearly visible to passengers: ‘If you are denied
boarding or if your flight is cancelled or delayed for at least
two hours, ask at the check-in counter or boarding gate for the
text stating your rights, particularly with regard to compensation
and assistance’.

I spent an hour staring at that check-in desk, 2 days in a row - I can promise you that no such sign was visible.

2. An operating air carrier denying boarding or cancelling a
flight shall provide each passenger affected with a written
notice setting out the rules for compensation and assistance in
line with this Regulation. It shall also provide each passenger
affected by a delay of at least two hours with an equivalent
notice. The contact details of the national designated body
referred to in Article 16 shall also be given to the passenger in
written form.

They offered me taxi fare - and got rid of me ASAP. I was in too much of a state to think to ask.

Article 7

Right to compensation

Note: this is in addition to their obligation to actually get me to my destination

1. Where reference is made to this Article, passengers shall
receive compensation amounting to:
(a) EUR 250 for all flights of 1 500 kilometres or less;
(b) EUR 400 for all intra-Community flights of more than
1 500 kilometres, and for all other flights between 1 500
and 3 500 kilometres;
(c) EUR 600 for all flights not falling under (a) or (b).
In determining the distance, the basis shall be the last destination
at which the denial of boarding or cancellation will delay
the passenger's arrival after the scheduled time.

The last I checked, Canada was about 3,500 miles. Kerching! 600 Euros please!

2. When passengers are offered re-routing to their final
destination on an alternative flight pursuant to Article 8, the
arrival time of which does not exceed the scheduled arrival
time of the flight originally booked
(a) by two hours, in respect of all flights of 1 500 kilometres
or less; or
(b) by three hours, in respect of all intra-Community flights of
more than 1 500 kilometres and for all other flights
between 1 500 and 3 500 kilometres; or
(c) by four hours, in respect of all flights not falling under (a)
or (b),
the operating air carrier may reduce the compensation
provided for in paragraph 1 by 50 %.

I was delayed by over a day, so no getting out of it - the full 600 please!

3. The compensation referred to in paragraph 1 shall be
paid in cash, by electronic bank transfer, bank orders or bank
cheques or, with the signed agreement of the passenger, in
travel vouchers and/or other services.

A cheque payable to SaneScientist if you would be so kind.

I've written an appropriate letter and run it by a lawyer friend. General consensus is that it's a slam dunk and I have them bang to rights. Any silly buggery and I complain directly to the Air Transport Users Council and file a claim in the small claims court.

Back after these messages from our sponsors

2006-07-31T02:04:00.000+01:00

American and Canadian TV is unwatchable.

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing intrinsically bad about the shows that I saw whilst in North America (or at least it isn't any worse than British TV). I just mean that you can't watch it. There are ad breaks every few minutes, literally.

One evening sticks particularly in my mind. I had gone to bed early, ready for an early morning flight, but had gotten sucked in to a series of documentaries on the The Learnng Channel. Ironically they were documentaries that were previously aired in the UK on Channel 5, but which I had missed. I was watching one and I suddenly realised I was watching an advert (there is often no warning given and adverts will even cut in mid-sentence). Since the ad was tailored to the show, I was 30 seconds into it before it clicked that it wasn't just a strange switch in style by the director. The ad break lasted about 3 minutes, before the programme resumed exactly where it had left off. Less than 4 minutes later (there was an alarm clock built into the Hotel TV) I suddenly realised that I was watching another ad break. Again, yet another 3 minutes! Thus, out of 10 minutes of this show, 6 were adverts!

I already knew that things were pretty bad. I started watching Star Trek TNG in the late 1980s. BBC2 (non-commercial of course) allocated about 50 minutes per "hour long" episode. By the late nineties, ST:DS9 was down to 45 minutes, with plenty of filler either side of the show. By the early 2000s, An episode of ST:Voy could be broadcast in less than 45 minutes with at least 2 minutes trailers eitherside for upcoming BBC shows. That means that about 0ne third of US airtime is given over to commercials.

The commercials are also very different. I notice now that US car manufacturers are starting to advertise the fuel economy of their cars (amazing how a little jump in the oil prices focuses the mind, eh) although the advert for Hummer steered clear of any potentially embarrassing admissions, preferring instead to focus on the Humvee as the perfect way to deliver the kids to school (I kid you not). Most strange though, is that unlike in the UK, manufacturers can advertise prescription medications direct to the punters. This has resulted in the big names in pharmaceuticals staging hokey looking ads with "Grateful patients" and the instruction to "badger your physician today!". Of course, it isn't a complete free-for-all - they have to verbally list the side-effects, and this entails them reading out at triple speed the list of contraindications on the back of the box. I'm amazed anyone buys them! It's no wonder homeopaths, who aren't regulated and can tell you any bullshit they want, are doing so well - I'll bet they don't list the side-effects (chief among them being IT DOESN'T WORK!).

I suppose this all makes me a little more gratefull for the BBC. Not only is the BBC output nominally commercial free (at least they don't interupt their programmes), it also keeps the opposition on a tight leash. I suspect that commercial broadcasters are acutely aware of just how bad commercials seem when they are confronted by the BBC's output. I suspect that we would be well along the American's route of giving over 1/3 of our airtime and interupting programmes willynilly, if it wasn't for the stark contrast of the BBC. I found myself longing for the BBC - I suspect that if ITV et al tried to emulate America and Canada, they would simply lose viewers to the BBC.

For that reason, I have happily paid my TV licence ever since I went to Uni 11 years ago and wouldn't contemplate not paying it. As a Greek flatmate once told me "never let them commercialise the BBC - you don't know what you have until you see the rest of the world". Quite.

Morgan Spurlock wasn't exagerating

2006-07-29T02:06:00.000+01:00

When it comes to portion sizes, the US really does live up to it's "Super Size" reputation.

Most people looking at me will probably conclude "there's a man who doesn't like to leave food on his plate" - and they'd probably be right. But of the 10 or so meals I enjoyed in the USA, I didn't finish a single one. Seriously, I admitted defeat with every single meal and couldn't bear to look at the dessert menu once. The US is a "doggy bag" culture. After giving up the fight halfway through my main course each time, I was invariably presented with the option to take the unfinished portion with me in a doggy bag, presumably to reheat incorrectly and risk food poisoning at home (a rather dangerous attitude in the litigation capital of the world, I would think). Obviously that wasn't an option for me, since I was staying in hotel rooms.

What a shame.

You see, when I'm abroad, I like to try as many different things as possible. I'd like a starter, a main course perhaps with a side order I've never tried before, and maybe a dessert. Yet the starters were invariably a full meal in themselves. Cost wasn't an issue - the US' reputation for cheap food is certainly well deserved - it was the guilt factor. I just could not bring myself to order enough food for a family of four and leave them to bin 2 1/2 people's worth (I did try my best!). It is as if the US caters for the greediest by default. Why? Surely, if you eat enough for 3 people at one sitting, you should pay for 3 meals rather than expecting everyone else to have 3 meals worth of food dumped in front of them, which they will either waste or risk their health trying to eat? Why not restrict portion sizes, charge less and let the chubsters order 3 side dishes? Is it any wonder that the US is the most consumptive country on earth? Just think of the energy wasted in the creation and preparation of all that food. And if that doesn't quite fit with the hospitality that the American's are so rightfully proud of, why not make those extra-size portions a free upgrade available on request? In otherwords, give us some choice!

Another stereotype was also true - that of the disgustingly fat American. I use this term after careful consideration of it's offensiveness, but truly feel it is warranted. We in the UK have more than our fair share of obese people, no question. And a fair few morbidly obese folks too. But even walking through a busy town centre daily, I only see the the mega-obese (35 stone up) on rare occassions. In NY and in the Midwest I saw a dozen or more over about a week.

On the NY underground, I saw two of the fattest people I have ever seen outside of a Channel 5 freakshow documentary. Two black women in their 20s or 30s who each took up a full bench (usually wide enough for three average sized adults to sit comfortably). They had grown to such a size that they no longer resembled a human being in anything but caricature. They were basically spheres with arms and legs the thickness of my waist sticking out. Their torsos had effectively collapsed upon themselves, such that there was no telling where their breasts ended and their bellies began. Both carried 2 litre sized plastic squeezy bottles with straws, filled with a dark liquid such as coke, or Dr Pepper or similar, which they guzzled as they talked.

I know that there are few poor souls that suffer from diseases such as Prader Willi Syndrome and when it comes to criticising folks for a few extra kilos around the gut I have no right to point fingers, but lets get one thing clear. When you have a substantial proportion of the population who can actually weigh themselves in fractions of a tonne, it isn't genetics, it isn't "Metabolic Syndrome" and it isn't "hormonal imbalance" - it is the inevitable result of a society that gives you three time the food you need and doesn't educate you that 3 litres of Coca-Cola contains 300 to 350 grammes of sugar and 1300Kcals of energy and that the more of the stuff you drink, the more you need to drink because you're pissing it out like a horse.

It really was a shame, and was perhaps the only criticism I had of the US food-wise. The food I did enjoy was well made and tasty and even in the fairly provincial small town I visited in the Midwest, there were dishes to tempt even the most adventurous pallette. There was just so fucking much of it....

Going Underground

2006-07-27T02:04:00.000+01:00

In the middle of my trip around North America, I was able to spend a weekend sightseeing. Top of the list was of course, the Big Apple. Only a short train journey away from where I was staying, I spent a full saturday doing all of the usual - the Empire State Building, the American Natural History Museum (not nearly as good as the London NHM, I hasten to add) finishing up with a couple of very pleasant hours in the spectacular Central Park.

The best way to get around NYC, as any native will tell you, is of course the subway. For the princely sum of $7 I bought an all day "fun pass", which gave me complete access to one of the world's busiest underground systems.

It's a lot different to the London underground for sure.

First, it isn't as intuitive as the London underground system. The map that I had integrated overground landmarks with the rail system - a good thing - but had very little in the way of explanatory notes. Most importantly, no mention that certain lines are "Express" lines that don't stop at every stop on weekends. Thus, my first foray on to the system resulted in me overshooting my intended designation by 15 blocks. The kind help of a friendly local soon got me back on track however, and I got to the NHM only 20 minutes later than planned.

The second niggle is that the stations aren't very well signposted. Unlike the London Underground, with its iconic circular signs, NY tends to have non-descript regular signposts that blend seamlessly into the visual cacophony of busy NewYork streets. This caused me particular problems when it was time to go home. I found myself looking for the massive underground station on 34th Pennsylvania, which combines both the subway and Amtrack stations. I stood on the corner and simply could not see it. Eventually I asked a hotdog seller, who pointed to Madison Square Gardens across the road. Sure enough, when I walked over, the sign for Penn station was hidden behind a large bush about a foot off the sidewalk (see, I've got the lingo down - that's 30cm above the pavement to the less well-travelled of you), entirely overshadowed by the Madison Sq Garden sign.

Of course, no good underground (or indeed Tube or Metro) tale is complete without at least one encounter with a nutter. And NYC currently holds the record for the most scary/amusing/weird nutter to date.

As I waited for my train at 42nd street (near the Empire State Building), I noticed a young man of about twenty. He was dressed in full basketball gear plus bandana, classic "gang" uniform if American cop shows are to be believed. Being a typical Brit, my first thought was "I wonder how he's getting a mobile phone signal so far underground" since he was animatedly talking away on what I assumed was a handsfree kit. As we both got into our carriage, I realised that there was no handsfree kit. Rather he was involved in a deep discussion with his imaginery friend. I didn't want to eavesdrop, in case the conversation was private, but he was talking rather loudly. I soon realised my mistake. He was talking to an imaginary group of friends. And it would seem that there had been an unfortunate incident. One of the friends (I didn't catch his name) had dissed his Mum and because of that he was a motherfucka. At some point his bitch had also become involved and that just wasn't right. I wasn't clear who's bitch it was. Nevertheless, there seemed to be a general lack of love and respec'. Anyways, the conversation continued for sometime with lots of Motherfucka's and Ho's until finally, it seems that the guilty party apologised. This seemed to placate the young man, who called him his bro, offered him respec' and shook hands with him before bumping shoulders. That's an interesting sight to be sure.

Well, he jumped off at the next stop. As he vacated his seat I noticed the sign on the seat "Reserved for Disabled Passengers".
I turned to the man who had helped me with my map
"Well he seemed to have a disability, I'd say".
"Yeah, it's called crack".

SaneScientist in the Hood!

2006-07-23T04:10:00.000+01:00

So there I am, in a city in the American Mid-West, in the middle of a heatwave. 105F and 70% humidity. So what is a Brit abroad to do? Why, go for a walk of course!

I had a few hours to kill after giving a talk and before being wined and dined again, so I decided to go and buy an international calling card before Mum and Dad went to bed and find a newspaper. I went down to the reception desk of the Institute where I was staying and explained what I wanted.
"You could drive uptown, there is a 7-11 about 2 miles from here"
I expained that I didn't have a car.
"Hmmm. Then why don't you walk down to the plaza downtown. There's a strip mall, that'll probably have what you want".
So off I went.

Fuck me, it was hot! Apparently, there is a relation of the Windchill factor called the Heat Index, that takes the actual temperature and factors in humidity etc to arrive at a relative temperature. Today it was between 110 and 115F (43 t0 46 in real money). Pretty warm for a pasty Brit with half a litre of water and no sunglasses.

Anyway, I swim downtown. About half a mile downhill. I am aware that means half a mile uphill on the way back.

Now the funny thing about being in a foreign country - even one that feels as familiar as the US - is that your "RADAR" is wonky. As I reach the strip mall, with its mixture of familiar signs (McDs, KFC etc) and unfamiliar shops, I start to feel like a fish out of water. I slowly become aware of the fact that I am the only white person visible. Not only that, there appear to be large numbers of young men standing on the street corners. Selling stuff. Let's just say that the entrepeneurial spirit was in full swing, practised by businessmen unfettered by the tyranny of the IRS or the FDA. Spotting a supermarket, I duck inside. Here, despite my wonky RADAR it becomes apparent that I am in the local equivalent of Nettos or Scumerfield, rather than Waitrose. Grabbing some root beer and a calling card, I decide to forgo the newspaper and get the hell out of Dodge. As I leave I am watched with great interest by the "street vendors".

Walking back up the hill, I start to question the wisdom of my decision. I'm sweating like an 8 year old in a Nike factory. About halfway back I have to stop and dig out the Root beer. Here I insert a cautionary note to all visitors to the US - Root beer is NOT ginger beer - and it is absolutely foul. Positively undrinkable unless it's over 100 degrees and you are losing water by the kilo. As I rested by the road, a police cruiser came past and slowed.

I couldn't believe it - in 29 years I have never been stopped by the Police (I was once told to "fuck off" by a police officer, but that's a different story). As he drove past, the cop and I made eye contact - he shook his head in disbelief and drove on.

Finally I make it back. Entering the Institute, I am aware that I look like I've been swimming. The (different) security guard looks up from his newspaper.
"Jeez boy, where in the hell you been?"
"The Plaza"
He went a sort of pale colour
"Jesus Christ! We don't send visitors down there, they'll be shot!"
It seems that only the heatwave saved me. Apparently, even crack dealers can't be arsed to shoot a foolish whiteboy in the midday heat.
"I'm going to have a word with the person that sent you that way - there's a news stand in the opposite direction that's closer and used by the students from the University dorms. And that cop should have known better than to leave you by the roadside there. He should have given you a lift".

Oh well, live and learn eh?

Back in Blighty, Nighty Nighty!

2006-07-21T16:11:00.000+01:00

I'm baaaack! According to my watch, it's Thursday. According to the clock on my laptop it's Friday. I have absolutely no idea which is correct. I've obviously put one forward and one back. I am so tired I can't work it out, I'm going to have to look it up on ceefax. I'll do a proper blog later when I've actually slept for more than 4 hours. One of the downsides of this trip has been the sheer lack of sleep. After missing the first flight out, I've taken no chances, arriving at the airport in time for first boarding. Since all my flights have been early morning, on several occassions I have been wined and dined by my interviewer until midnight before catching a taxi at 4am the next morning. The novelty of take off and landing (normally my favourite part of flying) has long since gone and on several occassions I fell asleep before take-off and had to be woken by a steward after landing.

Anyway, until my next post here are a few statistics from the last 10(?) days.

Labs visited 4
Aeroplanes boarded 10
Different airports 8
KM flown ~15,000
Timezones experienced 3
Taxis 21
Free meals 9
Weight gained Let's not go there!
Photos taken 185
Thunder storms 4
Hottest temperature experienced 105F/40C + 70% humidity.
Shirts and ties worn 8
Conversations with random strangers.... too many to count.

Offers of employment......... pending!

Just checking in

2006-07-18T02:49:00.000+01:00

Well, touch wood it seems that the trip is going well after a shaky start. Canadian Affair have agreed to delay my return to the UK by 24 hours allowing me to stay over and have the interview I missed on Monday. I'm still going to write a letter of complaint because I want to try and claw back some of the 2 nights Hotel bookings that I missed. If I have to swallow the costs so be it, but I'm going to try my best.

The trip has been great both from a job-hunting perspective and a sight-seeing point of view. I took over 100 photos in New York alone! I've made a pre-emptive strike on the whole dodgy reference thing and it seems that all of my interviewers have their own hellish post-doc stories, and were pretty sympathetic and encouraging. My talk has gone down well, with several of the audience eager to hear more. I've even emailed a chapter of my PhD thesis to one person.

I've plenty of stories to share over the next few posts. As a little tease, here are a few upcoming posts:

"SaneScientist in the Hood!"
"Going Underground"
"Morgan Spurlock wasn't exaggerating!"
"Canada, eh?"
"Back after these messages from our sponsors"

Canadian Affair and Thomas Cook are fucking bastards!

2006-07-09T13:54:00.000+01:00

Total, utter, cunting bastards!

They have "Over-booked" the flight I was supposed to be catching. Despite my pleas that I have a job interview tomorrow morning they refused to transfer me to another airline or fly me to NY for example and let me fly up in the morning. I spoke to head office, threw my toys (politely) out of the pram and threatened legal action. No good, the bastards wouldn't budge.

I nearly ripped the buggers head off when he said
"Unfortunately, you did only just make check-in".
No I fucking didn't! I was present over an hour before check-in, they just made us stand around with our thumbs up our arses for 45 minutes before they started taking our bags. Unfortunately, my queue then got held up by some twat who couldn't work out where his passport was. The young lady behind me who jumped into the faster moving queue next to us, was last on the flight.

So now I have to try and reorganise my schedule. I am hoping to at least meet my interviewer for an evening meal tomorrow, then perhaps pop in for a quick tour of the university during my 5 hour lay over before I catch my flight home next week. Can anything else go wrong?

At least I have gotten some small measure of revenge. They offered to put me up up in an airport hotel. I was sorely tempted, just on principle. But then I figured, they probably have a special deal with the local hotels and I'd rather sleep in my own bed. Besides - I live a fair distance and the fare is quite expensive. So when I got in and the driver asked "which route would you like me to take" I replied "Take the scenic one mate - and don't forget a generous tip, the airline is playing".

Bon Voyage

2006-07-09T00:13:00.000+01:00

That's about the limit of my French, so in 24 hours I shall be looking desperately for an Anglophone Canadian Taxi driver...

Well, I'm almost packed and ready. I've noticed something strange - my wheeled suitcase is definately shrinking. Tonight I ironed 8 shirts and placed them neatly in a spare suit carrier. They are now folded three times to fit in my shinking case. And let's not even start on the fun I had fitting my actual suit in! The case looked HUGE when I bought it a few years ago - now it seems that I could take it as carry on.

It looks as if the curse of my dodgy reference is even worse than I suspected. One particular employer emailed me to say that he wanted to speak to me on the phone before deciding if I should visit. Good timing - what with me having just put over £1,000 of flights on my credit card and booking a hotel HE RECOMMENDED near to his University! So I phoned him and he gave me a few hints at what was wrong with the reference, concluding that it had probably screwed all my chances of getting funding in the future. Thanks a bunch boss! Fortunately, another supervisor has agreed to write any future references so I will try and find out who is writing the bad one and ditch them. Anyway, when I explained that there were a number of factors behind the bad reference - and that I was coming anyway because I had connecting flights - he agreed to meet me. So, fingers crossed!

So, I have almost finished. I just need to print a few more maps and workout a few more bus routes (thank god for Google maps and Wikipedia!) and I am pretty much ready to go. Of course it hasn't all been plain sailing. I lost £20 on cancellation charges when I inadvertantly booked a hotel West of the airport rather than East (the direction of the University I am visiting that day). Fortunately, I noticed my error when I went to print a map out - so I am now only 15 minutes from the University rather than 45. Doh! Those long American streets with 10,000+ houses are a little confusing when you are trying to locate them on a 800x600 pixel map...

Anyways, blogging may be a little light for the next two weeks. Some of the hotels might have internet access that I can plug my laptop into - in others I may just have to rely on the charity of whatever lab I'm visiting to let me access my hotmail. I won't be using blogger on any body elses PC - I have no desire to be outed in the midst of a job interview! I plan to access my email daily - not least because one of the labs I am visiting later in the week has yet to email my itinery, accomodation details or the name of the person meeting me at the airport... useful things to know, I am sure you will agree!

So farewell, and I'll post soon.

PS I doubt I'll have time to do a Tuesday Twat when I am away. Nevertheless, I am confident that my belief that human beings are the same the world over will be proven right in the form of a bumper crop of North American Tuesday Twats that will appear upon my return.

Don't bother getting foreign currency from the Post Office.

2006-07-05T21:34:00.001+01:00

In future, I don't think I'll bother getting foreign currency from the Post Office.

I figure I need a total of £200 in US Dollars and £100 in Canadian Dollars for out of pocket expenses on this upcoming trip. Anything else I will use my card. Since I live near a PO branch, I popped in to order it there on the way to work. First thing "Come back with ID". Sigh. Another day wasted.

So today, clutching my passport, I went back. I duly filled in a form. The PO is commission free, but VISA like their cut, so I took my cheque book.
"We don't take cheques. Do you have cash?"
I didn't because I can't draw out that much cash in one go. Ever since a friend got "double dipped" by muggers I have had a deliberately low withdrawal limit - they grabbed him at 1130pm, made him draw out his daily allowance then kept him in a car at knifepoint until 1230am then made him do it again. Result: £500. Since then, I have had a withdrawal limit of £100. I've never had any problems until now.
Resigned to paying 1.5%, I handed over my debit card.
Card Declined.
"It's because you only have a cash withdrawal limit of £100".
I handed over my Credit Card.
"The Post Office only accepts it's own credit cards".

With no other choice, I went to the nearest cashpoint planning to draw out the money on 3 different cards.
"Out of order" it proclaimed after wasting 60 seconds of my life as I entered my PIN and waited for it to process. Why don't they tell you this before you waste your time queuing and waiting for the machine to process your request?

I trudged a quarter of a mile up the road in 30 degree heat to the next cashpoint, making a mental note to find my sun glasses and take the lead bricks out of my bag.

I put the card in "Card declined". Great, now the card is blocked.
I replaced it with my little-used BarclayCard. "That service is unavailable at this time" What the fuck does that mean?
Now with no hope of getting £300 out on my remaining credit card, I jumped on the bus and went to my nearest bank.
Fortunately, I had my passport on me so I was able to withdraw £300 in twenties and get my card unblocked then back on the bus, with an uncomfortably large wad of notes burning a hole in my pocket.

Back at the PO, it was Giro day so I queued for a further twenty minutes, the stifling heat making the smell of Special Brew and cheap cider seem even more heady than usual. Finally, my turn again. I handed him the wad and filled the paperwork in whilst he called the office. After repeating himself three times and confirming that "Yes he wants both American and Canadian dollars" he looked at me apologetically.
"You've missed the deadline by 10 minutes - you can't pick them up until Friday afternoon".

Oooh, I really hope they haven't fucked up my order now or I am going to be in deep shit.

Fulfilling the stereotype...

2006-07-05T01:42:00.000+01:00

Apparently, there is a nasty stereotype that people with lighter coloured hair might be a little dim on occassion.

I know, I was shocked to hear that as well!

Well anyways by strange coincidence one of my colleagues at the Sportcentre is of the blonde persuasion. And perhaps, just maybe, she might lend credence to this scandalous slur.

The first thing I did when getting in was join the hunt for a brown envelope, stuffed with 10 pound notes that she had misplaced about 15 seconds after being paid for several weeks badminton coaching. Panic ensued until it finally turned up - on the shelf in the store room. The same store room that she swore blind she hadn't entered today. Of course, we suspected that she might be mistaken when she emptied her handbag over the desk and I innocently enquired why she had the store room key in there if she hadn't entered it today...

A little later on, she appeared looking frazzled and embarrassed.
"Um, you haven't seen my car keys have you?"
"Would they by chance be the ones found on court 6 immeditely after your lesson?"

But she saved the best to last.
She had an hour-long wait between lessons. I entered the office to find her playing cards with the duty manager. He was obviously explaining, with little success, the rules of a card game. I wasn't really listening, as I was hunting for a file so I had no idea what game he was teaching her.
"OK, well lets just start playing and see if you can pick it up"
"Is the aim to end up with all of the cards or none of the cards?"
"All of the cards"
"OK"
For a few moments there was the quiet slap of cards being played out onto the table. Followed by a triumphant shout from the DM

"SNAP!"

I'm not making this shit up, I swear!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-07-04T03:51:00.000+01:00

No. 70. Film Distributers

This is a personal gripe that has really come into focus again with the delayed release of Superman Returns over here.

Years ago, there was almost always a long lag between a film being released in the US and its release on these shores. Various excuses were given, such as the different holiday traditions between the two countries - the July 4th weekend is traditionally a big one in the US for example. Another, less acceptable excuse, is the fact that it is cheaper to re-use the same rolls of film on both sides of the Atlantic. This is why, despite paying roughly the same, even on opening night it is not uncommon for the picture to be scratched and dirty. The universal adoption of digital is still some time away, so film is still going to degrade with use.

The reason that this annoys me so, is not just impatience - we've been waiting for a new Superman film since 1987, I can wait a little longer. It is a combination of both jealousy and the fact that I often quite like to be surprised by the ending of a film! I visit a number of websites and bulletin boards, many of which often have an "open gossip" forum where people can talk about anything that interests them, including films. Unfortunately, these boards are often filled with Americans who simply cannot grasp the fact that not everyone in the world sees a film at the same time. Think Homer Simpson turning to Marge outside a screening of The Empire Strikes Back announcing in a loud voice in front of the queue to go in "I can't believe that Darth Vader turned out to be Luke's father!". You get the idea. I confess that I tore a new arsehole for the prick who post a topic entitled "Snap Poll: Was it right to kill Data at the end of ST: Nemesis?" - 6 weeks before it came out in the UK. For fuck's sake...

But then along came broadband internet. Suddenly, it became possible for Joe Public to download low-quality copies of films within hours of them being released. Thank God, I say! Even though I have never downloaded a pirate film, nor do I intend to (I genuinely enjoy the cinema experience and have a rather low tolerance for poor quality pictures), Internet piracy has been one of the best things to happen in recent years. Why? Because it finally forced distributers to simultaneously release major pictures across the globe. Everything from X-Men 3 to Star Wars Episode III were released at exactly the same time, since it was guaranteed that copies of those films would be on peer-to-peer networks within hours of the film being shown.

But now, they've changed their minds again, claiming that simultaneous release allows people to film copies in UK cinemas. Um yeah, so what? Why does it matter where the film is copied - surely it's more important to reduce demand for illegal copies?

So now Superman Returns will be released 3 weeks late in the UK (and 2 months late in some territories). The only way it makes sense is if somebody in WB has shares in Bittorrent..

Off on my travels...

2006-06-30T04:07:00.000+01:00

Is it wrong that a small part of me hopes that England doesn't make it to the World Cup finals? It is a purely selfish whim, because if they do, I shall spend the duration of the match at 30,000 feet halfway across the Atlantic - and you just know that US Air won't be showing the match as part of the inflight entertainment...

Finally, I have booked my tickets for a job hunting tour of North America. Two labs in the US and two in Canada will be enjoying the privilige of my company as I beg them for a job.

It has been stressfull beyond belief though. First the quibbling over who pays what (only partly resolved, but I at least have agreements in principle), then the seemingly simple job of getting my references to the labs. Problems with emails, absences and the loss of one of the references by the referee have had me tearing my hair out for nearly two weeks - and I still haven't got one of my referees to answer my emails or phone calls yet!

But perhaps I shouldn't have bothered. One of the labs contacted me today to say that they had grave concerns over the contents of one of my references. My abilities as a team player and commitment were both questioned. I was absolutely pole-axed. I feel completely betrayed. I thought that the long heart-to-heart I had with my "good" supervisor had cleared the air over that. Apparently not.

Now I am completely paranoid. Is this the reason that I have had a half dozen really, really good interviews, only to be let down a week later by a short note mumbling vaguely about "more experienced candidates"? Is this one reference the reason I have spent nearly 12 months sitting on my arse in a fucking sport centre getting more and more depressed?

One silver lining is that this unusually candid potential interviewer has asked me to explain what the problem was. So this evening, I wrote a lengthy email explaining how the project was not what I had hoped for and the many problems that I encountered(such as other lab members quitting unexpectedly, leaving me to sort their mess out and the absence of any technical support). I was careful not to come across as whiney and studiously avoided identifying anyone by name (or even gender). I then finished with a paragraph emphasising the good that came out of the project and the positive feedback various audiences have shown when I have presented my work to them.

As always, I sought the advice of the two wisest people I know before hitting Send. Both Mum and Dad agreed that my reply was balanced and told my side of the story, without being too whinging. Time will tell.

Ultimately, we decided that even if this lab withdraws its offer, I should book my tickets any way and still split the cost 4 ways. We'll just cover the cost of the 4th stop and I'll simply go sight-seeing for 2 days. I can't delay any longer, already the cost has risen £50 over the past 48 hours as I've waited to hear back from my references.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On a related note, MSN Passport sucks! It refused to recognise my login details when I tried to book my tickets. Although it's all sorted now, I've just spent 10 minutes retrieving the contents of my wallet from behind the wardrobe after I grabbed the nearest non-breakable object (it was either the wallet or my cell phone) and hurled it at the wall in frustration. I'm glad I live on my own - my little temper trantrum ill-behooves a man of letters.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-06-27T02:59:00.000+01:00

No. 69. The inventor of the mobile music phone speaker.

I confidently predict that there will be a special place in hell for the twat that decided to marry a mobile phone and an MP3 player, then beef up the speakers. In only a few short months, my daily commute has changed from a chance to quietly reflect upon the day's events, whilst appreciating the subtle bouquet of my fellow passengers' body odour into a deafening assault on the ears from some gob-shite's music player.

It was bad enough listening to the muffled boom boom boom of some dickhead's iPOD, as they destroy the last hair cells remaining in their cochlea by listening at full volume - now they have speakers. I know that when people first started buying "Ghetto Blasters", some anti-social arseholes would sit in public places and share their music with the world, but the quick arrival of the Sony Walkman personal stereo soon killed the idea of lugging a stereo system the size of a small suitcase around. Either that or Mr Spock's nerve pinch in Star Trek IV scared more people than I thought...

However, these are already portable. And take a look at the offenders. They fall in to 2 camps mostly. Schoolkids, who are by definition anti-social little animals with questionable musical taste and Scum. On my daily route, it's schoolkids on the way to work and Scum on the way back. Try telling the kids to turn it off and you'll just get a mouthful of abuse. Try telling the Scum to turn it off and they will smile, having finally provoked a potentially violent confrontation with someone. Says a lot about their self esteem I suppose that they live for a fight, but there you go.

Unfortunately, until wearing headphones becomes cool again or someone develops a remote control similar to the ones you can buy to turn off pub TVs, I don't see it getting any better soon. I might have to invest in an MP3 player of my own with sound-supressing earphones. An alternative might be to start playing Barry Manilow at high volume myself. Or perhaps that really irritating high-pitched squeal that only the most youthfull in society can appreciate.

Use it or lose it!

2006-06-23T01:20:00.000+01:00

The BBC has an interesting article on the loss of local libraries.

I can't comment on my "local" library, but I visit my city's Central library to replenish my stock of novels at least monthly. As a child, highlight of the week was Monday night, when my sister and I would be taken to the library. I couldn't wait to get my own library card (you had to share your parent's card those days until you were eight). When I did, I would fill it (6 books) and beg my Dad to let me get more out on his card. I would rarely need to renew un-read books at my next visit.

However, I see less and less children reading these days. As a child I would sit on the side of the swimming pool waiting for my younger sister's lesson to finish and mine to start and would invariably amuse myself with a good book. Over the past few months I have seen literally dozens of children in a similar position waiting for a sibling's badminton lesson to finish - yet I don't think I have ever seen any of them reading! They either sit zonked out in front of the cartoons or they run riot.

Very often, their parents are present - but very few of them ever read anything either, prefering to gossip or whinge. I suppose if Mum and Dad never read, their kids probably won't either.

Interestingly, I have seen some interesting examples of why you should never judge a book by it's cover (pardon the pun). Of the many regular parents that I see, only a couple read novels whilst they are waiting. The most prolific readers are perhaps the least expected. One example is a low-income, single father who works as a cleaner. He speaks very slowly and counts the lesson fee out with great care. It is easy to make assumptions about him (and I confess, I did at first) - yet he sits in the quietest part of the centre, and in the months that I have worked there has worked his way through pretty much every John Grisham novel in the catalogue. We've been sharing authors, as he is now looking for someone new. He comes twice a week and I never see him reading the same book twice, so he obviously rattles through them at a fair pace. On the other hand, there are several wealthy mothers. They are the owners of the Mercedes convertibles or top-of-the-range people carriers that sometimes grace our car park. Their kids have 2 or 3 high-quality badminton rackets and expensive purpose-built racket bags. Reading matter of choice? "Take a break" Magazine.

I despair.

Conservation News

2006-06-21T17:28:00.000+01:00

BBC News

Good news for the poster-child of the conservation movement. New research based on poo and published in Current Biology, suggest that there may be 2 or 3 times as many wild Giant Pandas than previously thought.

Japan is sending a team of ~~chefs~~ scientists to China to help confirm the research.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-06-20T02:00:00.000+01:00

No. 68. Public dope smokers

OK, no matter where you stand on the whole legalise/criminlise debate - you have to admit that people who wander down a busy high street trailing "funny smelling" smoke behind them are fucking idiots.

It seems to be an epidemic near where I live and is getting more common. Sitting upstairs on the bus has always been a good way to get light-headed on the cheap. However, sitting downstairs is almost as effective these days. And with summer days inevitably leading to more people sitting outside, either in beer gardens, cafes or bus shelters, it seems that more and more people are quite brazenly smoking joints. I've also seen people wandering down the street carrying very obviously well-used bongs.

Why is this? Is there some misconception about whether it is now legal or not? It seems to me quite clear that the new guidelines on cannibas use simply allow Police Officers more discretion. They can choose to give you a warning for small amounts, rather than "hauling yo ass" down to the police station for a caution or fine. The keyword here being "discretion", in all it's meanings. I humbly submit that if PC Plod is searching you or your property for some reason and finds nothing more incriminating than a single joint - he or she may choose to give you a warning. If however, you are standing in the middle of the highstreet on a busy saturday afternoon, giggling like a school girl and puffing enthusiastically on a doobee the size of cuban cigar - most Police Officers would regard that as "taking the piss" and probably arrest you just for being a knob head.

I have an inherent dislike of people that behave like pricks and I can't wait for the day when some copper decides that arresting these twats is at least as productive in terms of cases solved as pouncing on someone feeding chips to pigeons in a public park. The look on their face will be priceless...

I have a new boss!

2006-06-18T22:25:00.000+01:00

... And already he's pissed me off!

The former General Manager of the sport centre has been promoted. I'd like to say that I wished him well on his new job. Unfortunately, I never actually met him. He managed to avoid visiting our corner of the centre for the entire time that I have worked here. With the exception of one notable occassion, when a minor celebrity turned up and he magically appeared just long enough to get his photograph in the local newspaper.

And so, we have a new GM. He was pointed out to me in hushed tones when I strolled into work last Tuesday. Naturally, he didn't deign to respond to me when I wished him a polite good evening as he left. Nevertheless, I seem to have made quite an impression. First thing the following morning my Agency "handler", phoned me to say that there had been a complaint about my standard of dress. WTF?

As I walked in to work that evening, the duty manager greeted me at the door with "I'm so sorry! That new General Manager rang up this morning, wanting to know your name and the telephone number of your agency. From now on, you have to wear a button up shirt and trousers".

Now this has pissed me off somewhat. First of all, I am the smartest person in the building. Standard uniform for managers and coaching staff alike is a polo shirt with the centre's logo, dark blue tracksuit bottoms and trainers. I turned up on my first day wearing a shirt, tie, smart trousers and smart shoes. I was told I could ditch my tie. A few weeks later, when chatting with the DM one night, I was told that the reason for the strict dress code for the receptionist was because a previous temp had taken to coming in wearing ripped blue denim jeans and T-shirts with dubious logos. When I mentioned that I only owned two pairs of work trousers - my normal attire being jeans and T-shirt (and I'm buggered if I'm wearing my suit trousers) - I was told that I could wear smart, black pressed jeans in lieu of trousers as long as I wore a button up shirt.

But no more, it seems. And it really pisses me off that he didn't have the guts to tell me himself.
"we'll have to watch our backs with this one" was the glum assessment of the only duty manager to have actually spoken to the new guy in the month he has been in post. And they wonder why staff morale is so low...

As if there was any doubt...

2006-06-18T03:14:00.000+01:00

Proof that Bryan Singer is sticking with the original theme for Superman Returns.

Play this video, and feel those hairs stand up on the back of your neck!

Check out the HUGE grin on Brandon Routh's face. You just know that being Superman is like being a kid in a candy store!

In related news, it seems that the counter below may be a little inaccurate. There is a nasty rumour floating about that the UK has to wait an extra 2 weeks to see it released over here! Bastards! Another good reason to go an a wee tour of the US at the beginning of July.

Forget the Da Vinci code... here's the film of 2006!

2006-06-16T04:21:00.000+01:00

Click Here to put this Superman Returns counter in your profile!

Coming home to roost...

2006-06-15T07:07:00.000+01:00

Wow! I'm halfway through my mass "please give me a job" emailshot and thus far I have had
7 replies asking for references from lab heads with (unadvertised!) vacancies on fully-funded grants plus a further 4 who would like to employ me but don't have the funding for a new postdoc. If I can find a personal fellowship to cover my wages then they'll be interested in talking again. Suddenly, taking the time to put all of the PIs' details into a colour-coded spreadsheet doesn't look like the colossal waste of time it felt like when I was doing it...

It looks unlikely that I will get a personal fellowship - my disastrous last postdoc has pretty much killed that - nevertheless, it's put a much needed spring in my step. I also got 2 replies from PIs who would love to employ me but are busy tidying their desks one last time before taking up fishing and spoiling the grandkids.

My biggest worry at the moment is that my poor referees have been beseiged by almost a dozen requests in the past week. I have suggested that maybe my references could be deposited with the group secretary and I'll direct all inquiries to her. That way, the confidentiality of the reference can be maintained (and I won't be tempted to "edit" them, ahem).

I'm going to continue with the mailshot, but I have gone from depression last week (my first few replies were all negative) to mild (though cynically tempered) euphoria.

Since most of these labs are in North America, I may be faced with a travelling salesman problem over the summer, as I try and figure out how to visit as many labs as possible in as short a time as possible without making it too obvious that I am flying from lab to lab... could be tricky if I submit domestic US airline tickets when claiming back expenses...

Even better, this might stop Mum and Dad's increasing nagging when I phone at the weekend...

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-06-13T02:00:00.000+01:00

No. 67. The buyers of "Celebrity" Biographies

Browsing my local bookstore a few weeks ago, I was confronted by an unbelievable sign.
"Jade Goody will in store be signing copies of her new autobiography"

Jade Goody... autobiography... signing. What sort of a fucked up world do we live in when those four words can be combined in a sentence without any negatives?

More importantly, who in God's name buys this shit? Recent "auto"biographies such as "Bbeing Jordan" have topped best-seller charts in their first few weeks, whilst still fully priced hardbacks. It's not as if they are being snapped up 2 for £1.99 from County Bookstores reduced bins.

Now let's get something clear rom the off. I don't have anything against Celebrity biographies per se, just "Celebrity" biographies. I can see why people might buy the life-story of George Best or Alex Ferguson. I'm sure that "Sir" Sean Connery's forthcoming biography will probably be a bloody good page turner, depending on it's author ("Sir" Sean is a self-confessed near-illiterate, the odds of him putting pen to paper are about the same as Stephen Hawking winning the Ladies singles at Wimbledon with 2 missing wheels and a flat battery).

But it is beyond me why anyone would want to read the biography of a twenty-something, one-time "Reality TV star", who thinks that East Anglia is abroad and refers to her lady parts as her "kebab". And surely, those who aren't entirely repulsed by Katie "Don't call me Jordan" Price are rather more interested in pictures than words. I'm surprised that "Being Jordan" wasn't a pop-up-book.

It may be mean of me (OK, I admit it is definately mean), but my first thought on hearing that Wayne Rooney might not play in the World cup was "that's fucked his five-book deal then. I wonder if there is an opt-out clause in his contract". Of course, his "heroic fight back fom devastating injury to score the winning goal in a penalty shoot-out against Germany in the Worldcup final"(*) is probably worth a sixth book. Indeed, if you look carefully at the photos of him flying back after his scan, you can see that he is still carrying a packet of crayons, despite having lent his colouring book to Theo Walcott. I wonder what he was writing about?

So, to all of those who buy this tripe. Stop it! You're only encouraging them. It's a waste of trees and ink. And for those of you have stooped so low to buy Jade Goody's autobiograph, shame on you! The Tuesday Twat Award was invented for people like you!

(*) this might be slightly wishfull thinking.

Mail order tat

2006-06-11T02:08:00.000+01:00

Every few weeks, my New Scientist is accompanied through the door by the "Dream Direct" mail order catalogue. This is a sort of middle-aged, tweed and country-folks version of the much-missed "Innovations" catalogue, which was full of gadgets that you never knew you needed so desperately until you saw them - then couldn't believe that you didn't already own three.

I regard it as a last-chance for presents for my Dad, since he is simply impossible to buy for (BTW any suggestions as to an appropriate Father's day present for sunday - feel free to leave a comment!).

But it really is full of crap. This week's special offer is a half-price 12 DVD set of famous train journeys. No, seriously.

However, in amongst the solar-powered lamps, fold up gardening stools with pockets for tools and leather holders for TV/Video/DVD remote controllers, there was something that made me feel smug and happy.

A 1Gb memory key for the "special" price of £149.99

Special indeed - I just bought a 2Gb key from Amazon for £29.99

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-06-06T01:44:00.000+01:00

No. 66. ITV

OK, I make no apologies - this is a rant after being forced to listen to ITV1 at work all night.

What the fuck is the point of ITV1? For my readers abroad, ITV was the UK's first commercial TV channel. Launched 51 years ago, it was the only rival to the BBC. In recent years, it's original channel has been rebranded as ITV1 and there are 5 more ITV channels available on digital TV - ITV2, 3 & 4 plus ITV play (a 24 hour premium rate gambling channel) and Men and Motors.

I can honestly say that there is NOTHING that appeals to me on ITV anymore. Seriously, it is abominable waste of bandwidth. A look at the typical schedule of ITV1 lends support to my argument that it should be rebranded LCD1 - as in Lowest Common Denominator. It is Chav TV personified. Although the BBC has nothing to be terriby proud of these days, if ITV were the channel funded by our license fee, I would seriously risk a fine for not buying a license. The schedule of ITV is basically a mix of soap operas, reality shows, shit talent shows and even shitter "Celebrity" Talent shows. In fact, ITV will put the word "Celebrity" in front of anything in the hope that it sells. It's flagship News at 10:30 is just a dumbed down version of the BBC 10 oclock news for tabloid readers and it's "hard-hitting" documentary programme "Tonight" is basically a soundbite friendly Audiovisual companion to whatever stories are bothering the right-wing mid-market tabloids, such as the Daily Express.

Unfortunately, the Sportcentre has a TV with SKY and it drives me to distraction. When the kids are in it plays non-stop cartoons, whipping them up into a hyper-active frenzy. It is nothing more than visual tartrazine. I have actually taken to switching off the TV before the kids arrive and both coaches and parents reported an improvement in the kids behaviour, they were quieter and paid more attention. Unfortunately, some of the parents bring hoardes of non-playing kids to watch their siblings play. It would be unthinkable that these kids might read a book, do some colouring in perhaps or (heaven forbid!) talk to their parents or the other children. Instead the first thing that these parents do is demand that I turn on Children's ITV. And I am told we can't refuse. The worst thing is the noise. I don't actually mind the kids yelling and running around too much, it is a natural noise that I can tune out. It just seems that running around to a backdrop of Spongebob Squarepants or whatever the fuck is showing is impossible to tune out. It DEMANDS your attention, even though I actually sit with my back to the screen. I'm sure that there is something deliberately stimulating about the way the cartoons are constructed.

After the kids leave, the TV remains on. Most of the DMs are soap addicts and so I am treated to Cockney Scum screaming at each other in Eastenders, Manc Scum screaming at each other in Coronation Street and Yorkshire Scum screaming at each other in Emmerdale. After the last of the soaps, the DM then settles down to watch whatever mind-numbing, low-budget, hyped up bullshit that ITV1 is pumping out. A few months ago it was "Soap Star" X factor where former soap stars murder perfectly good songs. At the moment it is "Celebrity" X-Factor where former soap stars murder perfectly good songs. Are we spotting a pattern yet boys and girls?

Two weeks ago, the SKY box stopped working. As we don't have a regular ariel, we couldn't receive anything. I didn't even try to conceal my delight. Given that we have been waiting 6 months for someone to repair the nets dividing the badminton courts, I was ecstatic. By the next evening the SKY repairman had been in and all was fixed. Fuck.

So to the management of ITV1, I implore you - either give up your bandwidth to other channels or at least fire the current board of twats and look at poaching the people in charge of turning Five around and the Channel4/E4/More4 crew. Before I am forced to do permanent damage to the SKY box.

A word to the advertisers

2006-06-04T02:59:00.000+01:00

Of the last 100 visitors to my site, a staggering 26 arrived here because they searched for a video of Rebecca Loos wanking a pig off.

Just think about that next time you are trying to get visitors to visit your site. We've had the Pink Pound/Dollar, the Grey Pound/Dollar and now we have the Zoophile Pound/Dollar.

By the way, just in case you are one of the sick fucks looking for such a video, I don't have one. Seek help.

Going round in circles.

2006-06-03T01:08:00.000+01:00

In my ongoing quest for a proper job, I am becoming something of an officianado of University websites. And I really need to let off a little steam! A few days ago, I was pointed toward a directory of PIs working in my field and have been preparing a mass emailing effort. The list contained a rather daunting 1200+ names, and so I have spent the past week whittling that down to about 100 who A) Interest me and B) aren't dead (nobody dies in cyberspace, their contact details just don't get updated). To do so, I have been visiting A LOT of lab homepages, checking email addresses etc and getting a feel for their work and their lab group.

The problem is that many University websites are absolutely atrocious. Most of the direct links from my list are out of date now (the database was started 10 years ago) and so I have to go in through the university's front page and look for the member of staff. I'm sorry to say, but our cousins across the pond are particularly bad at designing websites. Some of the biggest institutes in the world are almost impossible to navigate. Sure they look very pretty - tasteful colour schemes, photographs of an ethnically diverse range of unfeasibly good-looking students throwing their mortar boards into the air and lots of nice little icons. But navigating into the bowels of the site to find a lab's personal homepage can be make you grind your teeth in frustration.

Whereas most of the British Universities I've visited have a tab on the frontpage marked "Research", remarkably some of the world's most famous research institutes don't. One University (out of politeness I shan't name names) has just such a link, but it takes you to the page for the staff of the funding office. Now don't get me wrong, they are an indispensible and undervalued part of any research institute, but who in their right mind includes a link to the admin service on their frontpage (and after clicking every other link, I found NO link to the actual research departments)?

Another way is to search for the member of staff directly. Usually there are a couple of ways of doing this. One is to search the entire university's site for any mention of the lab head's surname. That's OK if they have a rare surname, but you can imagine how many hits you get if the researcher is "Smith" or "Jones". Several hundred hits for the surname of one particular individual at a large university had me banging my head on the keyboard in frustration. The second option is to search the staff directory. Assuming that the staff directory is available to outside visitors (it very often isn't), several of world's finest institutions returned "server down" messages. And even when the service does work, the information returned is often of limited use. Typically one gets the persons name and title, sometimes their email address, usually their phone number and their room number. That does confirm that they still work there and that their email address is up-to-date but still doesn't get you a link to their homepage, which is what I really want.

I will admit that I am a bit spoilt. At my old university, they upgraded the campus directory software to a newer version and allowed staff free reign to add extra details. They also allowed certain fields to remain invisible to external visitors eg exact room numbers - after all the last thing you want is Animal Rights Terrorists knowing exactly which office people work in. My profile had my name, title and position, building zone, direct dial numbers plus a link to my lab's homepage. Optional fields also included links to any modules that I might teach etc.

Eventually, I find the details I want, decide I like the look of the lab and its work and add it to my email list. However, one particularly irritating aspect of US universities in particular (and I apologise for picking on the US, it's just more exagerated) is their assumption that you know where they are! Many of the US' educational institutes are named after the philanthropist that funded their inception, so the name gives no clue. One particularly famous institution has several campuses in several cities. Perhaps it says more about my ignorance than anything else, but I didn't even know which end of the United States it was at! It took me almost a quarter of an hour to find what state the University was in (eventually I found it by looking to see which law firm is in charge of the University's legal affairs believe it or not!), since all of the mailing addresses were either internal or a PO Box. I finally gave up trying to work out which campus the lab I was interested in is actually situated on. I'll ask ifI get offered an interview.

So,

That's better! I have about 50 more PIs to check, then it's time to start emailing! My CV is up-to-date and I have a basic cover letter that I will personalise to the email's recipient (stock phrases include "I am particualrly drawn to your lab because..."). If I get any reply at all from 10% of the recipients, I will be amazed. If I get any positive replies at all, I shall be ecstatic!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-05-31T01:55:00.000+01:00

No. 65 Morrissey.

Let's face it, there are many reasons to regard Morrissey as a bit of twat, not least his music which is so depressing that the Samaritans regard him as a serious risk factor or the fact that he appears to believe his own hype.

But the main reason is because he is a terrorist sympathiser.

Now, I was as amazed as anyone when he revealed on the Johnathon Ross show that the US authorities had detained him at the airport. My first thought was "WTF? He's about as big a terrorist risk as Cat Stevens!" However, it seems that I had been brainwashed - like so many people - into believing that the term "Terrorist" is synonymous with wild-eyed types wearing TNT waistcoats yelling "Death to the Infidel".

But, there are of course other forms of terrorism, one of the most insidious being Animal Rights Terrorism. And Morrissey is a big fan. This week, he publically endorsed it, again, by telling scientists that "We will get you" - earlier this year, he claimed that violence was the only language that scientists understood. He is also affiliated with PETA, whose charming spokesperson claimed on BBC News some weeks ago that Students at Oxford University were a perfectly legitimate target for protests - regardless of their own position on Animal Testing and the brand new lab being built by their university.

So, perhaps this is why he was detained by the US authorities. The US is starting to suffer from these scum in a way that the UK is and with the ALF busy digging up dead bodies and posting the names of the shareholders of major pharmaceutical firms on the internet, they are probably keen to avoid the Animal Rights issue becoming the next Abortion flashpoint. I suppose that Morrissey should just be glad that Animal Rights Terrorism is more politically correct than Radical Islam - otherwise he may just have found himself sitting in a cell in Guantanamo releasing little puffs of vaseline vapour everytime he farted.

So, I urge you all to hit him where he hurts. His pocket. Don't buy his albums and don't go and see him in concert. Then perhaps he'll fuck off on the bandwagon he rode in on.

Some advice on using the telephone

2006-05-29T00:31:00.000+01:00

I have decided, as a public service, to share some tips on using the telephone. I am considering printing them out in 24 point text and issuing them to all customers at the sport centre.

1) In order to aid communication, may I recommend that customers wishing to book a badminton court finish the sandwich they are eating before calling.

2) I find it very hard to accurately understand you if my ears are ringing. Therefore, please hold the telephone handset away from any screaming children. Please.

3) The same goes for barking dogs.

4) I realise that badminton is a team sport and thus you may decide to arrange a court with your drinking buddies. May I recommend however that you exit the nightclub before ringing me and before consuming 8 pints of Stella Artois. On a related note, please don't call me rude names if I politely question the wisdom of reading me your credit card number whilst standing in a crowded bar.

5) Sometimes, if the line is bad or you have a particularly strong regional/foreign accent, I may politely request that you repeat what you just said. Please don't get pissed off at me - would you rather I guessed?

6) If I have asked you to repeat something - try talking slower not faster.

7) Pull-over to the side of the road before ringing. This is especially important if you then try to read me your credit card number.

8) I am not psychic. If your child has received a letter from school, it helps if you
a) Know which sport it concerns
b) Know vaguely what month the letter is referring to
c) Have read it.

9) We like to have a day off too. When the centre shuts for christmas/easter/bank holiday, it's nothing personal. But it may become so if you call me that name again. On a related note, no we won't stay open an extra hour because you were delayed at work.

10) When ringing up to pay for a court, why not have your credit card to hand rather than in the boot of the car parked in the driveway? It's your phone bill obviously, but telling me when you have returned will save us both time and minimise embarrassing silences.

Every little helps...

2006-05-25T04:59:00.000+01:00

Even if it means accepting stolen credit cards.

Not content with taking 1 in 8 pounds spent by Britain's shoppers, it seems that grocery giant Tesco are quite happy to accept stolen credit cards without a PIN number - namely my stolen credit card.

Basically, last week I logged on to my online banking to check my finances. Much to my surprise, my credit card, which I haven't used for about 2 months, had a deduction of about £1.85. I opened it, expecting to see some sort of back-dated interest charge, only to find that the charge had gone through the day before in my local branch of Tesco.

I HAVE NEVER USED MY CREDIT CARD IN TESCO

Then I remembered an incident the week before. I had just bought a few odds and sods and split a twenty pound note. As I placed the change back into my wallet, I had a sudden case of the clumsies, and fumbled my wallet, spewing cards, stamps and out-of-date "Computer's for Schools" vouchers far and wide. I picked everything up, stuffed it in my button-up coat pocket and left.

Well, it seems that I picked up almost everything. Some other cunt picked up my credit card. And then decided to use it.

Naturally, I got the card cancelled immediately and called the Fraud hot-line. It seems that I was extremely lucky. The thief was probably testing that the card worked, figuring that £1.85 wouldn't be noticed. If they had got my debit card, I might not have, but the usual balance on my credit card is zero. I'm just glad that they didn't hit me with a £3K spending spree.

However, I am extremely pissed. Not least, because Tesco accepted the card without my PIN number.
So I would just like to ask
"WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF CHIP AND PIN IF YOU LET PEOPLE SIGN FOR IT INSTEAD?"
It is not widely publicised, but when the law changed on Valentine's day, requiring you to use a PIN, stores can still get you to sign the old-fashioned way instead. All that has changed, is that the store now bears the cost of fraudulent transactions rather than the card company unless the PIN is used. I believe that in this case Tesco would rather gamble that 99% of forgotten PINs are just that, and simply cover the costs of the 1% that are fraudulent - thus not risking the loss of sales from irate customers who get to the checkout and can't buy their groceries.

So, as soon as I get my fraud report, I shall be taking it to the store manager and asking him the above question.

The Tuesday Twat

2006-05-23T03:38:00.000+01:00

No. 64. People who flaunt their criminal records.

Last week, I saw something that I found somewhat shocking. A young woman, wearing a denim skirt up to her armpits, flaunting her electronic ankle tag. When the hell did a criminal record cease being something to be ashamed of?

Am I being old-fashioned? Stuck in my ways? Intolerant?

The thing is, this post was already on my Tuesday Twat to-do list before I saw this particular young woman. A (marginally) more subtle example of this takes the form of "prison tatts". You know, those handmade, biro-blue scribblings on the back of their hands that prisoners entertain themselves with whilst residing at Her Majesty's pleasure. With the exception of the occassional Merchant Navy Seaman, pretty much the only place that these get done is in prison. Until recently, very few legitimate tattoo artists would do the back of the hand because of the danger of sticking the needle into one of the many prominent veins there.

Why on earth would you want to advertise the fact that you have done time like that? Surely, once you are out, you want to put it behind you, not tell the world?

But perhaps that's the point. This is perhaps cynical/paranoid of me, but I have a theory. You see, when people come out of prison and are unemployed, they are entitled to unemployment benefit just like you or I. And just like you or I, they have to attend job interviews to keep receiving benefit. Now the fact is that there are plenty of folks who would much rather receive unemployment benefit than work (a man who drinks with my uncle is quite proud of the fact that at the age of 40+ he has yet to do a single days work). However, if you are offered a job, you need to justify why you haven't taken it. Rightly or wrongly, most employers will run a mile rather than employ an ex-con. However, under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act, employers cannot enquire about fully served time, except in positions of high responsibility or where child protection issues may arise. So, how can you let an employer know about your murky past without actually telling them? Why not advertise it to the world by tattooing the name of your prison all over your hands?

Perhaps a little far-fetched. But really, it's the only semi-sensible explanation that I can think of.

Love me don't.

2006-05-18T02:46:00.000+01:00

Apparently Paul McCartney is to split from his ~~trophy~~ wife after 4 years. Well done Heather! I'm sure they signed a pre-nup limiting her share of McCartney's half-billion (or so) fortune, but by cleverly geting pregnant first, she's guaranteed herself a steady income for the next 20 years. Go sister, you get a share of those royalties you helped him earn in the sixties!

Apparently, they have been arguing a lot recently. The mainstream press don't say what they were arguing about, but I can exclusively reveal that it all stems back to a rather insensitive birthday present he gave her. Apparently Macca had no idea what to get her, eventually deciding to buy her a plane. And a ladyshave for her other leg.

Dan Brown helps World Peace!

2006-05-17T04:37:00.000+01:00

Yes - you read it here first!

It seems that the imminent screening of the Da Vinci Code has helped broker the first steps in the healing process between East and West. It seems that Muslim whack-jobs are unable to face having the limelight stolen by Christian whack-jobs and have promised to violently protest the Da Vinci Code's release - a heart-warming gesture of solidarity ~~excused~~ justified by the fact that Muslims believe that Jesus was a cool guy too!
BBC News

I'm ecstatic I have to say, because only last week I bought shares in an Indian company specialising in the manufacture of extra-flammable US flags. They'll sell loads!

Since Mr Brown has been so successful in opening dialogue between Muslims and Christians, perhaps he should see if he can bridge the divide between Muslims and Jews also? I suspect that it is unlikely that the Chief Rabbinate will protest against the film's depiction of the self-styled "King of the Jews", so I think that the film's makers need to be more creative. May I suggest that the closing theme to the film be "Springtime for Hitler" from Mel Brooke's "The Producers"?

Go on Mr Brown -complete the set! If you succeed in getting Christians, Muslims and Jews to unite in their hatred of you, your place in history will be secure. Just check under the car before you open the door, eh?

Hare Krishna!

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-05-16T01:50:00.000+01:00

No. 63. The mother of Britain's youngest mother.

It's been all over the papers this story - a twelve year old girl is about to give birth to a child fathered by a fifteen year old when she was only eleven - after a drunken night out. It would be funny if it wasn't so desperately sad.

Quite rightly, the fifteen year old has been charged with statuatory rape, despite it apparently being consensual (in a tragic coincidence an eleven year old raped by a 31 year old has also given birth recently). Needless to say, his defense team will trot out all of the usual excuses "He's emotionally immature for his age", "She's a too-wise for her years little slut" etc etc. But we all know that those excuses will be bullshit. He's fifteen - therefore he shouldn't be fucking eleven year olds. Comprende?

However, what I want to know is why isn't her mother standing next to him in the dock? She claims to be "proud" of her daughter for deciding to keep the baby. But more importantly, she pretty much let her daughter get into this situation. The girl claims to have been smoking up to 20 fags a day since nine (and still hasn't quit) and drinking since ten and conception occured after a drunken night out. You'll all be pleased to hear that she has since stopped drinking.

Regardless of her mother's inevitable protestations to the contrary - she let her daughter do these things. First, where does a nine year old get a fiver a day for 20 cigarettes, without her mum knowing about it? Second, how does a ten year old get pissed without her mum knowing (I found it hard enough to get pissed at seventeen without my parents knowing - thank god for the Boy Scouts!)
There are two possible answers:
1) her Mum did know and didn't give a fuck
2) her mum just didn't give a fuck.

In either case, her mother is pretty much directly responsible for her daughter's predicament. The sooner that woman is banged up and all of her kids removed the better.

Useful, time-saving tip.

2006-05-15T03:23:00.000+01:00

If you have to go shopping - why not go during the FA cup final?

I did and there were no queues at all. Splendid!

Cute kid

2006-05-11T23:17:00.000+01:00

OK, I admit it. Even a man's man, like me with loads of testosterone and body hair can admit that just occassionally, small kids can be cute.

Overheard on the bus today:
A mother, getting on near the maternity ward of the local hospital dialled someone on her mobile phone, before passing it to her excited little 4 year old boy, who yelled at full volume down the earpiece.

Guess what mummy has in her tummy for me? A little sister!

The comment raised smiles and a few laughs from even the hottest and sweatiest fellow passengers.

I think his mum must work in PR, having successfully sold the fact that he was no longer going to be the centre of attention as something she was doing for him. Give it nine months kid...

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-05-09T03:42:00.000+01:00

No. 62. Drumming buskers

Would it possible, just once, for me to go into town and not be confronted by drumming idiots with stupid grins plastered on their faces? Seriously, I almost miss the drunken Irishman with a penny whistle slumped in front of M&S, trying to play "Oh Danny Boy" whilst surreptitiously swigging Special Brew.

Amazingly, I have yet to see the same drummer twice. Everytime I go in there is somebody else frantically beating a bongo - yet remarkably it is exactly the same beat, and they appear to be wearing the same stoned smile. I'm beginning to wonder if they are all part of some sort of Association for Drumming Twats. Last week they had moved up to the bus stop where I wait for work. The bus was late and I marvelled as the scrawny unkempt man with knee-length blonde dreadlocks maintained exactly the same rythmn for 20 fucking minutes.

It seems that I'm not the only person getting sick and tired of these musical minnows. A few days ago I overheard two police officers politely asking him to move on because he had been playing the same beat since 9 am and the workers in the shop he stood outside wanted to kill themselves.

On the London Underground, it is claimed that in order to get one of the highly coveted (free) busking licenses, buskers have to audition to keep standards up. I don't know if this is true, but I really wish that they would introduce it here. Over the past 12 months, these twats seem to have completely replaced the other, talented, musicians such as the guy with a cowboy hat and electric guitar playing 12-bar blues or the guy with the saxophone accompanying his CD player (he was superb by the way). The relentless thumping has even scared off the string quartet that occassionally plays on a saturday afternoon.

Of course, it might be a ploy by the city council. Sometimes crowds would gather to hear the proper musicians and it could be a bit tricky getting down the highstreet. Now the only crowds are those laughing at the fire and brimstone preachers making up authentic sounding scripture verses as they try and get us to turn to the Lord. Fat Chance. It seems that these drummers can keep the crowds moving even quicker than those blokes in dressed in Yak fur playing the wind pipes who were all the rage a couple of years ago. I haven't seen them for a while, they've probably been deported.

Either way, I implore you - don't give them money it just encourages them and they'll only spend it on new skins. Twats the lot of them.

What where they thinking?

2006-05-07T16:55:00.000+01:00

Pepsi Max Cino.

Absolutely foul.

Sartorial advice from SaneScientist

2006-05-05T01:21:00.000+01:00

Summer's here and it is time, if I may, to impart a little wisdom.

Ladies, the weather is such that it is customary to wear a top designed to let every one see, in intimate detail, exactly what type of bra you wear. Fine, I'm told that they are expensive pieces of clothing and I understand the need to show the world your latest purchase. For example, I have been proudly showing off the new white sport socks that I purchased at Primark recently by wearing trousers with a 26 inch leg instead of my usual 34 inch.

But there are two points I feel one should consider when wearing such a top.

1) The effect is ruined slightly if you are not actually wearing a bra.

2) Consider bending your knees not your back should you drop your bus pass. This is particularly important if number 1) also applies.

Next week, I shall be discussing the merits of gentlemen wearing underpants when wearing shorts, particularly when sitting with one leg resting on a table. "Undercarriage down. We're coming in to land". I think you get my drift.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-05-03T00:39:00.000+01:00

No. 61. British Tabloids.

OK, this is long over due. Lets face it, Britain's tabloid newspapers prove their twatishness on a daily basis. Nevertheless, this last week has been a real doozy. Obviously, The Mirror group's handling of the Prescott affair has been particularly bad with The Mirror itself breaking the story and protraying the scarlet woman in question as a a bed-hopping serial home-wrecker, followed immediately by its sister tabloid The Mail on Sunday publishing "her side of the story" - a difficult to believe account of public sex and betrayal (all for the princely sum of £250,000). Hypocrisey anyone?

But the best example was a concerted effort by all of Britain's tabloids to royally fuck-up the appointment of the new England football manager. After diligent work by the tabloids to hound out our best manager in years, Sven Goran-Eriksson, these cretins have now chased away all the best contenders. This week, the man who helped Brazil raise the world cup last time, Luiz Felipe Scolari, turned down the FA's offer to coach the national side. Hardly surprising - after all who in their right mind would manage the English national team when you have to contend with our newspapers?

I think that we can all work out what happened. Some time ago, Scolari will have been approached by the FA and asked if he would be interested. Whilst we may not have the glamour of Brazil, it is still a damn prestigious and respected job (at least amongst your peers). The package will have been generous and I'm sure that he was both tempted and flattered. Then someone leaked the news to the press. And the full reality of just how shitty and cretinous the British media really are will have hit home. For two days Scolari was beseiged by reporters. He estimates that 20 or more were camped permanently outside his house, invading his privacy. During that time, you can bet that no stone was unturned. His friends, family and former colleagues will have been telephoned, doorstepped and harrassed 24/7. Money will have been offered. Dirt will have been sought and if his private life turned out to have been boring, dirt will have been manufactured.

Scolari will have been well aware of the shit that Eriksson put up with during his tenure and seen the way that both he and his predecessors were "sacked by the media" and suddenly, he will have realised "you know what? I don't need ths!". By his own estimate, there are as many as 200 offers on the table. He has his pick of the world's best national and domestic sides. Why the fuck would he want to come to England?

Indeed, who in their right mind would want to coach England? The sad irony is that the English FA is one of the richest in the world. We can probably afford to outbid just about any other offer on the table, and pretty much guarantee to supplement that with at least as much again in promotional and sponsorship deals. We can offer some of the finest training facilities in the world and some excellent players. On paper we are one of the most attractive national sides in the world. With one massive exception - our media.

But then, I think it is quite easy to see why they are so bad. There is comparatively little profit in us winning the world cup. There are only so many column inches that sports hacks can write about us winning. There are only so many extra commemorative copies of the Sun or the Mirror that will be sold if we actually won. But there will be weeks of handwringing and analysis if we get knocked out pitifully early. Pages will be dedicated to "should he stay or should he go" opinion pieces about the Manager. Stories of dubious veracity about the Manager's sex life will be shoved on the frontpage to boost sales during slow news days.

I'll bet that deep down, in their heart of hearts, tabloid editors are praying for England to lose. And they'll do everything in their power to make that a reality. Fucking Twats.

Dopy kids

2006-04-30T01:34:00.000+01:00

I don't know whether they are dopy or just drugged up to their eyeballs on Ritalin to "cure" their ADHD, but we have some really dozy kids wandering into the sport centre sometimes (in addition to the even dozy more adults).

A recent example:

About 7 pm one evening last week, a girl of about 12 walked in on her own.
"I've come for the badminton".
Now normally when someone says "The Badminton", they are referring to one of the coaching classes. However, they had finished over an hour before.
"OK, who are you with?" I asked.
"My sister, but she's gone swimming".
"OK, have you booked a court?"
"No, I've been before with my mum and my sister".
"Are you with them tonight? What name have they booked under?"
"My sister is swimming"
She carried on staring at me in a sort of vacant way. I tried another tack.
"Do you have a court booked already?"
"No, my sister has gone swimming"
She waited expectantly.
"Do you have anyone to play with?" I asked.
"My sister. But she's gone swimming."
OK, her sister has gone swimming. I think we've established that.
"Have you come for one of the classes?" I tried.
"No. I've come to play badminton".
I was starting to struggle a bit here.
"So you are on your own?" she nodded in a vacant sort of way "and you don't have any one to play with?" she thought for a bit then nodded again.
"Then how are you going to play?" I asked as kindly as I could.
She looked at me like I'd sprouted two heads.
"You need a partner to play with, or you'll just be hitting it over the net then running to the other side".
"So you won't let me play then?" she looked a bit upset. I had to tread carefully now - if her mother was half as whacked out as she was, we ran the risk of a letter complaining about how we wouldn't let her daughter play. Probably because we are racist. After all, we are already "homophobic" because we wouldn't keep the centre open for another 15 minutes to let two gay men finish their game.
"I could let you play. But who would you play with? You need 2 people to play a game of badminton."
"Oh." and then she just stood there waiting expectantly.
"Why don't you go and watch your sister swimming" I suggested, wondering how the hell I could get rid of her. She had a bit of a think, then walked out the door.

To the best of my knowledge, there is no Badminton equivalent of swingball for people to play on their own. Probably just as well, you can't really market a game for families entitled "Swingcock" can you?

What are you looking for?

2006-04-26T00:19:00.000+01:00

Well, it's time again to post a list of the funniest, nastiest and scariest search terms that inadvertant visitors to my site were actually looking for. As always, I have simply copied and pasted the terms verbatim - so don't blame me for the spelling. Although, it should be noted that it is my own unique spelling, combined with theirs that sometimes pushes this site to the top of the search engine's rankings. Ahem.

As usual, the most searched after terms are the ever popular
"Rebecca Loos pig video" and "Paula Radcliffe pissing in the street". One particularly nasty individual wanted "Paula Radcliffe defecating in the street" - so a big Hello! to Gillian McKeith.

Falling into the "amusing but harmless" category, we have the following gems.

scientist haircut
gary glitter picture chasing kids funny pictures
scratching bollocks cartoon
3.2 nanogrammes cocaine (more than once, from different people bizarrely)
weird scientist birthday parties
Chris Martin Hate Club (sign me up!)
criminal offence cases by micheal jackson (Obviously a short list because, as we know MICHAEL JACKSON IS INNOCENT! Seriously, not a shadow of a doubt. No siree!)
flogging a dead horse" BBC 2005 (If the BBC don't commission it, ITV certainly will!)
Famous Scientist Wanted Poster
paranoid peppermint graph
how to lance a boil
noel edmonds hunting (I'd pay good money to do that).
"double-shit" experiment (I assume they actually want the famous "double-slit" physics experiment that proved light is both a wave and a particle. But I could be wrong!)
ratzinger heil papa
we cash cheques pigs arse we do (I simply burst out laughing when I read that one!)
GREGGS VEGETABLE PASTIES ARE hoax (try telling that to my waistline)
reeves mortimer baseball bat (someone after my own heart)
tricia goddard t-shirt (all the Chav's have 'em!)
arsehole postdoc (Is someone on to me?)
snogging a bouncer
vaioni group jobs (I wonder if I put anyone off?)
avoiding paying a taxi fare (who do they think I am?)

The next few are the inevitable consequence of using the word "Twat" at least once a week...

twatmobile
biggest twats in hollywood (how long have you got?)
"Vernon Kaye" twat (Definately... but not as much as...)
noel edmonds twat (the undisputed king, I'm sure you'll agree)
smelly twat (I had hoped that they were looking for the Tuesday Twat Award I gave to Smelly People a few months ago)
tangy twat (But this next search term suggests not. Lovely)

The final batch are a selection of the (often quite detailed) sexual fetishes that folks type into Google to get their jollies.

Firstly, the "traditional"

sarah beeney nude (MadDog gets loads of hits a week looking for her and he admits that he isn't quite sure who she is).
implausibly large mammaries
katie price wearing no knickers (probably on the same page as the previous pictures)
kylie minogue bum papparazzi (So many to choose from...)
jade goody big brother drunken kebab video (if you don't understand, probably best not to ask)

Next the faintly disturbing - try not to think about these too much.

boys forced into skirts
bones mccoy's erection
germain greer underwear

The rather specific

TRUE SEX ACTS CAUGHT ON TAPE
she wanked him off in the cinema seat

And the really disgusting

defecation movies
vomit blowjobs

Finally, my favourite.

fine girl scientist naked

Of course, I'll have to enlist help for the last one. If anybody would like to email me an appropriate picture, I promise I'll forward it on without peeking. Honest.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-04-25T03:24:00.000+01:00

No. 60. Orange women.

OK, what gives? Every where I go, there are bright orange women clinging to their summer tan tighter than Paul McCartney to his Scouse accent. Surely, as science marches forward the chemicals that they use are supposed to get better, not worse? Yet this year's latest shade seems more fake than ever before. Perhaps there is a new budget brand that you can buy from the Pound shop? Or perhaps they are all being sponsored by a certain well-known Mobile phone company? In these skin-cancer concious times the bright pink of T-Mobile or the dangerous red of Vodafone is out obviously. Not quite sure where that leaves the blue of O2 though.

Maybe skin colouration is subject to the whims of fashion
"This season, Judith Chalmers is the new David Dickinson".

Living in a multi-cultural city as I do, I have met people with pretty much every skin shade evolution has come up with, yet this peculiar shade of orange still seems wierd. Now I know how remote tribes must have felt centuries ago, upon seeing the first white Missionaries as they came ashore bringing their gifts of christian fundamentalism, sexual repression and measles.

A bookish Dilemma

2006-04-22T02:24:00.000+01:00

OK then, so when is it right to give up on a book?

For reasons that I've never really understood, I've always felt very guilty when contemplating not finishing a novel. Whilst it is understandable that I struggled manfully through Andy Remic's "Spiral" (badly written, unrealistic, facile nonsense), having paid the princely sum of £6.99 for it, why do I find myself struggling to finish books borrowed on my library ticket?

Surely the point of a library ticket is that you can fill it up each trip with anything that looks in the slightest bit interesting, safe in the knowledge that you can discard it halfway through having expended little more than the effort required to carry it home? Yet every time I go to the library, I find myself agonising over what to read as much as I would in Waterstones. It is akin to forcing myself to finish everything on the plate before I can have my dessert. On those very rare occassions where I do decide that I have better things to do with my life, I feel almost a failure.

I can't understand where this compulsion comes from. Was it being forced to read and analyse turgid crap like "Love on the Dole" or "Cider with Rosie" for GCSE English? That seems unlikely, since I felt guilt before then. And it is unlikely to be my parent's influence, who drove my sister and I to the library each week from a very young age and would help us stagger out with our little arms so full of books we could barely see where we were going. The source is truly a mystery.

And at what point can it be said that you have given a book a fair chance? "The Lord of the Rings" got the heave-ho after about 100 pages with very little feeling of regret. It was obvious to me that Mr Tolkien was not going to drastically change his writing style to entertain me any time soon (something that the films proved admirably 15 years later), whilst perservering past those slow first 100 pages resulted in a very enjoyable experience with David Zeman's "The Pinocchio Syndrome".

The most recent book that has put me in such a quandry is Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason's "The Rule of Four", billed as "The Da Vinci code for people with brains" by the Independent. Having rather enjoyed the far-fetched nonsense of "The Da Vinci Code" and its (better) prequel "Angels and Demons" as well as other similar tales of Vatican naughtiness, I was quite looking forward to it. Well, I'm sorry to say that by page 99 (the end of chapter 6), bugger-all has happened. I simply can't face the remaining 422 pages and so it has been consigned to the "return to library" pile. A fact made somewhat easier by the presence of Patricia Cornwell's "Blowfly" in my "to read" pile. Rest assured that the speed at which I'm flying through that book will ensure a speedy return to the library for a replacement for "The Rule of Four".

Arses!

2006-04-21T01:17:00.000+01:00

Todays post will be about bums and was triggered by two derriere related incidents in the same day.

The first was rather amusing. The sport centre was having a holiday session for local kids. Completely gratis, it attracted loads of kids and at least three parents, siblings, cousins and parole officers per child. One of the parents was, unquestionably, a Yummy Mummy. Definately. Accompanying said YM, was her partner (to use today's politically correct, non-assuming, no wish to cause offence term). As they left the desk after registering, I noticed his hand cupping her rather shapely left buttock. For the next 90 minutes, every time I passed them, I noticed his hand hadn't moved. Insecure? Yeah I think so.

The second is just freaky and this condition must have a latin name. I was standing at the bus stop and a young black woman came past. About 5'4", of apparently average build, it wasn't until she passed me that I noticed something rather odd. I am a pretty big bloke no question, with a build that suggests gatherer rather than hunter shall we say. Without a hint of exageration, you could fit TWO of me inside her jeans, and they still wouldn't fit nearly as snugly as they fit her. It was as if they had taken the top half of a normal-sized woman and stuck it to the top of one of those amazing 45 stone American women you see in documentaries about Texas. Remarkable. On the grounds of taste, I won't describe what happened when she ran for the bus. Suffice to say that no one at that bus stop will forget the sight...

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-04-18T02:53:00.000+01:00

Apologies for last week's absence. Normal service shall be resumed.

No. 59. "Veteran" soap actors.

Last week, I'm told, a long-standing character in the soap drama Coronation Street died. Johnny Briggs played some character or other for thirty years before being bumped off (no doubt through some convoluted plot-line) . This momentous event, which I am reliably informed was "all over the news", somehow didn't make it on to Newsnight. Nevertheless the subsequent tributes to the actor's "genius" from all and sundry triggered a memory from a few years back.

Another (still alive, I believe) actor in the same show, William Roache, passed the forty year mark back in 2000. Again, he was feted as a genius by the sort of masturbatory documentary that only self-indulgent telly-types are shameless enough to appear in. This got me thinking,

"Are long-standing soap stars worthy of the title actor?" and even more dubiously, "great actors?"

I humbly submit that they are, at best, rather shit actors. A perusal of the careers of both men on Wikipedia and the Internet Movie Database (which also lists TV work), reveals two one-trick ponies. Bill Roache has basically done nothing since 1960 except Corrie. Similarly, whilst Briggs was a jobbing actor for a few years before he joined the street in 1976, he too has done two-thirds of bugger all else. Surely, if they were half as good as their mates would have you believe, they would have done some more, you know, acting? Why has nobody else offered them a meaty role? Look at the CVs of many of the other similarly aged actors who have appeared (briefly) in Corrie and you might see a hundred roles in dozens of different shows. Surely, that's what acting is about?

At what stage does acting a part move from acting to just doing the day job? Pretty much everybody is an actor at work. We all put on personas in the workplace to a greater or lesser extent, particularly in the service sector. I've spent the last few months acting like I give two-shits when the local Chav community are unhappy about the level of service in the sport centre. I don't, but for the most part I appear to have been successful. Occassionally I even get thanked for my concern after sorting a (normally) self-inflicted problem. I play the role of a professional service provider - Briggs plays the role of a middle-aged man. Sure, his role involves him pretending to cry or get angry, but I pretend to care when the manifestly perfectly healthy complain about how they've been threatened with the loss of their "Disability" benefits if they don't get a job. The woman in question (who walks a mile each way every day to bring her daughter to badminton) is so fooled by my Lawrence Olivier-like acting that she whinges at me daily. I've even fooled her into thinking, by means of an occassional "Uh huh" and "Oh, dear", that I am not reading the Metro newspaper and actually listening to her.

So to all of those long-standing soap actors - get over yourselves. You have spent a career doing a low-level, essential job, and have brought many people a certain amount of pleasure. That is to be applauded. But then so has Stelios the owner of the chippie near my parents. Please accept one more award, "The Tuesday Twat Award" - put it in front of the others, you've actually earned this one.

RIP Dixons

2006-04-07T03:19:00.000+01:00

So, Dixons the electronics retailer is to disappear from Britain's High Street, absorbed into its sister company Currys.

No great loss.

It has always made me laugh when people (such as the Financial Times) talk about its reputation for employing too many spotty youths who sneer at customer's ignorance. The irony being that the sales staff in Dixons are usually more ignorant than their customers.

In the past twelve months I have popped into Dixons twice, since it is the most convenient electrical retailer for me to get to.

On the first occassion, I was looking for some replacement plugs for a standard coaxial ariel cable (the bit you plug into the telly or ariel socket in the wall). I have somehow aquired about 15 metres of cable, but the attached plastic plugs were broken. Being pressed for time, I grabbed the first sales assistant I could find. It took several moments of explanation, during which time he looked at me like I was speaking a long dead language understood only by a handful of medieval scholars. Finally he led me to a shelf full of 3 pin mains plugs. Fortunately, at the other end of the shelf I spotted what I was looking for. Being the ever helpful sort, I pointed them out, figuring that he might be grateful for my filling in this gap in his knowledge. He gave a Vicky Pollard-like scowl and walked away without another word.

The second time, I was simply looking to see how much Dixons charged for Dual-Layer blank DVDs. I left the store empty handed, with a nagging suspicion that the sales "adviser" thought I was winding him up.

Of course, this is nothing new.
Back in 1994 I was in the market for a PC. Deciding that it might be worth checking out the Dixons sale, I walked into my local branch. There was a nice looking PC that fell within my price range. Unfortunately, the only information the promotional poster gave was
"Pentium 100. 800Mb Hard Disk. £899" (Hey, I said it was 1994!).
Grabbing the guy manning the computer section of the shop, I asked for some more specifications.
First question:
"How much memory does it have?"
"800Mb, sir" he said looking at me as if I was illiterate.
"No, that's the size of the Hard Disk," I explained "How many megabytes of RAM does it have?" "800" he replied more slowly, patronisingly pointing at the sign.
I declined to ask any more questions, thanked him for his time and vowed to never, ever buy a computer from Dixons.

Now, I will never, ever buy a computer from Currys.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-04-04T04:02:00.000+01:00

No. 58. IKEA

I first visited IKEA 5 years ago. I vowed it would never happen again. Unfortunately, little Sis has just bought her first house and big brother was drafted into helping fetch furniture from the local IKEA.

"But they have a website, and they deliver" I whined. I even offered to sit in her house and wait for it whilst she went to work (one advantage of working nights).

To no avail. So off we trek. On a Saturday afternoon.

Several things struck me immediately.

1) It was busy.
The first clue came from the fact that it took us 15 minutes (I'm not exagerating I swear) to park. The second clue was that just going up the escalator into the store required us to stand so close together that we just might have broken a few rules about familial proximity.

2) It was hot. Despite it being 2 degrees below outside, the 14 year old sale assistants in their yellow and blue shirts had damp patches, and their hair had gone limp.

3) It was like a maternity ward. Seriously, there were more bumps than a traffic calming zone outside a primary school for disabled kids. Is the nesting instinct in pregnant women so strong that they are compelled to go to IKEA on a saturday? I was worried that if they started playing whale music over the speakers, there wouldn't be enough towels in the linen dept to go around.

4) People will buy any old shite if it has IKEA stamped on it and a vaguely rude sounding Swedish name.
Shoehorns? WTF? Who the hell buys shoehorns? And who the hell names a dining chair "Roger". A chair that could be bullied at school! (BTW - with the aid of an electric screwdriver, I can build a "Roger" in 17 minutes).

5)It is really easy to get separated from your loved ones (or failing that, the fuckers that dragged you to IKEA).
As described above, people will buy anything if it has IKEA stamped on it. One moment little Sis is yammering on about matching door handles, the next I am distracted by someone actually paying money for a bag of coloured sand. When I turn around I find I am alone (or at least as much as anyone can be in IKEA on a saturday). Once upon a time, I would have burst into tears and caused a scene. Now I am older and wiser and my first thought is great, I can have a sit down on that comfy looking futon and play Solitaire on my phone until they call me. Just how did IKEA shoppers survive before the days of mobile telephony?

6) The signs lie.
Barefaced, whopping great lies on a par with the Tooth Fairy and Intelligent Design. Take the one marked exit for example. Load of bollocks. When I was finally phoned and told to get my lazy arse downstairs to do some lifting, I dutifully followed the signs marked "Exit - you will miss Kids IKEA". Good. I don't want Kids IKEA, I might catch something nasty off them. I want to go straight out and into the self-service area. Now lets be honest, despite the funny names - most IKEA stuff looks identical, so it wasn't until I saw the same sign again that I started to suspect that I had gone around in a circle. I followed it again looking for another sign that would break me out of the loop. 5 minutes later - the same bloody sign! Naturally, there were no sales assistants to ask for advice, and everyone else looked as pissed off as me, so I ignored the sign and headed into Kids IKEA. I realised my error immediately. Instead of sitting on a futon playing solitaire, I should have come straight here - they had an XBox with the Simpsons! Unfortunately, I was expected downstairs and the sooner I got there, the sooner I could leave. By simply going in the opposite direction indicated on every exit sign, I soon made my way downstairs.

7) No wonder Mr Ikea is so rich - his customers do all of his work for him.
No overheads. First of all how many "assistants" are there on the floor in IKEA? I saw none that weren't at a till point or selling store cards. Second - warehouses that require a lot of heavy lifting have a high turnover of staff and pay a lot of sick pay and compensation to workers who injure themselves. No such problem in IKEA. Your customers can do all of that shite, whilst your workers are all under 21 and cost you minimum wage. Bonus!

So in summary. I hate fucking IKEA. Next time, we do it on line.

Money, Money, Money....

2006-04-02T02:35:00.000+01:00

A couple of grumbles here about the source of all mankind's woes (allegedly)

The Taxman giveth... The Taxman taketh away.

It's coming up to the start of the new financial year, and we all know what that means boys and girls... the Tax Office get the chance to implement new and exciting revenue-generating exercises. One of the latest ideas, is the removal of the so-called Travel Advantage scheme.

Basically, it works like this. My agency deducts the princely sum of £10 from my wages each week. In return for this, they declare a portion of my wages non-taxable. This includes a daily "Subsistence Allowance" (about £4 plus change if I work over 5 hours or a little under £10 if I work more than 10 hours) and a "Travel Allowance" based on distance as the crow flies between my postcode and work's postcode. In a typical week, this isn't very much. I am about £3 better off than if the whole whack had been taxed at normal rate. My agency are good enough not to deduct the tenner if I have taken a couple of days off and I would be worse off.
However, until Easter I shall be working full days on the weekend and covering someone else's shifts during the week as well as my own. My reward for working 13 hour days was going to be an extra £20-£30 in my pay packet from Travel Allowance.

Not any more. Tossers.

On a related note, I am finding it increasingly difficult to sympathise with one of our regular customers who has finally been tracked down by the Taxman and ordered to pay a lump sum for undeclared earnings. He freely admits that he hasn't paid a penny of tax since 1983. The sum that they have billed him with is about £1,000 less than someone on a Postdoc's salary pays in a single year. Awww Diddums.

The Postdocs are revolting.

Much has been made of the main academic unions' dismissal of a 6% pay offer (split over two years mind) and recent industrial action. Nowhere in the various news articles that I have read, has it been mentioned that many universities still haven't implemented the 2004 pay agreement yet!

My old university still hasn't moved staff over to the newly agreed national pay structure. I am awaiting this development with baited breath, since despite leaving at the end of July, I am still waiting for the backdated pay increase. Assuming the University follows the "Memorandum of Understanding" (The union's interpretation of what the new deal will mean), I am owed a whopping £1,100 after deductions. This coincidentally is almost exactly what I owe on my overdraft, which LLoyds-TSB has recently started charging interest on.

Were I still at the University, I would be owed an even more impressive £3,000 by now, a position that many former colleagues find themselves in. Assuming that the University stops dragging its heels and finally pays up (I'll bet they'll keep the interest though), look out for my former colleagues in car showrooms and travel agents up and down the country...

In one end straight out the other...

2006-03-30T22:38:00.000+01:00

Lucozade Sport - Isotonic? Pah!

I wouldn't normally touch Lucozade with a ten-foot barge pole, however there was a crate of the stuff left over from them sponsoring a recent event at the sport centre. Years of being a student has made it pretty much impossible for me to say no to anything described as "Free", so I helped myself to a couple of bottles. For the past two evenings I have walked out the door at the end of my shift swigging a bottle of it. For the past two evenings I have been standing cross-legged, cross-eyed and sweating in the elevator to my apartment 40 minutes later. Both times, I haven't even had time to take my coat off before needing to undo my flies. Tonight, I still had my bag over my shoulder.

How on earth can somethimg that makes me piss like a horse 40 minutes after consuming it, possibly rehydrate me after a work-out?

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-03-28T04:16:00.000+01:00

No. 57. Changing the clocks.

I mean - what's the bloody point?

OK, perhaps I am a little jaded after having a rather fraught time of it this year. This time, I and many other people, seem to have been caught completely unaware. A straw poll of the dozen or so people that I have spoken to over the past 24 hours has faied to elicit a single person who saw it advertised anywhere.

This Sunday, in the UK at least, it was Mother's day. I decided on Tuesday that I would be unusually thoughtful this year and hand deliver a bunch of flowers and box of chocolates to my mother and grandmother. I surreptitioulsy rang my Dad on his mobile and made sure that both special ladies would be available and unaware, before booking train tickets home.

Saturday night, I followed my usual routine of watching TV, catching the late night news bulletins, then scanning the BBC website last thing. My train was at 0930, so I set my alarm clock for a little after 8am and went to sleep.

At 0750 the following morning, I was awoken by my Dad on the phone.
"Sane, I just woke up this morning to find the clocks have gone forward. Did you know? There was nothing on the TV last night".
I might have been half asleep still, but even so I was able to do the maths - it was 0850h and my train was leaving in 40 minutes.

FUCK!!!!

I dived into the shower. No time for a shave, I cleaned my teeth whilst shampooing my hair and resolved to use the toilet on the train *shudder*.

Dressing in record time, I grabbed the flowers, chocolates, cards and the novel I was reading (priorities!) before legging it out onto the main road. The bus was out of the question. However the road was absolutely silent. It was after 9:15 when a Taxi finally appeared on the horizon. Flagging it down frantically, I dived into the backseat.
"Train station... Mothers Day... Clocks gone forward" I carefully explained, as the Taxi performed an illegal U-Turn.
"What time's your train mate?"
"9:30," I cringed.
"Fuck me, you're cutting it fine! Hold on, I wouldn't want you to miss mother's day"
And we were off.
It is at least a ten minute ride to the train station normally. We did it in six! The driver obviously loves his mother very much, because no way was he going to let me miss that train. The speedlimit is 30mph all the way to the station. We hit 55 - on the wrong side of the road!

Needless to say, I didn't wait for my change, not enough time, and he had really earned it. The elevators were out of action, naturally, so I had to run up them, before getting on to the main concourse. I made it onto the train with seconds to spare, the automatic doors closing before I even sat down.

Of course, after all that we spent an hour sitting stationary at the next station waiting because of a signal failure.

But in the end, it was all worth it. The look on my Mum's face when I emerged from behind a row of shelves in the supermarket that Dad had told me to meet them in was absolutely priceless.

The things we do for our Mums eh?

And on a related note, nobody seems to have told the pixies that update the electronic programme guide for E4 on freeview. I missed the landmark 100th episode of Smallville and had to stay up to stupid o'clock to see who got killed off.

This is so, so, wrong!

2006-03-24T02:27:00.000Z

I'm turning into a pervert.

I can't believe it! There are certain things that it is absolutely wrong to find sexually attractive; children, animals and old men over the age of 90 are widely recognised no-nos.

However, I have found myself breaking the ultimate taboo.

I have found that I am rather taken by a Member of Parliament.

Julia Goldsworthy MP is the Liberal Democrat Member of Parliament for Falmouth and Camborne. And, having watched her doing swimming and gymnastics in channel 4's Celebrity Athletics Contest "The Games", I have become uncomfortably aware of the fact that she really does look very good in Lycra.

In my defence, she is no Ann Widdecombe, and at 27 is not exactly an old trout. But I can't help but feel dirty.

I'm off for a cold shower.

The Tuesday Twat(s)

2006-03-21T00:28:00.000Z

No. 56. Mark McGowan.

Mark McGowan is what is known (perhaps euphemistically) as a "performance artist". Hardened cynics might suggest that a "performance artist" is someone with a GCSE in art who isn't very good at drawing - but as you know, I am not a cynic.

Anyways, what is Mr McGowan's contribution to humankind's shared cultural heritage you may ask? He leaves taps on. Yup, that's right. Apparently, leaving a tap running constitutes art these days. Every time you clean your teeth in the morning or have a shave, you too are creating a work of modern art. Apparently.

Of course, as with all art, you need to have a political message and Mr McGowan reckons he's come up with a sure- fire winner. His work will be a protest against private control of UK water supplies. In order to highlight the huge profits of water companies and their wasting of billions of gallons of water, he will be leaving 6 taps running, in undisclosed London locations for a year. In the middle of a prolonged drought that has seen the imposition of water-shortage measures, he will waste a staggering 100 million litres of water. That is 100,000 TONNES of water. Assuming that an Olympic swimming pool is 50 metres long, 20 metres wide and a uniform 2 metres deep, that water could fill 50 of those pools.

FUCKWIT!

The last time the brainless twat tried such a stunt, he wasted 800,000 litres but had to turn the taps off after a month, probably because Thames Water customers visiting his installation kept on turning the taps off themselves. Understandable really, considering that they are currently facing a hosepipe ban and can't even wash their cars.

Needless to say, like many artists McGowan has a vastly inflated sense of his own importance commenting
"I understand we are in a drought. But I am an artist so I'm not actually wasting water for nothing."

Really - yet he can't even show people his installation. They just have to take his word for it. I personally painted a picture of an androgynous model with an ambiguous facial expression last week. It is probably one of the finest paintings ever done, and worthy of a place in Louvre - but I'm a bit shy so you'll just have to believe me.

Mark McGowan - you are a fucking idiot. Get a proper job. If you feel that your destiny lies in being famous for being a talentless twat, apply for Big Brother like everyody else.