hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
I'm probably going to do something crap and LJ-antagonistic like post a bunch of pictures to FB that no-one outside that horrible walled attention sink can look at. And indeed that no-one inside that horrible walled attention sink will look at. Or they'll look at them and it'll be as impenetrable as livecoding music.

EMFCamp2016 was utterly cosmic, once I'd got over the lack of sleep.

The badge seems to have one of every sensor, but also seems to crash micropython for a pastime. Although that mostly seemed to be a thundering horde problem followed by a (lack of) caching one. But there's probably not enough elbow room on the board to do it right or something.

I also have a Milliways coin, which has only taken oh-god-about-a-decade-and-a-bit.

Next one: https://wiki.sha2017.org/index.php/Main_Page

If you can't wait that long: https://bornhack.dk/
hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)

I am semi-actively considering both 'Exploiting codes-of-conduct for fun and profit' and 'Making life hard for the internet of rubbish things'
hirez: (psyche-out (ii))
For Fantasycon this year, I was mostly moving things from point (a) to point (b). It was jolly good fun, modulo Nottingham managing to have the most startlingly awful one-way system in creation. The big sign on the outskirts giving details of the four different radio stations which might emit 'traffic' 'news' (beep-beep yeah, etc) should have been a warning. The last time I saw something like that, we were out on the edge of Illinois where they have Weather of a rather more biblical nature.

The Notts uni campus is huge and pastoral and I could see why one might want to study there. It's also miles from bloody nowhere, which is a bit of a bind if you fancied sloping off for something that was not hotel or East Midlands Conference Centre grub. And if you did slope off and end up Somewhere, you'd have to fight The Traffic to get there.

The rest of the volunteering types were lovely, mind. I also accidentally a huge pile of books.

Next year, it's in Scarborough. Won't that be jolly if it's temporally (as well as obviously spatially) handy for Whitby.
hirez: (Default)

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

hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
EMFCamp2014 was an absolute blast. Hung around with splendid people, had a selection of daft ideas, drank beer and was the physical enactment of the code of conduct. (Or at least part of the team ditto.)

Now I have to sleep for a week.
hirez: (Riiight)
While having it multi-modal public transport in and around Antwerp(en) the other month, I discovered a thing called 'Lambic beer'. This is the sort of thing that would have been banned by 'elfandsafety' in this country within about thirty seconds of the widespread use of OrganoPhosphate/Chlorate agrochemicals in the post-war period, since it involves leaving pre-beer exposed to the elements in vast tanks downwind from lord-alone-knows-what. More or less.

While you can't easily buy the stuff in this country (modulo fruit flavours in the manner of 'novelty' dance records like T99 or Human Resource) you can get the stuff delivered from the depot. (At an only mildly eye-watering expense for the Fedex bit)

Wikipeejah is mildly sniffy about the stuff, but then that article was likely written by a deep-cover CAMRA operative.

Thus far we find that the Timmermans Lambicus Blanche is as pleasant as I recall and tastes of particularly refreshing and mellow champagne with an astringent finish.

I would imagine that Manly drinkers of Manly Stouts and Manly Porters would hate every mouthful, which is just fine by me.
hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)

You really should think about going.

Although, when I say 'go' I mean 'participate' since pottering about like a tourist means you miss two-thirds of the experience.

Oh. Wait. I wonder what a not-shit-twitter optimised for a hacker camp would look like?

Also. Someone persuade @tef to (re)submit his coding piece from EMFcamp.
hirez: (safety chicken)
Went out for real ale sampling with the chaps last night. It turned into drunken devops shouting ("I'll 'ave the feckin' lot of yer VMs all at feckin' once with me 'ead in a feckin' Ruby manual yer feckin' Gentoo-fondler!") after the second pint of Scruttock's Old Dirigible.

Then the internet went very 'Dreamytime Escort Agency Honda Acty outside Nicholas Parsons's house' which was rather tiresome.


Today I have mostly been bicycle repair-man for Ma. And indeed strimmer repair-man, thumping great plants in lumping great pots rearranging-man and thankfully tea-and-cake guzzling man.

A thing that I have been given is a trowel made by Pa from what I think was a pointy trowel not designed for levering things out of Cotswold Brash and what may (or may not) be a track-rod end.

Here is a picture:

I think it's a Landie part, but I'm probably wrong. I guess it could also have been off a Renault 16 or 18.

I also accidentally a story via SMS for my nephew. I am given to understand that it's going down well, if confusingly. I should probably archive it somewhere useful, just in case it becomes A Thing.
hirez: (dissent)

How fucking much?

And they've completely destroyed the character of the place. 'Planning permission for a porch' - well it serves you right for pulling down the old one, doesn't it? Granted it probably didn't need that much pulling, but it was an ideal place to store a couple of weeks' worth of logs. Apparently you can also install a second bog. I believe that should read 'replace the bog that you threw out during the alleged 'sympathetic modernisation''. Sympathetic to what, exactly? Seventies Svensk pr0n? And. See that bloody stupid 'island' thing in the alleged kitchen? There should a Kawa GT550 in that space.

Honestly, let some people have a nice house and they ruin it. Still, at least the telly is in the traditional corner.

(Actually, I would lay odds that property-developer chap has run out of money. Ha!)

For those new to this game, I used to live there. It was a bit of a tip, but it was our tip. Where 'our' parses out to 'Set of people who grew up locally and quite liked the idea of being able to stick around and, y'know, contribute to the rural economy', rather than let it all go a bit Sevenhampton where the majority of houses are now second homes and belong to some fucker off the telly, some fucker from a bank or some generic execu-twat. Their contributions to the rural economy amount to a monthly visit to the pub for a Sunday lunch and lording it over the proles who have to live in the council houses round the back of Winchcombe and/or picking up a bag of Fairtrade coffee from the M&S at Reading services on the way up of a Friday. Yes, I know the Cotswolds have been where London-based twats who've made a bundle have pitched up to buy (or build) something charming since just after the Great Fire, but it still doesn't make it easier to bear. Actually, it was probably the Romans that started the rot. After all, there's a mosaic in the shed that you'll find in the middle of the field to the left of the place. And you probably wouldn't be going up the M4 unless you were going to the Cirencester end of the Cotswolds. Presumably those going up the M40 to their weekend retreats after a hard week of commissioning shit monkey-tennis teevee get their provisions delivered by Ocado.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Oddly enough, the internet is filled with periodic tables of beer. It must be a growth industry, carefully hidden under the cat macros, pr0n, Top Gear torrents, Top Gear slash and loud, confident and wrong Linux weblogs.

Why isn't there an electric Caterham/Lotus Seven/Westfield? (In the motor-at-each-corner and exotic battery style, rather than lead-acid and milkfloat motor one.)
hirez: (pillock)
I would make a joke here about having watched restoration comedy and thought to myself 'Where are the bloody tapes and it's their own fault if they've not tested the DR plan.' but it was French and so not restoration.

Hey ho.

Cornwall's nice, though.

Mind you, we went into this Treen pub and was there a wee green bloke floating about on a commode? Was there buggery. Poor show.

The Barbara Hepworth exhibit in the big modernist building on the beach was all a bit Vermilion Sands.

Gug. I think I'm going to go and expire now.
hirez: (Default)
Homoeraticism - The variable beer-state between straight geezer and bi-curious. Usually seven pints, plus or minus two.
hirez: (Riiight)
I suspect the quality of my posting is going to make a sharp dive downhill given that I'm short productive work the rest of the year, so you'd best get used to random jabbering about cheese.

And this:

I was really quite surprised to be standing up and capable of getting a round in after being chucked out of the one pub this even. There's something rather pleasing about going "S'alright. I'm in the chair. What'll you have?"

I can't work out if I'm steeped in pub culture or just marinaded in it. Or just seriously drunk.

Let's go for option three, eh?
hirez: (Sweep alcohol)
The music for that effing Becks advert with the blokes is stuck in my head. It sounds like someone trying to be Wire.

I'll bet it tastes as repulsive as normal Becks, too. How do the industrial brewers manage to make all the lager you can find in this country so horrible? They must try really hard to find extra tat to shovel in so as to ensure a righteous hangover.

I mean, if I want a startlingly bad head and a worse arse, I'll go and find a Donnington pub rather than some trendy-yop bar.
hirez: (Riiight)

Drank beer. Ate food. Pottered. Jabbered about mechanical badgers, radiator automata and what might go into trouser soup.

I think I need a bit of a lie-down.

Excellent work all round.
hirez: (Radiation)
You can extract meanings, signs and portents from pretty much anything you want. I have cheerfully been doing that and writing about it since I was pointed at LJ and remembered the teachings of that well-known typing mistake, Spine Milligtna. So when I bang on about the universe somtimes giving you a clip round the ear and shoving you in the right direction, or sending you a Jeremy to perform much the same function, usually I'm right. Largely because it's my universe and I'd be a sad sort a bugger if I arranged one for my convenience, only for it to show me a mostly bad time.

So anyway. In 1990 or 91, The Neff were touring and played in Cheltenham. [livejournal.com profile] uk_jon (it appears they've installed a LJ winding-house or steam-telharmonium in New Jersey) and I stood at the back of the venue, drinking steadily and hating every second:

"Is this what goths listen to?"
"Seems like."
"Dear God. Who's round is it?"
"Yours. Ta."
(Or something a lot like that)

I went back home (London, then) and looked forward very hard indeed to KISS-FM's Wednesday night acid/techno programme.

In short: Neighbourhood of infinity.

A top pub

Dec. 6th, 2005 07:18 pm
hirez: (muddy)
The Halfway, Kineton.
hirez: (Default)
[ In which I over-analyse and/or wander about like a space-idiot assuming he's the only one this happens to. And indeed employs the patented grammar-mangle and sentence-press. ]

Up at half-six on Saturday to beetle into work so we can shut down the entire building. Things go swimmingly and I'm back in bed at about the time I'm usually crawling out on a weekday. Sunday was a slightly later start (nine) and not all the boxes came back. Several of the Beardian machines had been updated w/o running LILO before reboot. Oops. (Useless fucking toytown imitation of a real OS that it is.) Even more tediously, the lack of a proper breakfast, being basically knackered and having to sit at a funny angle due to half the lights not working triggers a migraine. I kick fuck out of a howling (no, really. It was. The re-power voltage surge had cooked it) KVM and sod off home in a foul mood for coffee, a full english, a handful of ibuprofen and Le Tour.

I can just about watch it, as long as things aren't moving too quickly. I'm also turned into Mr fucking tourette's, which was a great shame because modulo the getting up early it's been an interesting old weekend.

Two weeks ago, I'd been in receipt of a (presumably) drunken SMS from Chainsaw Ed Price. 'Ahaha, I'm up at Andy Mustoe's' (or somesuch) it had gone. Since I was festering in a tedious hotel room and bored enough to start playing with the Corby, I wrote back along the lines of 'Bastard. I wish I was too'. The next thing that happened was that Price rang me up and handed his phone to Mustoe, who asked me if I fancied pitching up at a barbie he was having in two weeks. It sounded like a top idea, and the fact that I'd entirely forgotten about the site power-down was largely irrelevant.

Y'see, some ten years ago I briefly shared a house with Andy, located in the startlingly picturesque village of Shipton Olliffe. It had belonged to his auntie and had changed very little from when she moved in just after the war. (I think at that time he was driving around in her old Morris Traveller) It was a particularly weird sort of time and I'd carelessly lost touch with the chap. I also had this stupid idea that I should escape from the mob of Stella-hoovering layabouts and bloody Inepte and a life that I could only cope with by drinking seriously every night to blot out the tedium by buggering off to London to seek my fortune and mix with the urban(e) types who were my notional subcultural peers. (Or something a lot like that. At the time, I think, it made absolute sense. Something one had to do if only to discover it was the wrong thing, but at least one knew. Like the previous year's attempt at the psychology degree.)

In that ten years, Andy had about doubled the size of the cottage. Where there'd been a single-person kitchen there's now space for a Rayburn (bastard!), mongo gas-range with wok-rocket (bastard!), Belfast sink (bastard!) and n-person kitchen table (double bastard with a twist of lemon!). There's a random sort of sun-extension thing with a dead Wurlitzer juke and his piano and guitars, and the garden now has two barbies (one for veggies, one for carnivores), a pond, two sheds, most of a deck and a bantam. And, rather than the slab of Stella and bag of Tesco Value veggie bangers I was expecting, there's Andy and a couple of his mates brewing up the sort of food that would make Martha Stewart shit herself with hatred and envy.

People turn up. Beer is drunk and food is consumed. I end up taking to a bloke who works at Badlands and is in a PeelBand (Longstone. They're on Ochre records and are very good in a much less annoying than Warp manner. I'm more than a little annoyed that they've managed to pass me by thus far.) before I'm dragged off to Shipton village hall by Mustoe to help him set things up for the band. Band? The daft bugger's gone and rented the village hall, got in some mates from Stroud to play and bunged a barrel of Jouster and two dustbins of nasty lager at the back of the hall for all+sundry to get stuck into. And indeed they do.

It was a shame to leave. I was having a lovely time with a couple of people I'd not seen for (mumble) years and several more complete strangers.

Some months ago, I was wondering out loud about social-life maintenance. That's how to do it. Andy's a muso by leaning (and a landscape gardener cum builder by trade) so I guess he thinks in muso terms. That was his version of a Vicarage Tea Party. I'll be along for the next one.


hirez: (Default)

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