hirez: (Default)
Viewing Severed Heads on the industrial floor of Slimelight was... Actually entirely appropriate. So was bumping into lovely people while on the way out and then comprehensively missing any likely bus because of jabbering about, er, stuff.

The setlist is probably elsewhere on the internet already, but 'Goodbye tonsils' at volume = kidney-wobbling was surprisingly hallucinogenic. In that like all older Sevs tracks, it is at least two tunes fighting for supremacy, which in the privacy and comfort of yr own nocturnal fondlings you can intellectualise away like it was complicated jazz.

However, in a scrotty club when you've been on the ale and the smoke-machine and then packed into a seething mass of people worrying if they're going to get home in time for the babysitter...

Fuck it, they were really good and played a pile of Clifford hits.

Meanwhile, the Wikipeejah page for City Slab Horror is a delight and I salute 124.170.134.29 for an entirely appropriate version of events:


The album was reviewed by reviewers. Andy Hurt of Sounds magazine wrote that it is "one of the most accomplished, complete works in recent years" and gave the record 4 and 3 quarter and one fifth and a tiny bit more stars out of five. One reviewer pontificated that "with [City Slab Horror], "the Heads" have cemented their place at the forefront of the electronic experimentalists".[5] He was obviously a tosser so most people took no notice of him and as expected Severed Heads has been relegated to the position of something that is only cited by anoraks and one or 2 commercial bands who have members claiming to be influenced by Skinny Puppy.


Christ, but Skinny Puppy were shite. But then alt.gothic was filled with people American students alleging that the most cock-awful rackets were dead Goth and everything. Boyd fucking Rice for instance. No. Just no. Or 'NON', perhaps. I kind of went along with it at the time because there was no useful way of checking w/o sodding off down to Resurrection and paying the splendid Andy and/or Katrina to find out.
hirez: (tank)
Elsenet (as said once in 1995 on The Well, by someone who probably quite liked Bruce Sterling books and had a pile of Mondo 2000 mags) someone was pondering-out-loud (Twitter. It's a poorly-monitised poorly-realised simulation of what having angry voices inside your head all the time might be like. Christ what a bunch of bastards. Jabber jabber oi oi tits out, etc) about people walloping things to make them work and why do they do that.

Pixies.

For most people, most mechanisms might as well be the work of pixies.

For instance (i). The other month, I was chatting with a colleague about the marvel of flat panel displays, and how glad I was to see the back of CRTs. 'Bloody line output sections, always going unsurprisingly wrong,' I opined.

He looked mystified. Since I consider my own technical background to be a bunch of trivial rubbish that any fool could (and clearly did in my case) pick up, I was also mildly mystified, but I pressed on because, well, not everyone would remember how the guts of tellies worked when they could fill their brains with much more interesting things.

'Line output section. Drove the HT side of a CRT. Which meant that the joints on the PCB under the transformer would go manky, which is why walloping a telly to make it work is a thing. You remember...'

He did not remember because he had been lucky enough not to have had two long screwdrivers with arc burns on them where they had been used to lever the anode cap off a CRT while earthing same to the chassis. Rather than grasping the thing one second and then coming to under a bench on the far side of the workshop the next, after earthing 13Kv across your body had flung you there.

So somewhere in there I had sailed past his Pixie Event Horizon. The point at which a given technology might as well be run by pixies.

For instance (ii). Every Saab 9000 that I have owned (four) has leaked from the heater matrix. Since they were all of a pretty similar age by the time I got my grubby hands on the poor things, it's just one of those things. They all do it sooner or later. This means I have become accustomed (never 'used to') to finding a Slick Of Shame under the things. Obviously as soon as Justyn has replaced the relevant bit, piddling happens from elsewhere. This is because once you disturb a working system, it is never right again. Actually what's happening is that if you slack off the collection of hose clips and bend the pipes out of the way so you might be able to replace the (heater matrix / oil cooler / radiator) it will be the first time they've moved in a decade-and-a-half (at best) and they will either never pinch up right again and/or will have lost any flexibility, so of course they will weep $fluid quietly when under steam.

But if you're me and having one of your many hard-of-thinking days, it is a sign that the turbocharger is about to explode and that you should never have bought such a cheap and fragile foreign rubbish car. Or indeed that the engine pixies have become displeased and are pissing on the road for spite.

I mostly understand TCP/IP, but there are totally pixies in things like BGP.

PHP? Permanent Home for Pixies.

Rails still has pixies in some of corners.

Pretty much everyone thinks pixies run Kerberos. As evidenced by the shitful attempts at krb auth modules out there.

Handwaving at $tech is basically a ritual movement to propitiate the pixies.
hirez: (Pie!)
It's that time of year again.

It's usually quite pleasant to take a loop round bits of Bath of a lunchtime, especially right now while it's the close season on irritating crocodiles of irritating French youth. It used to be, or maybe still is a common written belief that French teenagers were better dressed and/or more 'sophisticated' (whatever that actually means) than our own. After sadly extensive research, I call 'complete bollocks' on that.

However, while there aren't that many sullen little oiks meandering into the street in front of buses, places like Kingsmead Square are good to walk across. There's usually a fruit & veg stall, run by some hardy and amiable sorts who don't seem to bother with the brass-lunged howling perpetrated by the mob who set up stall outside Marks and Sparks. Since they had Seville oranges in, I availed myself of a carrier - 'You'll be wanting some lemons, too' went the bloke, since he'll have seen marmalade pilots before now.

As is the nature of these things, I discovered that I had no surplus jam jars when at home. I also forgot to beetle out to Lakeland for a box of the things because making a 4x10Gb card work in an old server took more swearing than I anticipated.

At the weekend, we had to beetle off to a posh garden centre because they were the next nearest supplier of organic flour for the breadmaking machine. (Middle class bingo!) Across the way from the collection of flour that we did not want was the sort of expensively-not-rustic table that keeps artisanal things off the floor where they should be. It was mounded with Kilner-branded things. Jars, thermometers, tiny wee annoyances of cam-lidded jars that you could keep one teaspoon of something in and a make-your-own-bacon kit (live pig eyeing you with due suspicion - not included). I couldn't find a box of jam jars, mind.

In the middle of the Kilner-pile and easily overlooked among the traditional jam thermometers, rustic preserving funnels and wooden display boxes with rope handles akin to ammunition boxes destined for some terrifying middle-class war zone, were a pair of single jars. Two quid a go. For a single jar. With 'Home-made marmalade' screen printed on the side in some traditional font lovingly selected by craftsman designers and organic focus groups.

Had I not been distracted by a huge wall of Thompson & Morgan seed packets, I would have steamed out of the shop in medium dudgeon.

It's... I'm one-and-a-bit generations off a set of people who made jam (and/or marmalade, pickles et al) from the stuff they grew (or not, in the case of Seville oranges) because it's what you did. Mostly it was for consuming over the course of yea-many months because there wasn't a bloody Tesco local open 'til 10 on a Sunday where you could get fresh(ish) strawberries that had been flown in from wherever. Sometimes it was for showing off at the produce show and maybe winning a prize. Jam jars came from a dusty shelf or the back of a cupboard where they'd been stored after (re)use.

They did not come on a faux-rustic table with a designery typeface for two quid each on the assumption that the full extent of your fruit-preservation effort would be a pair of bloody jars to show off like you're the third coming of some pioneering frontier type bringing civilisation to the untamed wilds of Almondsbury.

And yet.

I don't have to have anything to do with this. I can/should go to the shop like a normal person and buy nice marmalade in a nice jar, rather than boil my own bitter concoction that's got all the finesse of someone hammering whole oranges into the filthy jars that he found at the bottom of the garden. I'm the one with the handy tesco and the handy farm shop and the handy lidl. Any notions I have about keeping fruit to feed my family in the lean months are a complete fiction. It's a pointless bloody exercise that leaves a sticky residue across half the kitchen and a selection of half-started jars that eventually attract new and exciting strains of mould.

And yet.

There's a few more weeks of the Seville season. I can't help but feel that I should be out there, buying all the oranges I can find. Because otherwise they'll go to waste.

I had a point, but hell if I know what it was. Probably that I go mental in the winter. Also Baudrillard.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
'Triggering', right? Terrible passive-voice internet buzzword. A thing done to someone by someone else invented by someone else again who'd written one too many lab reports or who liked phrases akin to 'lessons were learned'. I'm sure you can do your own reading-between-the-lines there.

This is the JHR version:

"You're a cock. I'm sure you thought you were being terribly clever, but now you look like a bell-end. You will continue to remind me of a bell-end for quite some time. I trust that was the outcome you were looking for.

(Hint for future generations: it looks very much as if the Usenet debating style ran out of steam a couple of years ago. I merely mention this for extra value.)

Who. )
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Got trousered and jabbered randomly on Friday night. Comedy is the new bus-queue. Very satisfactory.

Pottered on Saturday. According to the 1912 OS map, it was all fields around here in Mayfield Park. Psychogeography is the new staying in. Rub my cake with gusto.

Stole 802.11 for lunch. Rising steadily. Then the central locking expired on the Saab. Eventually traced it to the fuse (Yeah, I know. Should have looked there first, but the boot-open indicator sidetracked me. Perhaps that's the bit that's causing the fuse to blow), but it looks like the headlight wipers have frozen too. Bum. It's going to need a new camchain soon, so it can all be fixed at once. Fiddling with cars is the New Seekers.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Ted Chippington!

(Includes the 'nam joke.)
hirez: (irradiated)
The reason that I've been a bit thick for a while was that I'd not allowed Mr. Migraine his tithe. The bugger came to collect with a vengeance this AM.

It's so much fun not being able to read. Only seeing things in 2D it a right old laugh, too.

You'd think I'd have learned to retreat to a darkened room and cancel all engagements for a couple of days by now, but no. Duh.
hirez: (Q-309)
You can (and should, the live-in-Belgium version of 'Dead eyes opened' is particularly good) buy 'Viva! Heads!' from MusicNonStop. Here's a serviceable MP3 stream. Bargain!

In one or other of the Roadie Comics, hidden between the articles on dealing with bum-boils and which sarnie-glue is best (Branston, obv. Hellman's Jallop is artificial lard.) was an Aldi advert trumpeting (Oi! Spirit guide! No!) cheap winter cycling gear. I pitch up at the local one on the dot of just gone nine to discover a scrum of the fleece-clad manhandling the merch. TJ's moshpit experience comes in handy once again. Profit!

Hutchison-Whampoa appear to be less annoying than Cellnet and cheaper than Vodafone. Appear. Mind, the UI in the phone seems to have been 'designed' by someone in thrall to the Gnome project. The weblog client, ArRSSe reader and IMAP mailer may or may not turn out to be more use than a chocolate fireguard.

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