hirez: (Challenger)
A long time ago, when Radio 4 was still a regular feature in my life...

... Which makes it sound like Our Tune, which was a regular feature in other people's lives...

... Which had a theme that is instantly recognisable if you remember Simon sodding Bates, which you would only listen to because it was summer and you were waiting for the Radio One Roadshow, which was a regular feature in dreadful places up and down the coast that may or may not have existed.

(If you clicked that link: you're welcome!)

Mind, one of the chaps at Labs could (and would) hum the first bar, at which point everyone within range would call him a bastard.

Anyway.

There used to be these odd announcements just before the news on R4. "This is an urgent message for Dr. and Mr. Boggis of Carshalton, who are on a motoring holiday in the west of England..."

They always seemed to be from a universe that hadn't invented motorways or a Polio vaccine and where the AA (or RAC) chaps saluted as you went by on your way to an inn that would sell you mild ale. Although perhaps also it was Pa's (and hence my, because that's how family things work until you inspect them for sanity) utter inability to stop on the way somewhere in order to look at something.

Holidays were formatted like this:
i) Get in car. Drive somewhere.
ii) Have holiday.
iii) Get in car. Drive home.

At no point would there be dawdling, loitering, a scenic route or stopping for anything other than actual projectile vomiting.

Retracing one's route, unless one was actually at stage (iii) was right out, too. Which leads to some weird holiday topology and quite advanced map-reading skills. Far more recently, there was this one time I had to give a set of Norwegians a lift back to York at the end of a Whitby weekend so they could catch the longship back to That London. It felt so wrong to be leaving A Holiday before the time allotted to Fun was up. However, we were doing the entire wonky-week, so...
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
Several times while walking through Bath over the last few weeks, I've felt the skin on my face rippling like a flag in a stiff breeze. It has taken something of a mental effort to pull my expression back into something resembling human, but should I lose concentration I can feel it peeling back to reveal the whatever-it-is beneath.

Most recently, when striding away from the fruit stall and down past the betting shop, my arms and legs joined in. It was quite a lot like I had lost my footing in this reality and was having to clamber over or through unseen obstacles from a different plane.

I became convinced that I was spidering across a not-path apparently suspended above the paving of Kingsmead Square, all limbs at impossible angles and with a face mostly made of too many eyes and teeth.
hirez: (Trouble with my worms (i))
You may or may not (remember/care/pause for a truncheon) that the other month the North Bristol Writing Group conducted a thing via Fundsurfer (Kickstarter to you, pal) in order to emit an anthology.

Those of you who subscribed to same will be in receipt of copies (in one form or another) RSN.

The rest can bag one from Tangent (the publisher) or Amazon (not the publisher).

You may also be interested to read the sequence of 'guest' 'blogs', as I believe the young person's argot goes, on the well appointed and south facing BRSBKBLOG.

Google thinks I'm in .nl because of IPv6.

I'd avoid this entry the chap who wrote it is clearly a charlatan.
hirez: (Default)

I don't know how to sleep in this bed. it are strange and confusing.

hirez: (Happy cycling)
The nebulous 'they' are attempting to build a bikeshed where Ma lives.

It has turned into bikeshedding.

Ma laughed like a drain when I explained.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
An Android one of these, please: http://www.talk-o-meter.de/e/
hirez: (Happy cycling)
(Second title-triv quiz of the day, pop-pickers.)

... So I went for a bicycle-based potter up the hill (It's Bristol. You've a choice of down the hill and then up a different one, or up the hill and then, er, down a different one).

Discovered yet another best-avoided boozer on the way to the mildly disturbing wedding shop. Which was mildly disturbing.

Crikey. Jimmy Young was from Cinderford. Soon we will discover that the the entirety of post-war English popular youth culture was a sinister experiment dreamed up by a shadowy cabal of Free Foresters. (See also Joe Meek)
hirez: (Information Hazard)


From left to right:

Soldering iron (circa 30 years old)
Dallas E20 board + rev B TINI (circa 11 years old)
SGI Indigo keyboard (Dunno. 10 years old?)
Taylec TINITutor board + rev D TINI (circa 11 years old) (Which I'll have to give back to [livejournal.com profile] quercus)
Modular Technology Interfaker 3 (circa 25 years old)
Custom Severed Heads mousemat (I forget. A lovely present, mind)
Sundry tools and serial conversion bits that are likely between 20-15 years old.

From this we can deduce two things:

a) I have been doing this hackery thing for quite a while now.
b) I still dislike RS-232.

As far as I can tell, the TINI boards both boot up (the LEDs certainly DTRT), but JavaKit on the PC doesn't spot them. This likely means that the serial cable or port on the PC is wrong in some manner. Which is where the Interfaker comes in. Getting JavaKit to work in the first place was a bit of a trial. Javaxcomm has become an un-library as far as Currant-bun/Oracle (Coracle?) is concerned.

I may not have much time for RS-232, but I fear I am having huge amounts of fun remembering how to get this stuff working.

Later... Ha! A runner! It DHCPed an address and now runs its webserver. Hurrah!.
hirez: (Challenger)
Oh, FFS.

They've (Bristol council, rather than grey aliens or the Illuminati. If you want traffic-management by conspiracy-conjured Tulpa you have to go to Michigan, where the signage is run by the Trilateral Commission. I wish I still had the URL for the webpage that described the number and nature of the alien bases dotted across the US. One was in Fort Collins. Since I was a HPite at the time, that caused much merriment.) put traffic lights on a roundabout that's about halfway along my car-based commute.

There are also now handy spiral lines that demonstrate which lane you're expected to use. As one might imagine, if you want to turn right and head toward Bath, the right-most lane is the one to use. Indeed, if you could actually follow the spiral line around, you'd find yourself deposited in the left-hand lane of the dual carriageway.

However, since Bristol car-pilots are essentially fucking stupid, especially those notionally in charge of silver Honda shitboxes with blacked-out windows, what you'll actually find is some twatmonkey has middle-laned it and if you'd followed the nice white line yourself you'd be side-swiping the hopeless fucktard about halfway round.

It is especially galling when said twatmonkey gets a right old monk on and decides it wants to 'race' the scruffy-looking Saab it's just pushed into the right-hand lane.

Get a proper car you fucking loser.


Oh. Yeah. You know that 'My crumple-zone is the other car' argument for driving land-barges? Yeah. Right. Get a proper car you fucking loser.
hirez: (psyche-out (i))
I had cause to make for the Melatonin last night, thus I am very much not awake.

However, I have been thinking about barbeques, gittish behaviour and context.

For instance, pitching up with some Tesco Value bangers and a carrier bag of Stellar Tortoise would have been (was) appropriate for a Humblebee barbeque (Half a 40-gallon drum on an A-frame. Rusty as you like. I think it belonged to the Chopper Club), while marinaded anything that arrived in a tupperware box would have been treated with suspicion and/or derision.

On the other hand, your carrier bag of Stellar Value would signify that you were a complete git and about to slurp your way through the host's collection of fine weissbier, were you to arrive somewhere suburban and gas-fired.

Watch out for smug singles. They lie handily on both ends of the git-curve.

Someone has to bring Space Meat. It is the law.

Not providing for the veggies is host-based gittery.

It's hard to go wrong with a selection of bottled ales. It's not like the stuff's hard to find, either. If my local offy (permanent specials on Stellar Tortoise and Blackthorn) can carry Wadworth's and Bath Ales, then you'd have to be living next door to the (8) Ace factory shop to do any worse.


Note: Bob help anyone who takes this seriously. I mean, really.
hirez: (muddy)
Anyone else want to have a crack at walking the Malverns? Perhaps even next month.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Google maps on yr mobile. It's not the OS, but it's a jolly nice toy.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
It's time for my regular ramble about cups. (The magic spodix printing infrastructure)

Since I last looked, it seems that the entire edifice is now owned by Apple. This might lead one to believe that bugs have been smited (smitten? smout?) and it all Just Works(tm).

Or indeed not.

It appears that a bizarre dependence on two different TLS libraries is not enough and there's now a third choice. Attempts to persuade it to use just one result in sulking by means of runtime library errors.

Ugh.

% apt-get install cupsys
hirez: (Laser goggles and raybans)
Those of you out there who (have ambitions to) write SF and/or fantasy and who aren't against the idea of having your lives picked up and given a good shake might like to view this: http://www.sff.net/paradise/
hirez: (Default)
Friday night I was subjected to a particularly widescreen and technicolour dream about hacking into the control-path of a Lovecraftian Servitor. (Or some other huge shadowy thing with a voice o' doom)

It was one of those experiences when you wake up, go 'what the fuck' and then fall asleep right back into the thing where you left off.

It's still with me. I'm still reasonably jangled by the thing.

The control path itself looked like it was some protocol for tunnelling nasty things over an arbitrary air-gap. A rectangular tube of blue smoke (a lot like the forcefields in Lynch's Dune) extended itself out across the countryside to the low frequency tune of an art-deco dynamo hall. Once that connection was established, three-dimensional blue neon runes begin streaming back and forth with a noise akin to the reanimated corpse of Nikolai Tesla fronting a Pan-Sonic gig.

I mean, I don't mind dreaming demonic comms protocols (much). It's just slightly disturbing when they're that comprehensive.

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