hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
From mail:

Thank you for creating a customer account at Blake UK Ltd.

Here are your login details:

E-mail address: me@my-domain.com
Password: [ plain text password goes here ]

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[FX: Golf clap]

Well done, chaps. Well done.

I'm sure that if I did change my p/w regularly, they'd be pleased to send me a plain text reminder each time...
hirez: (Challenger)
Thus far, most of the daylight hours of the weekend have involved motorways.

Thursday contained a not actively unpleasant blat up to That London, wherein I began to remember how much I hated the left-hand lane of the north circular pretty much as we arrived that the lights next to the Ikea at wem-ber-lee.

Because I am rock&roll, I consumed a lake of pho and then passed out in the hotel (Hox, obvs.) where I dreamed ruby code.

Friday's trip back was equally not-unpleasant, exactly until we got to Chiswick. Apparently there was a competition which involved getting a Guinness-world-record number of dickheads into wanker cars and making them drive as slowly as possibly towards Cornwall.

After a number of hours we got as far as Reading, and the pot of tea I'd inhaled at breakfast had passed fully south and was becoming impatient about an exit visa.

Reading services was full. Properly, fully, queueing out onto the M4 full.

We meandered onwards. After all, the traffic map alleged that the worst of the nose-to-tail ceased at Reading and it was only 14 miles to the A34 junction and the next set of services.

Which was full.

After more plodding along and admiring all the plant parked up by the bomb-store exit, we found Membury. It was the middle-class apocalypse. The carpark was awash in projectile-vomiting children, badly parked Audis and shellshocked people from the Boden catalogue holding their iPhones to the sky and cursing Messrs. Google.

We made our excuses and left before it all kicked off in Waitrose - a pitched battle over the last of the organic polenta.

I understand the M5 was worse.

Today we steamed off to Cheltenham. Again, the trip out was non-horrible.

On the way back, I was passing a selection of wagons and approaching the newer of the Gloucester exits in the middle lane when some hateful hateful fucking moron in an I-don-'t-know-what-but-I'm-betting-Audi realises that passing the scruffy-looking 9K was perhaps a mistake because she wants to leave the motorway right now.

Normal people would have known where the fuck they were and been in the left-hand lane. Boy racery twats would have jumped on the brakes, and swung in behind aiming to miss my rear corner by a few cm.

Homicidal fucking cowbag decided to swing in front, then jump on the brakes. While making complicated hand-signals that may or may not have been sign language for 'I have the last of the organic polenta from Waitrose and the NW3 posse(e) are on my tail in an AMG SUV OMG.'

We joined in with the hand signals. Ours were much simpler to understand.

Much later on, drawing to a halt on the roundabout where the M4 meets the M32, I am in the left-hand lane because I want to peel off onto the ring-road and beetle down through Frenchay where the junctions are less annoying. In the far right lane is a black X5 that had come charging up from I-don't-care-where.

The next time I see that X5 it is because the alleged 'driver' has decided that it didn't really want to go to Bristol at all and is cutting across three lanes of traffic for the exit back onto the M4 through the gap between the 9k's bonnet and the back of the Transit in front.

I hope the fucker buys a bag of septic coke and his cock, toes, nose and fingers rot off in as disturbing a way as possible.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
[ This was inspired by a report on the Facebooks. Rather than make someone else's grim time All About Me and my Manfeels, I shall perform my tangenteering here. ]

I am becoming really quite narked with the obvious inability of, oh, pretty much all[1] the 'men'[2] in IT to act like fucking adults.

Perhaps it's just me and my terrible Guardian-reading ways, but there's a process in the back of my head that runs most of the time[3] and spends its time going 'Is what you are about to say going to sound creepy/racist/ableist/patronising/sexist? Because if it is think of some other way of expressing yourself. You're a fucking writer for fuck's sake. You're good enough to get paid cash-money for making the language work in positive and interesting ways. And. You actually like the people you work with and you do not wish them to regard you as some lurching troglodyte quasi-human (or 'generic man in IT') but as someone with dreams and fears of their own.'

Perhaps it is just me.

A couple of years ago, I spent a morning in the company of a handful of late-teen and early twentysomething males. They all knew each other and were quite happy to ignore the weird old post-punk and jabber amongst themselves. It was pretty horrible. Fucken this and fucken that and fuck that bird over there with knockers i'd give 'er a portion out down the bierkeller last week doing shots some dirty slapper you could see her bra an' everything puke my fucken ring...

... And I don't recall what I was like at that age. I'd like to think not as bad, but y'know...


I dunno. It's pish. I hate it. Do better you horrible little gobshites.

(Last time I wrote something like this I was variously accused of White Knighting and only doing it to cop off with feminist birds.)

[1] #notalltehmenz. #eyeroll.
[2] Fucking assume good-faith fucking definitions here, ok? We all know who the problem-space is.
[3] Because I am human and I fuck up or am tired[4] or something so egregiously batshit is going on that I get lost in the moment[4].
[4] Far too much of that going on right now.
hirez: (Challenger)
Today I ignored a mild hangover and steamed to Cheltenham to do 'manly things', look at the countryside and visit people with an aim to blag mugs of tea.

All of these things were surprisingly successful, in spite of the efforts of two different feckwits trying to bend my car and/or kill me.

The M5 junction between Cheltenham & Gloucester (Left for doomed industry and concrete supplies for the ruination of an otherwise harmless town centre, right for the delivery of multiple expensive computers, 'phone exchange exploitation kit, high end fibre optic gear and sundry data-warehousing requisites) is one of those Ballardian multi-layer things with a no-mans-land roundabout between the M5 in the cutting and the A40 flying over the top. The sight-lines are designed to be poor so you have to mostly stop when transitioning from slip-road to roundabout to slip-road.

The bollix in the people-carrier pulling off the southbound M5 seemed to think that he was in some urban environment where putting yr nose into the traffic would make the oncoming car(s) pull to a halt to allow you out.

This does not work on a motorway junction.

A few years ago, someone tried this on the M4/M32 junction, which is an even worse idea because it's all motorway rather than some nod-wink reclassified thing. To be fair, he had the wit to look utterly terrified as a stream of artics and speeding bastards aimed for his wheelarch.

The bollix on the M5 didn't even seem to have the brains to do that. Instead he pulled out further as I was slowing down and conducting a rapid lifesaver over my right shoulder to make damn sure the rest of the road was empty before steaming across his bow with a cheerful two-fingered wave.

Honestly. In a different life, I'd have t-boned the fucker to prove a point, but I was on my way to visit mum and that would not have been seen as a valid excuse.

On the way back, the bit of M4 between the M5 junction and the M32 was busying up nicely with drivers who'd not worked out if they were supposed to be doing 50 or 70. (The answer being 'yes')

A different bollix decided that an appropriate lane-change manoeuvre would be to start indicating and moving right at about the same sort of time then check that there wasn't a car in the way. Perhaps a blue SAAB 9000CSE driven by someone clairvoyant enough to realise exactly what was going on.

For a laugh, I have the Highway Code open in another window, and a sufficiently Wikipeejah-editor reading of section 163 - You should [ ... ] use your mirrors, signal when it is safe to do so, take a quick sideways glance if necessary into the blind spot area and then start to move out - would seem to show that the letter of the law was being followed. However, immediately before that in the cunningly-titled section 162, we find this - Before overtaking you should make sure [ ... ] road users are not beginning to overtake you.

In short - go and get fucked you horrible, horrible bastards. It is true that one could claim that there's a missing exception in (163) along the lines of 'If there is a car approaching in the lane to your right, abort your current course of action.' On the other hand, the somewhat kinetic teaching moment made available is not always survivable by all those involved...
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
A cow-orker (gamer, female) was gleefully pointing out the latest Moral Outrage earlier.

Apparently, in whichever GTA version is making the most money now (he said, clearly able to look on the internet for the version, but writing it that way for fogey value) - and this would be GTA the open-world game where I understand you can wander about and do pretty much what you want. Because that's the nature of open-world games, being able to do what you want. Anyway. In this open-world game, which doesn't place much in the way of restriction upon your actions, you can go beat up a prostitute. If you've a mind to do that sort of thing.

The person (or people) who went and ignored sunsets, mountains, fast cars, tractors, pylons and leaping out of presumably serviceable virtual aircraft; and instead were all like 'Hey, I can do anything I want in this virtual world! I know! I'll go and beat up a sex-worker!' were allegedly horrified that they were able to do this and I guess went and did the modern version of penance or writing a stiff letter to the lead singer of Echo and the Bunnymen, which is to go on Twitter and blame someone else. For the thing they did. Themselves. With free will and malice aforethought.

The horrible, horrible bastards.

This is what happens when authoritarians are allowed out of their boxes.

Obviously in this terrible meat-hook (although this would be free-range barn-reared organic meat and an artisanal hook make by a blacksmith called Tarquin using carbon-neutral fuel and a salvaged anvil) future where Brunner's 'Shockwave Rider' is a shit old skiffy book filled with nonsense and lies, one could quite easily see some Polis-sponsored 'down' 'loadable' 'content' that allows the game to grass you up to the Social if you do assault a sex-worker.

And quite right too. Can't be too careful.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
I am generally in favour of people with disabilities having adapted cars and getting on with their lives.

However, I am seriously not in favour of oh, anyone, deciding that even though I've taken primary position, a width-restriction is the ideal place to overtake that tiresome cyclist. Away and fuck yerself you gormless bastard.

Meanwhile, on the way home I discover two learny-learny cars being directed to 'overtake' cyclists in the teeth of oncoming traffic. Well, I say 'overtake'. I mean 'meander towards the crown of the road and push that uppity lycra-botherer into the ditch. Ha-ha it will serve him right he is probably a socialist.'


I would still like an EMP cannon for use as a panic button for urban cyclists. Or some other ECM rig that can 0wn the engine-management computers within (say) Bluetooth radius and thus bring traffic to a lurching halt should some bollix in a skip-wagon decide on a careless left turn. Or some bollix in a white van (an important white van because he is delivering your Precious Things from AmazonBay-a-Porter) ditto. Or some send-em-'ome-it's-the-only-lingo-vey-unnerstan merchant in a cab spot a fare going up west.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
This afternoon I found out what a cyclist hitting a car sounds like. In the way that road accidents don't go bang so much as slap, so it is with people hitting bonnets.

I say heard rather than saw because I was busy looking over my shoulder for entirely expected cars at the oblique junction where the river path meets Locksbrook Road/Brassmill Lane at the edge of Bath, when there was a crunching slap noise from in front of me.

There was a moment of silence before the driver started on a fit of the vapours and the passenger leapt out and round the car toward the chap on the ground shouting fuck fuck FUCK.

I stayed out of the way - someone else was already on the phone for an ambulance, I'd not actually seen what had happened and getting in the way so as to be able to post pictures on Twitter would have been rubbish.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
I can't remember where I left the ramblings about the state of $work. I know I could go and look, because everything one puts on the internet is now remembered for us wholesale, either by people trying to sell things or by people trying to prove that someone or other is engaging in Thoughtcrime, but that would rather spoil the narrative flow that I already have in my head.

So you'll just have to put up with me pretending that it's 1993 and still having to remember things or look them up in books is a relevant skill.

Although. When I was being taught analogue electronics, which I have now largely and shamefully forgotten, the chap-in-charge was at pains to point out that remembering the formulae for building a band-pass filter or unity-gain op-amp circuit was a complete waste of time because all that stuff was in the reference books anyway, and a much more useful skill was knowing where to look for the answers.

Anyway. Anyone who's been working for some place that's in a bit of a turmoil will recognise the sequence of events that wobbles along the lines of this:

i) Something that passes for normal. You have enough time for coherent thinking, five or six mugs of tea/coffee per day and regular looks at $social-media while something is compiling or rebooting.
ii) Disturbance! Manglement assures all concerned that while changes are afoot, the change will be minimal and things will soon return to state (i).
iii) Dealing with disturbance! Hack, patch, put out fires! Time for three mugs of tea/coffee per day. A couple of late finishes/week where you do coherent thinking because it's quiet when everyone else has left.
iv) The CI/CD antipattern is called Continuous Interruption/Continuous Disturbance. You are approximating the work of three people. Nothing actually gets finished because you are interrupted more often than the twenty minutes it takes to actually get steam up when considering a problem. Leaving the office for lunch is a vague memory. An early finish is remarked upon by the security guards you are now on first-name terms with because you see them more often than the reception people who keep office hours.
v) You realise that this is now normal and look back upon state (iii) as the restful time when you could actually make progress.
vi) Take up smoking as an excuse for leaving the building regularly. (Not even slightly a joke. Not me, mind.)
vii) There is A Meeting! Project managers assure you that this situation is unsustainable and there will be Measures and you will not be disturbed!
viii) Interruptions are now prefaced with 'I know you're busy and I'm not supposed to bother you, but could you just..?'
ix) You realise that this is now normal and look back upon state (iv) as the restful time when you could actually make progress.

This is partly my/our own damn fault because no-one actually wants the Ops team to go back to being a mob of surly and unapproachable authoritarians who make petitioners fill in a pile of impossible job tickets before their request is considered. That never ends well. Actually it ends in shouting and recrimination because there's a passive-aggressive conveyor belt of Things that need Doing which will not stop and really doesn't care if anyone's picking up the Things before they fall off the end of the belt with the exciting sound of crockery disintegration.

... I think I'll stop there before it all gets a little too painful to think about.
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: (Trouble with my worms (ii))
You know when you're writing something and you find an article that you think breaks everything, but it accidentally makes everything much better? That.

Many other things are a vast amount of no fun at all, mind, so I guess it all balances out.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Never ever bloody anything Ubuntu ever.
hirez: (Challenger)
The other night I was idly wondering where all the proper Minis had gone, since it's very rare to see them about in other than some tediously restored state.

They're all on ebay, and they're all silly money. For example, £1500 for one that's had a shit paint-job, shit plastic wheel-arch extensions, a shit interior and a shit sticker on the top end of the engine. It's also been recently pranged so you can see that under the shit paintwork it's just rust holding hands. In my day that would have been £150 for parts if one was feeling especially charitable.

Christ what a bunch of horrible, horrible bastards.
hirez: (dissent)
In receipt of a(n) SMS earlier in the week, allegedly from m'GP (who have quietly turned into a hopeless shower, which is sad) which went along the lines of 'We are updating our records and wish to know if you smoke. Please reply 'YES, EX or NEVER''

At first I was tempted to reply along the lines of 'Please send me your data-protection documentation and copies of any risk-assessments you may (or may not, most likely) have done, paying particular attention to the notion of wrong numbers, re-used numbers, shared mobile phones, nosy partners, stolen mobiles phones and the actions of News International. Bear in mind I used to hack on surgery-management kit and I don't imagine it's become any less terrible in the intervening years Honestly, what were you useless bastards thinking? Further consider that specific question doesn't usefully break down into the categories you think it does. For instance, I smoked moderately heavily between summer 1993 and ditto 1994. Now to a tiresome rules-lawyer, that makes me an ex-smoker. However, since I don't know what crap probability-of-expense patient-mortality forecasting game you're playing, I'm going to take it that cycling daily and being able to blow your lung-capacity test off its end-stop means I fit in the 'never' box. Christ, it's not like it was even hard to give up like all the adverts allege.'

But that would have been a right faff to prod in on the squitty Android finger-painting pad.

Then I thought to reply 'NEVER'); DROP TABLE Patients;--' but that would probably guarantee that I would be subject to regular and vigorous prostate examinations for the rest of my life.

In the end, I went with boring, nearly true and 'remember this for a piece to livejournal'. So there you go. I would be interested to discover if this is A Thing now.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Followed some epic shitebag out of Bath along the middle road. It's not the A4 or the A46, it's the other one. Still an A-road but a bit more twisty.

There's a certain variety of driver who should not be let out of areas where there's a 30-limit, and given the nasty sod's behaviour, even that's probably going to end up with some pedestrian or pushbiker mown down for the poor taste of wanting to get from A to B at the same time as Mr (Ms, Mrs or Mx. Equal opportunity feckwit-naming here.) Tosspot.

This was one of them. It crawled along the darkened country bits at 20MPH, seemingly suffering from terrible agoraphobia or some other affliction of the wall-following. As soon as it saw a 30-limit, of which there are several, the fucking bastard decided that 40MPH was an ideal rate of travel. That's just a shit trick and there's no excuse for it. I can only guess that it felt safe when surrounded by buildings.

Stay the fuck away from the countryside. There is nothing for you here.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
The fucking site is fucking slow
the fucking code's got fucking holes
the fucking tag is fucking wrong
the fucking diff is fucking long
the fucking distro's fucking old
the fucking coffee's fucking cold
the fucking mood is fucking down
everywhere in devops town

The fucking server's fucking crashed
the fucking console's fucking ash
the fucking disks are fucking full
of fucking logs of sweet fuck-all
the fucking code's in fucking swap
the fucking db's fucking hot
you fucking look a fucking clown
here in fucking devops town

The fucking storage fucking died
the fucking switch is fucking fried
the fucking contract's fucking lost
there's fucking shouting from the boss
the fucking parts are fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you fucking want to fucking drown
when you fucking work in devops town.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
In receipt of a pamphlet of collected bumph from Bristol Corporation in re. the mayorings today.

Christ what a shower of shite.

The most obvious reading of the text(s) is to take it as a viciously surreal rag mag[1] and assume that the various alleged positions and/or apparent policy statements are a sequence of heavy-handed satirical pieces on the opinions and mores of contemporary media-consuming Britain. Thus we discover that some tosspot Occupy chancer from Brighton has Googled himself up, found a Dobbshead and used it as clip-art to decorate his comic-sans-set, dope-mediated ramblings. I have some positive wossname with the idea of 'radical transparency', but democracy-via-social-network is far too Steve Bong to describe.

The rest are worse. Mostly they want to make the traffic move better (so at least they live in Bristol...) which generally seems to involve making things nicer for those poor car-driving types. Never mind that the bits of Bristol that remained unbombed were mangled with the car in mind. Those that want to make public transport less worse also want to get rid of the local nukes, which is a crowd-pleasing stupid idea.

... Oh lord it's all too horrible.

[1] Do they have such things any more? I guess if you want something filled with shit jokes by students, google for 'banter' and follow the most disturbing path available.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Let's get the shit things out of the way before thinking about anything interesting.

So, it seems to be random-cyclist-abuse week in Bath.

Arsehole one - some middle-aged fuck in a matching Transit advised me to piss off when I waved at him. Perhaps it was because he'd parked his shitbox on the pavement where the bike-path goes.
Arsehole two - some other middle-aged fuck in an eighties skirt with matching dog-jumper on a matching dog advised me that she wasn't going to let me pass (on the canal path). Since she didn't have the manners or sense to actually face in my direction while saying same, I assumed she was talking to either the dog or the dog-and-bone and roundly ignored her.

Honestly, if you don't want to be treated like a complete cock-end, don't fucking act like one.
hirez: (Default)

(Likelihood of any of this working - slim)


Aug. 3rd, 2012 08:58 pm
hirez: (dissent)
You know, as J. Random Hacker, one gets used to the self-congratulatory wank that spurts out of Hackernews, anything brogrammer-related and the gak-fuelled 'rockstar' 'coders' who go off to work in banks.

Because I am at heart a gleefully malicious sort of bastard, this made me point and laugh. $440 million spunked away by some shit code gone over-centre and into some nightmare destructive feedback loop.

You know all that malarkey about being all hard and Klingon and testing being for the weak-spirited?

It's a joke, son.

[/Foghorn Leghorn]

On the other hand, one must congratulate the comrade-coder who was a deep cover operative for so long within the capitalist machine! This is how we shall destroy the forces of capital!
hirez: (Object)
Grass that wasn't 'genetically modified' unlikely to have spontaneously mutated and poisoned cattle. Well, any more than some grasses do anyway.

Most of the articles about this alleged incident are on sites with axes to grind and source the same Telly 'news' article.

In other news, things that are growing in the garden, other than weeds, now include wheat and oats. I am strangely pleased by this.

Most other things seem to have been terminally confused by the fucking climate.


hirez: (Default)

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