hirez: (Radiation)
Oh god. The Fatbit allowed as how i had wandered some 9k6 steps this evening, so I have just wandered out into the teeth of a gale in order for the thing to buzz cheerfully upon my wrist.

There's no hope for me, is there?

(Am I also the only person in the world to use resistor-style multipliers?)

The month of no tourists in Bath has come to an end. The place is now once again mobbed with crocodiles of French teenagers, and it is again impossible to get from A to B with any sort of hurry. Apparently stonewash jeans and yellow Docs are 'on' 'point'. So that's an entire nation's youth dedicating themselves to LARPing 1989. Quality.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Once every few months, the punk rock imp of the perverse will remind me that there used to be zines and that I would sometimes buy them at gigs. Out on the floor (Porky Jupitus the showbiz mate of tiresome singing bloke, IIRC), Catch-22 (Kevin from Cheltenham, who I never met. Wrote him some stuff though, which was beyond awful), Vague (Impenetrable g*th meandering. Featured a drawing of a mushroom cloud, as did many zines, SDC lyrics and what may have been an account of following same while under the influence of different mushrooms) and probably many others scattered through the head-height stack of NMEs that was against one wall of the room where I kept the home recording kit and computer(s).

There's a picture of Jon-who-was-also-hostile-implant swearing at a drum machine on the bench/rack I fabricated from ersatz dexion. There's a Three Johns poster on the wall (free with 'Atom Drum Bop' and the lyrics to 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' because neither of us were yet old enough to think that sort of thing embarrassing enough to rip down. Out of shot, on the other side of the big open fireplace, there was a typewriter upon which I would sometimes write Thoughts that I considered Important about Music. Kev of Catch-22 had written to me on the back of old dole forms, which in what was probably 1983 I found impossibly 'cool' and 'street'.

I lived in a thumping great farmhouse with my Mum & Dad. Anything more 'urban' than the British Farmer & Stockbreeder was 'cool' and 'street'.

One of bands featured in one of the zines was named 'The great bone and the four-a-day men'.

As you might imagine, given the existence of this piece, that name still haunts me. However, as seems common with my life in that time-period, the internet considers it all non-notable and there is no other record of any of it being anything other than me making stuff up.

I should see if I can (re) find that damn photo. Unless it's already on FB.

[Update: speaking of FB mix. http://www.discogs.com/Great-Bonebacked-by-Four-A-Day-Men-Those-Days-Of-Yorg/release/3069578 found by Jon-as-above. Hurrah for the collaborative nature of the internet! No doubt I am doing this wrong because there are no pictures of mildly famous people with self-righteous captions or 'screen' 'shots' of allegedly contentious opinions. ]
hirez: (24)
Years ago, when I had yet to fully mature, like some kind of human tree growing rings of unpleasant experiences and a bark worse than some bytes...

... No, I have no idea either. Anyway. So prior to three years ago or something when my hand/eye co-ordination was less than optimal, I used to think that the disease called 'Dropsy' made you drop stuff.

I am typing this before looking that word up on the internet so as to preserve some vague concept of causality.

These last few weeks I are been having it nice middle-class bus from the park+ride on the edge of Bath. The last time I used it, the place was a muddy analogue of a festival car-park that was full by five past nine. Now there's posh bogs, hardstanding and the juggling and donkey-taunting field has been pressed into service as a place for twits to park their BMW/Hyundai/Smart as far as possible from anyone else because of $reasons. And the buses run every ten minutes. It's like they're taunting the rest of the FailBus empire. 'Ha-ha! You have to beetle round areas where poor people live! No-one on our buses sodcasts! And we have working cashless fares!'

While waiting for the Nice Bus to pull away from the building formerly known to $employer as Westgate-where-we-keep-the-IT-people-away-from-the-nice-creatives, I was grovelling through Twitter and about to come to the attention of the TERFs (in a very minor way, kind of a driveby Serdar Argic.) when some SRS BSNS type steams up, sees the scruffy oik having it 4G and whips out his $(Some tablet or other) so he can do businessy things. On a bus.

Way back, when Z88s were still things, I'd blagged a spare one and the dev kit to keep my occupied on a train journey, probably from London direct to the Copperfields, Cheltenham. I am blundering away at the 'keyboard' when a different SRS BSNS type heaves to and takes up the seat opposite. I can see him thinking 'Scruffy oik, expensive computing hardware that should only be used by busy executives, I'm not standing for this.' and kind of half watch while he makes this puffy breathing show of digging out all the receipts in the world and an Executive Calculator, so he may begin theatrically totting up (a) by means of (b).

Obviously the motivations of people who's inner thought processes I can only guess at are opaque to me, so I'm making it all up.
hirez: (Default)
The Chaoswedding at the pigs Copperfields was really jolly good fun.

This week I blew the metaphorical dust of a non-upgraded app off Myfitnesspal.

One of the itinerant patients zero at work has been handing out special prizes, too.

hirez: (Challenger)
Because I was left alone as a teenager/twentysomething and allowed to get on with being a scruffy peelist hacker, I never came across the notion of the 'walk of shame'.

Understanding what that thing was and what it meant culturally would have likely involved me not being a bloke, knowing that dressing up to go out was a thing (I mean, I knew it was a thing because of mass media, but since that same mass media didn't know the likes of me existed, it really didn't apply. Further, the sorts of places in Cheltenham where people who 'dressed up to go out', er, went out, weren't the sort of places that appealed anyway. It was all something like a full-spectrum Groucho Marx ruleset) and having the wit to know that trolling home in yesterday's clobber was viewed as an awful thing by/for one half of the relevant population.

Although there was this time coming home from a squat in Leytonstone during AM rush-hour with a headful of ceremonial chemicals..

Less walk of shame and much more 'I am curled up in a para smock in a corner seat and I am looking at you power-dressed city types with the same blank incomprehension you are affording me. However, I appear to be going home because I accidentally the sort of work (briefly) that doesn't involve office rubbish. Apart from you with the dark hair. You're lovely.'


Since I have chugged round in a procession of old cars, the notion of the 'slick of shame' is far too familiar. The most terrible example was the hateful Hillman Avenger with the dead-loss oil system. Eventually, the council came round to complain about the damage to the road surface. We had to drag the dead Allegro (not mine) from its final resting place round the back of the house so there was somewhere for the Avenger to dribble in peace.

Currently the 9000 has a minor but persistent coolant leak. I think I've found it, finally, but it has not rained for a week and when our street is clear you can see where I've parked over the last several days...
hirez: (Challenger)
This week, I have been pottering about in Justyn's 9k Griffen while he fixes most of the things wrong with mine with which I have been putting up for some number of years. This sort of thing is stupid, but it is a thing one does. See also 'having a bone in one's leg', 'ow my rsi', 'oh just reboot it and see if it goes better' et al. When I say 'one', I mean 'everyone' obviously.

His car has two speeds - turbo not helping and crikey.

Anyway, I putting fuel in the thing down Morrisons and wondering what dickhead move one or more of the other drivers would pull...

Seriously. It's like cheap(er) fuel attracts the complete bell-ends that are either apprentice drug-dealers (they're not), self-righteous DMail readers or taxi pilots with a tenuous grip on physics. And. It's not like there's that much to be saved. A pee per litre is going to be something like a quid difference if you're one of the daft buggers who fill the tank, but there they are queueing in the middle of the road and getting all wavy fist if people try to get past on the way to somewhere else like grownups.

... and then the lights went out and all the pumps stopped. There seemed to be some running about and arm-waving going on in the kiosk, and after a few seconds it became obvious that the electricity wasn't coming back on again any time soon. I pottered over to the end of the queue to discover that some poor sod's car had started pissing fuel across the concrete apron, the fire brigade had been called and would we please carry on without EPOS kit.

It was like going back to the eighties, so I grabbed a copy of the NME (which is in a dreadful state) and watched as they dug the card-rolly machine out and blew the dust off the thing.

When I returned to the car-that-is-not-mine, it was to find a set of firemen shovelling magic sand underneath the Cavalier at the pump behind mine while a different set of people jabbered on their phones in strict disobedience of relevant heath & safety malarkey.
hirez: (Q-309)
A quietly increasing number of years ago, I was part of a moderately dodgy post-punk unpopular beat combo. Before we discovered the modern wonder of Roland drum-machines, we had drummers.

The thing we put the drummers behind was the sort of grim copy of a drum kit that you might see as scenery. Like fake chocolates and doors with forced perspective, it was designed to give the impression of being something along the lines of some drums, so long as you didn't stare at it too hard. It was held together with swearing and propped up with breeze blocks.

Today we see rare footage of The Ramones having it shouty in some club so terrible they couldn't afford for things to be in colour. Or more likely color. The drum kit is propped up wth breeze blocks.

I must admit that I feel mildly vindicated.
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: (psyche-out (i))
(It's a cycling joke)

The proximity of a post-Opening-Ceremony tweet from the estimable Ms [livejournal.com profile] chiller and reading of this fine book in the Guardian made it mostly obvious that the best reason most right-wingers and all authoritarians have for hating and fearing psychedelics is that they're the cure for their branch of madness, and if there were any sort of herd immunity to the hate-fuelled rubbish they peddle their memetic power base would expire quick-smart.

See also the splendidly bonkers rant in the Fail (to which I will not link) in re. how dare a bunch of fifth columnists use the NHS for propaganda purposes, etc.

In fact I believe the entire opening-ceremony was a £27m troll and hurrah for that.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
[Poll #1817399]
hirez: (24)
They've made a right bugger of FB.

Anyway. While using a somewhat b0rked pub analogy earlier to describe what's going on, I recalled the following.

Before they invented mobile phones, there wasn't any useful way of finding out which boozer your friends were in. I mean, easy enough if one stuck to the village pub, but the people in there had the haunted look of people who'd given up[1] and were drinking to force merriment upon themselves. However, trips into Cheltenham of a weekend could turn into something like this:

Pick a pub to start in. Say the Duck & Pheasant. Some hair-metallers taking up space at the bar, but no bugger that you know well enough to speak to. Slurp down pint and beetle a block over to the Cotswold. Similar story, but with at least one goth reading a book of complicated poetry. Where can they all be? Another street over is the Axiom, but they want money on the door. Hm. Maybe later. Is it worth the trek up to the Old Swan? What if everyone you know is there? What if they're doing the same thing as you, but out of phase? What if they think 'might as well stop here and wait for everyone else to complete an orbit'?

Might as well piss off back to the village pub and join the haunted people who have given up.

Mind you, when I moved to Humblebee, things were radically different:

The phone calls would start at about five on a Friday evening. Ed Price would answer because he was In Charge and because he could lose his temper best. Every call would be someone or other asking what was going on tonight. Where were people going? When? Price would impatiently explain that they could fuck off and run their own lives, but then allow that I was going to drive us all to the Axiom. Or the Plough in Winchcombe. Or the Craven Arms.

Which means I don't know what I think about FB or G+ yet. Going where all the people are at the expense of my own comfort kicks off one too many unfortunate memories. However it would be best to avoid as much face-spiting as possible.

Perhaps I should just keep writing semi-interesting things and trust that people will like that. Yes. That would be best.

[1] What they'd given up was never made clear. I suspect it was akin to the running gag in one or other of the Newman and Bloodyhell series, in which Mr. Newman would justify yet another night on the piss with the phrase '... and to think if I hadn't gone into that bar, I'd never have met you'
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
In 'Names for bands' (from 'No more cocoons' which is obviously a work of genius) Jello Biafra holds forth about, well, names for bands. Given that Pop Will Eat Itself, some of those names have turned into bands.

(If I was really good, this entire piece would be cobbled up from band-names.)

And yet.

There must be a myriad 'Rhythm Methodists' out there. Along with many Night Rangers and Vengeances. And at least two Severed Heads.
hirez: (Q-309)
While watching the compact and bijou Synth Britannia programme on that there tellybox the other even, I was struck with an odd thought: 'I didn't know that thingy out of Heaven 17 was related to Compo Simmonite.'

Apart from that, it was correct in all dimensions.
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: (Cooper-Clarke)
There I am, walking back through Bath to the office, when a chap hails me from the door of The Bath Tap (an gay pub). There's some cheery banter, then he introduces himself. It's Gary Clail.

[FX: Internal fanboy voice going 'Fuuuuuuuuckk!']

Apparently it's all going pretty well for him. And he's a jolly good chap, even if he did call me a goth. (inna Tog24 fleece, fading indigo jeans and Shimano cleats yet.)

80s joke

Oct. 3rd, 2008 12:22 pm
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Nice to see King are still in work.
hirez: (Challenger)
Putting a black Alfa 75 sideways into the scenery? I'm sure I've seen that sort of thing before.
hirez: (dissent)
I'm struggling through 'Matter' at the moment and it's not really being a positive experience.

There seems to be rather a surfeit of expository rumination about the horridness of the imaginary universe and why can't we all get along. There's 'show', 'tell' and 'arse-achingly dull'.
hirez: (24)
For reasons currently unknown[1] there's a not-unpleasant miasma abroad in the office this AM. The last time I smelled anything like that, it was 1990 and I was hacking on Turbo Pascal for Windows in a third floor maisonette that overlooked Golder's Green tube depot.

Great wedges of that adventure are falling out of long-term memory unbidden. It's, um, interesting.

[1] I'm not about to engage in a Reeves&Mortimer style wander about sniffing things mission.


hirez: (Default)

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