HHOS (i)

Sep. 8th, 2016 11:30 pm
hirez: (Challenger)
On the way home, I heave to in a queue of traffic handy for Warmley, where there used to be a brickworks next to where there used to be a railway line. Now there is a park and a bike path, but the station survives as a caff. There is a furious revving and a screech of what should have been tyres, but which smelled to me more like fried clutch. I look for the BMW or JDM something-or-other with a shopping list down the front wing, but there is nothing but a two-stroke Transit (judging by the smoke) and a... Ka?

Posting here seems to be about either computers or cars. That is because I am a middle-class English bloke, and I don't have feelings. I have well-meant mansplaining about the best way to get to Yeovil.
hirez: (Challenger)
[ https://thebigsoundsofthedrags2001.wordpress.com/ ]

The not-terribly-surprising result of the unexpected weight loss of the other week is that I can function like a 'normal' human being (inasmuch as I ever, etc) for a couple of days at a time. Then I have to lie down until my brain works again, I can operate my fingers and I am able to speak in complete sentences.

It's not much fun. I hope it's over soon.
hirez: (pillock)
Interesting time at the model engineering exhibition.

Anyway.

I've gone on before about not being entirely sure if I hold with SAD or not. I don't actually think SAD gives a damn about what I think and turns up anyway to give me a wallop round the back of my head. I thought it was just me being an unwilling townie that meant I tried not to think about the days getting shorter on or about June the 21st or that I was the only one for whom autumn = despair. (Really, autumn's just autumn. The 'oh shit here we go again' grim pit of horror is recently learned behaviour)

The thing is that it is genuinely bloody awful, and I'm only half-joking when I burble on about wintering somewhere warmer with more daylight. The other thing is that I thought it was just me having a proper plumb of the depths there. (I also wish I'd written this a day ago when that conversation was fresh in my head.)
hirez: (Aspirational message)
If there's anything you want to ask or think you should... Actually, no. Mind yer own f-ing business.
hirez: (tank)
I'm most of the way through an interesting history of the shipping container and its effects on trade, prices, globalisation and all that malarkey. Inspired by this, it seems to me that there's a deal of SF where the universe is assumed to run on a pre-Napoleonic basis, and that's likely a bit rubbish.

I mean, either you've still got big boys fireworks, which means little more than grown up slashdotters queueing for a go in Branson's sub-orbital pickle jar. Or you've got a handwave drive and it's business as usual for Hapag-Lloyd and Maersk, other than the truck drivers having to negotiate the picket lines of angry physicists outside the depot.

Assuming interplanetary trade or shipping isn't a ludicrous idea in the first place.

Hm. I think I've just re-invented Ken McLeod's 'Engines of light' books.

Best not do that.
hirez: (pillock)
(This would be the adrenaline-fuelled post-terror post)

Ha! One filling and a de-coke.

In your face nebulous childhood fear.
hirez: (irradiated)
So, lessee...

Random snot-producing bug got worse, which through the magic of comedy timing meant that I wasn't going anywhere near that there Londons. Meanwhile, we discover that the backup Saab isn't worth fixing, so I need to find a replacement reasonably soon.

Hey, and indeed ho. All a bit bollocks, really.

On the other hand, the rest of the Displacement Activity Writing came to me in a lump. I like it when that happens. I still don't know what to do with it, mind. And I managed to stare bog-eyed at most of the stuff provided by computer-telly. The only thing missing from Charlie Brooker programmes are the big-band versions of nostalgic television themes as featured on 'Inside Victor Lewis-Smith'.
hirez: (Merry Jingle)
In days of yore (that's old Norse for 'only three channels of telly') illness of the digestive tract was treated by snuggling up against the Aga and only being given an eggcup full of water at any one time. After 24 hours, a chap was allowed toast and a mug of Bovril. If that stayed down/in, it was egg and chips for supper.

Proper illness warranted a bottle of Lucozade. They were glass and came wrapped in orange cellophane.

At least that's why I think I crave toast and Bovril when I'm being poorly.
hirez: (Merry Jingle)
http://goodbyetonsils.blogspot.com/

The PissedMeasure thinks I'm a sober lightweight who could have driven home. I fear I beg to differ.

Probably because of the part where the greater part of the platforms team serenaded The Watershed from a ferry with the aid of The HOFF.

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

As seen on CCTV...
hirez: (Laser goggles and raybans)
Well, that was... Surprisingly good fun.

A cheering lack of negative vibe merchants[1] meant room to breathe in the foyer-bit. UV-reactive earplugs-on-string meant the PA sounded pleasant for a change, and I could hear what people were trying to howl into my ears.

Matters arising:

I must apologise to Drew for leaving him to his fate among a pubload of BNP shitebags, though he seemed to enjoy the experience.

Met several Australians, who were uniformly lovely. Actually, I'm not sure I spoke with anyone who made me regret the encounter, which was a pleasant change. (Obviously, those concerned may have a different viewpoint.)

Swarf stormed it on the Friday. Frankenstein ruled on Saturday, mostly for setting fire to 'paint it black' and then jumping gleefully on the smoking remains. That's how you do cover versions.

[FX: Makes note of Eriseses t-shirt idea. Yes.]

I must have had a fine weekend since I've got the Whitby Lurgi for the first time.

[1] That's almost a post on its own. Almost. I refer the curious to bits of the JH-R bio.

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