hirez: (Default)
The other day someone pointed at a (agent-free, so presumably cheaper than average) listing for a one-bed flat in That Londons (Hackernee, IIRC).

Yesterday, I was invited, via the means of Linkedin, to apply for a job at a M$ subsidiary, also in That Londons.

I note that the cost of object (a) is some three times my mortgage. (Two bed house, garage, garden (of sorts), relatively quiet area handy for both bikepath and what passes for public transport around here.)

I would imagine that even M$ would baulk at paying three times current salary so one might continue living in relative comfort.

How is this actually supposed to work, because I'm buggered if I can see it..
hirez: (Default)
Back in the last century when people still used Qmail, it used to emit a message along the lines of 'I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following addresses. This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out', which seemed somewhat over-chummy to me. The equivalent of a bloke in a suit calling you 'mate' just before doing something tiresome and expensive.

But then I was used to various incarnations of Sendmail and had yet to abandon both that and qmail for the significantly nicer Postfix.

Qmail (and coffee and TVR) was what drove another.com, which meant a lot of the users weren't apprentice Unix curmudgeons like me but seemed to be mostly students and yout' who really dug 'wacky' domain-names and the virulent pink site-theme known as 'My little porn-star' which no-one would get away with these days.

Quite a lot of these people wrote small notes back to MAILER-DAEMON saying that it was ok, they understood and not to worry about it. That always struck me as rather lovely, if misguided. A few weeks in the trenches of the Usenet (or these days, Twitter) would have cured them of being nice to people on the internet. (NB: Satire.)

If I'd had my brains in, rather than being an apprentice curmudgeon, I'd have hacked up enough of a 'bot to reply to their missives and make canned suggestions about what had gone wrong. From what I remember, they were mostly spelling mistakes or body at the far end having gone over-quota.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
An Android one of these, please: http://www.talk-o-meter.de/e/
hirez: (Sweep alcohol)
That was fun.

Someone else is looking after my hangover and the 4AM fire-alarm was nothing to do with me.
hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
So, this seems to be the line that's causing the beast to break:


... Which you either can't see because I can't work out how to post raw markup, or will note that is actually mangled HTML rather than the XML the application would be expecting.

It seems that when one requests the comment-export malarkey, you get the LJ homepage instead. Which I will guess is a lack of wossname on the Varnish front. This means that one will have to wait for the Nice People to mend their cache strategy a bit.

Probably.
hirez: (pillock)
It seems I'm quite good at miniature golf. There's a trophy to prove it and everything.

It'll be tasselled loafers next, just you wait.

"Swift tincture at the nineteenth, old chap?"
"Don't mind if I do."
hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
http://petdance.com/csl/?960328

Looking at that with 21st century eyes, I can spot about a dozen bands I'd want to go and see. (Arcwelder, Man or Astro-Man? Sleater-Kinney, Supersuckers, Thinking Feller's Union, Gas Huffer, Apocalypse Hoboken...)

... Oh, ok. In the future when time-travel is perfected, there's going to be a pale and wild-eyed tribe of hardcore Peelists who'll take following bands to the appropriate conclusion.

Someone should write a story about that.
hirez: (Default)
Not my idea of a good time. (But then it wouldn't be and that's more an observation of where my head's at rather than a criticism.)

Earworm: Mitch Benn's version of 'Perfect day'.

Who: yes.

Twitter: no. (Inasmuch as IM only looks like a useful 'backchannel', you have to hand-follow the alleged conversations, the metadata is hand-grafted into the primary channel and well done you've just re-invented usenet file-part naming. I am fully aware and hugely amused that this is curmugeonly stick-waving. Mind, you'd never get anything called mediawiki through the door. Litwiki, on the other hand.)

On the other hand, Emily (VPX!) and Emily (!VPX) more than made up for me being basically asleep and/or tiresome.
hirez: (dissent)
So the thing that gave me pause when I announced that one could go out and buy a book with words that I'd written in it, was the subset of people who went 'Jolly good, I'll buy one from you at Whitby.' As if I were some no-mark bedroom g*th band with a bag of CD-Rs and/or an 'internet fetish model', and this was just an epic vanity project that I was financing myself so people could blow smoke up my arse about being A Writer.

Which, no.

The obvious view is that those people are steeped in the history of the punk rock, where doing it your bloody self and fuck The Man is the entirely correct thing to do. (See Albini's 'Some of your friends are already this fucked'. It's old, but I don't think it's even slightly out of date.) Hell, I'm steeped in punk and DIY culture and most of my favourite records would make The Man shit himself with hatred, which is perhaps why I like them. Yet here I am, being all Yog's Law compliant, as if I were some shiny twonk fresh from stage-school and ready to bend right over so I can sound like Arctic Patrol or Tenchy Sillyboy or the Pigeon Botherers. About as punk rock as Chris fucking Coldplay.

So what's the difference? Are we having cognitive dissonance yet? Answer that and stay fashionable.

Skiffy publishing != The Music Industry. (Though I suspect it's all owned by the same six corporates. Hurrah for blue-sky synergies.)

I'm just not entirely sure why, yet. I suspect it's because SF is already its own DIY scene, so to consciously work outside that is the sort of Individualist Anarchist thinking that misses the point of Collectivism. Or, to put it another way, if all you have is a pile of Crass records, every other problem can be solved by delving through the small ads in Maximum Rock&Roll. Or, if you will, the subcultures have a problem with impedance matching.

Or maybe I should stop mixing coffee and patent medicines. Yes. Perhaps that would be best.
hirez: (safety chicken)
For a laugh (FAVO 'laugh'), I've bagged myself a block of IPv6 addresses and a 6-over-4 tunnel from Hurricane Electric. It's mostly disturbingly simple.

Mostly.

See, IPv6 will autoconfig on hosts. (ie, things that are not routers, which do packet-forwarding) Thus the XP box and the Macbook have both managed Neighbour Discovery and picked up address (2001:470:1f09:49f:adae:80d7:afbc:66cc, for instance) and default route from the BSD box. However, all the docs say to config your outside interface as the tunnel endpoint (obv) and the internal one as where the route-advertisment daemon lives (obv also). Which is fine, but since the BSD box is a router, it won't autoconfig and the internal interface ends up with a link-local address which it hands out as default route. This is non-optimal.

I'd best hand-config that internal interface. Then I can start with the Scally DNS. (cos it's all AAAA records, innit?)

(It's IP survivalism, isn't it? Grand panic about the Internets running out of addresses, so people are taking to their bunkers with personal hoards of them.)


Of course, I could be talking complete toss.
hirez: (muddy)
Dear snot-coloured Peugeot-pilot.

As it happens, that bit of road is wide enough for two vehicles + parked cars. The damage to my wing-mirror will cost twenty notes to fix if I go for SAAB parts, or a fiver for pattern bits off Ebay. Judging by the amount of colour-matched plastic shards on the road, I suspect fixing your shitbox will cost considerably more. That is because I have a proper car and you have some terrible French chicken shed made from tinfoil and chewed-up bus tickets. The next time you have an accident, it'll likely be a proper one and you'll have to stop because your chicken shed will have folded up like a wet newspaper.

Boomshanka, JH-R.

PS. [Nelson] Ha-ha! [/Nelson]


Anyway. [/Clarkson]

Even though our carriageway was basically empty, some hapless Disco-captain had managed to park his hateful vehicle on its roof in the centre lane, just behind the vast mobile boghouse that was on its side in the first two lanes. Yes, it may be a Solihull-built 4wd, but if the boghouse it's towing is bigger and starts to fishtail, it's earth-sky-earth-sky-hospital time.

Caravans, right? They're just a shit design. I fondly imagine that the sensible arrangement would be to have an axle at the rear and an articulated axle at the front, but that would make them a bugger to reverse. I guess the upside of that would be making it illegal to keep one unless you can reverse it round a corner. (I never learned that skill, sadly, but they teach it at ag. college.)

Anyway anyway.

Between those two events, I spent part of the afternoon fondling someone's plums.

And their damsons.

It was jolly nice.

Mum's aunt (I think) keeps a small farm on the Boddington side of Staverton. The orchard is old and filled with random English varieties of fruit, and now I have several containers of same that I don't know what to do with yet. In the old days, we had a pantry filled with dusty jamjars and a three-hole AGA with which to boil up the produce. Now I live somewhere tiresomely modern with shops, not so much.

I am also compelled to report that Aunt Joy's loganberry wine really does slide down very well. Good job I only had a small tumbler.

"Have you had home-made before, John? Because I don't like to give it to those as hasn't; they don't have the taste for it and'll get a bit silly."
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
Uninteresting pictures of dismal places )
hirez: (dissent)
I'm fasting for at least 24 hours. I may become (more) random (than usual).

Anyway. The final kilometres of the Paris-Nice stage yesterday was jolly exciting, so we went to Cheltenham. As I wandered the pedestrianised bit in front of Cav House, I could hear Run DMC & Aerosmith. There were some yout' uprocking, helicoptering and generally having it Chiropracter in a very eighties manner.

[I should note that no-one gets to say 'stylee'. Ever. Not even with Guardian-supplied slatherings of irony, for that would be well Kinnock.]

The last time I saw anyone doing that, in exactly the same place, it was 1983. That mob had their own square of lino. One used to see groups of yout' beetling about with rolls of lino over their shoulders like stealthy YTS bathroom fitters. Of course now, because it is the 21st century, the poor little dears have to do without because lino is terribly expensive and mater & pater would have a complete fit if you prised it off the floor of the downstairs wet-room.

Meanwhile, there's this, via the splendidly democratic and unionised Making Light. Tintin wallops the NF! Capt. Haddock in squatter-positive action! The right-wingers will hate it! Red Wedge! Class War! Nice glass of Claret! (d/l the PDF, rotate, view, all happy)
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
(It's a Janitors B-side)

Shameful admission (for a British chap, anyway): for the last several years, I've generally avoided the right-wing hate weblogs (Little green footballs, et al) because reading the poisonous filth that they peddled made me angry and depressed. Lord help any country with people like that thinking their side's in charge, basically.

For the last couple of days, I've actually been going out of my way to look for right-wing lunacy so I can laugh at the silly sods. Which is clearly a dreadful character failing on my part.

It seems that our lot are blaming a cynical media and shouty webloggers for the current public distrust of the political machine. Now, I might be an apolitical lackwit (not true, I just dislike arguing with the clearly wrong) but perhaps it's because they're a hopeless shower of shite who have comprehensively destroyed any remaining socialist ideas they may once have stood for. I mean, I'm just thinking out loud here.

Startlement: Ma & Pa went off to Whitley Bay for some random bun-fight the other weekend. When we stopped off on the way back from that there goth-bothering for tea and cake, it transpired that Ma had been kept awake by the couple in the next hotel room shagging enthusiastically.

It's a pretty rum state of affairs when a chap's mater can describe the noises that occur during athletic gay sex. (Ron Pickering commentary optional)
hirez: (Radiation)
Post beetling up the organic farm shop for local and organic produce, local cheese and local softgrain flour for the bread-machine, I pointed our Swedish car in the direction of Lidl, because now it's been in the Guardian it's ok to shop there.

Lidl raspberries are better than Tesco, but not as good as PYO (Look, just weigh me on the way in and then again on the way out. I'll pay the difference and promise not to crap in the corner of your field).

I'm saving the Lidl Value Champagne for next weekend, just in case it sends me on a paint-stripper fuelled rampage.


I really must write down my coping strategies for having no short-term memory, but I keep forgetting.
hirez: (Hand-staple-forehead)
... G*thic scum are accusing a mob of anarchopunks and fellow-travellers of authoritarianism.

In the manner of John W. Campbell's splendid 'Who goes there' (Filmed as 'The thing from another world' and 'The thing') I look forward to the development of a simple blood test for Rules Lawyerdom (and Entitlement) so that I may wield the electrified pitchfork of righteous justice.

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JH-R

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