hirez: (Default)
I don't even know that this is a good idea. Which currently seems to be something of a theme.

I imagine later there will be crossposting. What larks!
hirez: (Challenger)
On Monday, we were driving up through Old Market towards the Volunteer when there was a noise of more-or-less unsilenced motorcycle.

I commend you all to go visit the Volunteer while they're having a Japanese 'pop up' cooking-thing. It is all lovely and goes nicely with any of the beers they may have on tap. Although you will become the sort of person who visits a 'pop up' thing and thus be forced to don a paper bag when mixing with sensible people from now on.

Anyway. Motorcycle. Or in this case quadbike. Quadbikes. Weaving through the traffic in a manner familiar to those who might have seen the Banana Splits television programme, which sucked the colour from the country in the early seventies and left us with brown and avocado until we were saved by the Thatcherite shock troops of the 23rd Laura Ashley bombardment wing some years later.

If you are unfamiliar with the start of the Banana Splits television programme, the pair of scrote-piloted quadbikes were weaving through the traffic up Old Market towards the 90-degree bend as if they had stolen them. Like everyone else, I slowed right down because killing bikers, even scrotey ones, is a really bad idea. Thus I was a couple of car lengths away from the 90-degree bend opposite the big old hotel/bar thing at the top of Old Market when one of the scrotes zoomed up on the inside.

I don't know much about making quadbikes go around corners. I suspect that like most other vehicles, steaming up the outside, clipping the apex and powering away is the correct way of doing it. So when scrotey-boy steamed up the inside, I was paying attention because I wanted to see how he did it. I think it would have gone better had he been able to make the back end break away and been able to steer round the corner on the throttle.

As it was, the big balloon tyres performed as normal and collapsed on the outside, which if not corrected would spit him sideways and through a taxi office window. He tried to straighten up, but it was a 90-degree bend opposite a big old hotel/bar.

It was like watching someone on one of those bouncy-castle-velcro-suit games that people have a go on when they're drunk and always smell of vomit. Only on a quadbike travelling at circa 20mph into a solidly built hotel/bar. The quadbike bounced back into the middle of the road and scrotey-boy crumpled into the middle of the pavement.
hirez: (Default)
Listened to Any Questions for the first time since FM was invented, because all the cool kids were doing it.

I'm not doing anything like that again, if only because I was jumping off bridges way before it was cool.

What a bunch of bastards. It's quite pleasing that exposure to Usenet and Twitter allows a chap to quickly spot concern trolls.

It would surprise me not at all to learn that yer man Corbyn had been a regular on uk.transport.london or uk.control.
hirez: (Challenger)
Most of you will know that my alleged commute involves driving to the near edge of Bath and then pottering along the river/bike path into the centre of town.

Sometimes the handy bit of A4 where I usually leave the car is filled with complete bastards, so I park in a quiet backstreet where I could probably stand to live if I was rich, smug and middle-class enough. It's also obvious that parking out of office hours is a nightmare prospect for all who live there.

This evening, said backstreet was really not quiet at all. When I rolled up and was busily shoving the bike in the back of the car, there was someone parked in the middle of the street, offloading stuff into a house. 'Fair enough' I thought. It's a good and warm evening and I can sit there with the windows open and wind down while they do their thing, toddle off and leave the road clear for me to pull away and beetle home. After a while, they did indeed trog off, followed by a half-dozen cars that had queued up behind them in the interim.

I pull out, get halfway down the road, and am met by a pair of cars. They're not going backwards because, oh, try persuading two motorists to reverse, so I have to reverse halfway back down the street and back into the last parking space on the street that I had just vacated. The first car of the pair obviously wants my parking space, so hovers a few metres past me, expecting me to sod off out of the way. I'm going nowhere because the second car has... Stopped in the middle of the road in the same place to offload stuff.

Eventually, they both sod off, followed by another queue of cars that the second offloading has collected.

I pull out again, and am halfway down the road when I'm met by a pair of cars. This time there's nowhere for me to reverse to since the last car in the most recent queue has just nipped into the space I vacated. I make the international hand signal to the driver of the other car that means 'I've just done this twice. Now it's your turn.'

She reverses into a parked car, putting a right old dent in the rear passenger door. At this point, I can see that no good is going to come of anything now, so decide to reverse all the damn way down the road to the damn t-junction at the end. Terrible-reversing-woman takes this as a sign that one accident's not enough and follows me pretty much bumper-to-bumper in order to escape the consequences of not being able to reverse a Corsa worth a damn. Or wants to even up the score by causing dents with both ends.

The t-junction at the end has cars parked all round it, so reversing out of it and uphill out of the way is a bit of a fiddle. Terrible-reversing-woman elbows past as soon as she is able and steams down to the next junction, only to meet someone else trying to turn into the road. Where there is no space for two cars. There's more reversing, this time by other people. I get the hell out of the way and out of Bath as quickly as I am able.
hirez: (irradiated)
This is the sort of thing that is missing from, well, everything really.

More swearybot. I've given up trying to explain why it's behaving like that. I can only hope that the analogRead() that primes the RNG is picking up EVP, alien mind-control beams or local wireless, and as such is an excellent demonstration for the adoption of tinfoil hats. Experiment remarkably successful, in other words. Yes it is charging at my ankles and calling me a bell-end.

I am listening to old Peel programmes, which is happy and strange. An early Soft Machine track has had me wandering off to the internet on a track that went 'UFO Club[1]' 'The Sun Trolley[2]' 'Hapshash and the coloured coat' 'why am I writing this oh drum&bass'

'The high birds' appear to have vanished without trace and I think rightly so. If you dig out the footage on the youtubes for the 'Indie Club' sketch from the Fast Show, you'll be very much on the money. Perhaps 1998 was when shit sub-Oasis schmindie was most popular? I don't remember. I'd have to go and dig out the relevant Whitby shirt to work out what was going through my head then.

This specific cold-thing is trippy as all fuck. I keep zoning out for the length of a track (the Soft Machine one was a fine example) and then surfacing again in 2012. It's mostly fun. Just now I was reading some documentation for a message-queueing thingy and thought 'Bloody hell that's a wonky sort of machine for 1998... Wait, it's 2012 isn't it. Oh.'

I can't actually write any of this down fast enough. By the time I've got the words together, the moment has passed. Which, given some of those moments feel like they've been lasting for hours is, er, actually entirely normal.

[1] Oh for a time-machine.
[2] That sounds like it should have been a Ballard short, or the name of an illustration from an alchemical treatise. However, wikipeejah being wikipeejah and Google being shit, it's probably 'Giant Sun Trolley'. Perhaps the relevant version of the band mutated. Who can say? (But see [1])
hirez: (Object)
It's a big planet out there, filled with a range of odd things.

Via the magic of the internets, I am pointed at a news report from Oklahoma City, OK (I think it's one of the flat, square ones in the middle. Maybe near the one with the pointy mountain that was in Close Encounters), in which some poor kid doesn't get her ticket out of 'high school' (I think that's something to do with Buffy or John Hughes. I don't bloody know. Apparently we all troll around going 'SIX-A-BONG') for saying 'hell'.

A quick look at the other headlines to the right of that article reveals the following:

Mother accused of allowing uncle to impregnate her daughter.
GRAPHIC - Elderly man arrested violating pig at school barn.
Daughter fights to keep father on sex offender registry.

I don't think I'm too far off base in thinking that they appear to have slightly bigger problems than alleged naughty words.
hirez: (Object)
i) A small ginger cat

ii) A House of Bruar catalogue.

There may be a subtext that I have yet to decode, but my initial reaction is Do Not Want.
hirez: (dissent)
In the main I avoid Gawker and like sites for the same reason I avoid the Daily Fascist (We had a nice man come to the door, offering 'a discount preview and focus group' of the 'new' Evening Fascist. I explained, as politely as I could, that Dacre & employers would get none of my money).

However, all these people are quite, quite mad.
hirez: (dissent)
A thing that's been wandering through my head for a few months was brought into focus by this gallery and this piece in the Manchester Guardian.

It seems that the greater part of the 'rebel alliance' (ho ho bleeding ho) are types not a million miles away from thee and I, which is really rather scary when you think about it. Not in the 'hahaha don't let those daft buggers play with a rocket launcher', which seems to be the level of FB banter. But 'Fuck me, middle-class spods of no particular political inclination have gone off to point AKs at the regular army and win. At the cost of watching their friends get killed.' And when it's finished, they're going to have to put the AK in the cupboard under the stairs and go back to developing PHP or driving a bus or being a duty solicitor.

Which, fuuu...
hirez: (Default)
(A real programme on the BBC, shamefully enough.)

Under what circumstances, other than the traditional nineteen pints of Scruttock's Old Dirigible, is it ever a bright idea to take a pic of yr todger and share it around on the internets?

I have to ask, since as a reasonably intelligent bloke who didn't have a particularly left-leaning or feminist upbringing, I have no bloody idea what might motivate someone to do that. They are clearly of a completely different species and I share no common ground or mental wossname with them.
hirez: (Happy cycling)

[It's only of tangential interest that this bloke looks like a former manager, who I failed to get on with in a really rather messy manner.]

So it would seem that yer man here, who has already been banned for using EPO, drained an armful and kept it in the fridge for the thick end of a month. Lord alone knows what the best-before date is on your own blood, but I suspect it's way shorter than that. Even in a serious eco-fridge with a water cooler and a frost-free thingy. I mean, I went and checked our freezer and there's a wee icon of a cow and a chicken and three stars, but nothing that looks like it might be a person-juice symbol.

Of course, the chap's first mistake was not to go on to a Twilight and/or similar Paranormal Romance forum-effort and ask the inmates what fridge they'd recommend for blood storage. After all, every modern vampire type would know that sort of thing.

Second mistake? Not opening the bag and sniffing it before putting it back in. Schoolboy error, there. If he'd been the sort of person who's parents made him eat the bowl of cereal even though there were floaty bits in the milk, he'd not be in charge of one or more somewhat shagged kidneys.


hirez: (Default)

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