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 ]

Important Security Tips:

Always keep your account details safe.
Never disclose your login details to anyone.
Change your password regularly.
Should you suspect someone is using your account illegally, please notify us immediately.

[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: (safety chicken)
Because awkwardness I've been running a Kumbongleton rig built from parts I found under the sofa where the ferrets had hidden them. It's been mostly working, and mostly working far better when given 8Gb of memory. And, since Umbongleton (they drink it in Congleton) the new-package-upgrade-reboot loop is about a week long.

Compare and contrast with XP which stayed up for months at a time.


Because it's bloody Umbongleton, the last set of updated packages seemed to cause the thing to crash after about half an hour. I left it running memtest86 while I was at work, which seemed to show that it wasn't a memory problem. However it was still expiring with a dead screen + keyboard.

Because it's been a full-on sort of a week, it took me a few days to realise that, actually, I could still ssh into the thing, but giving X a shoeing didn't do anything. Also, it would happily stay up if I kept working on the thing.

(The clever children will be waaay ahead of me by now..)

It transpires that Umbongleton (which they drink in Congleton) and ATI (or AMD or whoever) graphics drivers have had a nasty bug since 2012 which makes a bugger of the display power-management.

You can 'fix' it with some xset commands on startup, but really.
hirez: (Information Hazard)
At about quarter-to-mumble this AM, the internet connection expired, which caused the usual amount of grousing.

It still strikes me as really quite something that I have a permanent (mostly...) IP connection into my house and it has never involved any of the traditional pissing about with BT screwing a half-dozen different boxes to the side of the cupboard under the stairs and demanding a sequence of forms, the least impenetrable of which being the RIPE-141.

I think I was one of the first set of people in the UK to have an ADSL line installed. One of the chaps at, er, Orchestream came steaming over and made it plain that I should sign up to this (free!) BT experimental service, even though it did require me to lie through my teeth about having Windows kit directly connected to a dialup.

When the engineers came, it soon transpired that most people turned out to be lying through their teeth about the state of their computers. They rolled their eyes a bit, surveyed the mess that was the telecoms provision at 465 Archway Road and left me with three boxes of varying sizes and a Permanent! Internet! Connection!

Then-work had a fantastically expensive 128k leased-line shared between a floor of coders and a floor of coke-hoovering hoorays not-coders.

I had, um, probably about the same sort of bandwidth, but all to myself. Truly I was living in the future. It was 1998.

* * *

I poked at the kit for a bit, realised that it was probably a decade since I bought any new network hardware, and it was likely high time I did something about the length of scruffy wire that I threw down the stairwell as a temporary measure in, er 2001.

So we went to out-of-town queueing and shouting facility at Longwell Green and bought an incinerator.

Then I backtracked, put a bag over my head so no-one would recognise me, and stole quietly into PeeCeeWorld for some powerline networking kit and the cheapest wireless router I could find. All a bit declassé, really. Working, though.

I think I shall be quite sad if my ancient (V2.0) WRT54G really has blown up, since I never did get around to having it OpenWRT with the thing. I'll give it a prod tomorrow once its had a rest and see if it responds.


Sep. 4th, 2012 04:53 pm
hirez: Humppa! (Humppa!)
hirez: (psyche-out (ii))
I don't know if it's some manner of snobbery-related false consciousness or (more likely) a complete inability to function like other people, but I must admit that them there poll results make for somewhat uncomfortable reading.

The lunch one isn't too much of a surprise, given that A Works with A Canteen is the sort of quaint affectation that one might see on an Ealing Comedy about people in flat caps waving spanners at that mythical creature the 'shop steward'. Or if not Ealing then BBC Light Entertainment from the seventies where everything was brown. I'm not about to advocate passing out AK-10x rifles in order to demand the return of Luncheon Vouchers (Although they actually never went away. I was presented with the things when on a learny-learny course the other year. I fully expected Dick Emery to lurch out the staff entrance of the M&S podule in Liverpool Street and set about me with a handbag), but I think that whole keyboard/sandwich thing is pretty fucked up. I recall it being seen as freakish behaviour from those bloody city types with their mobile telephones, rather than the norm.

For me, meals in front of the telly are just, ugh. Perhaps because I didn't have to deal with the 'please may I get down from the table?' malarkey - I recall blank incomprehension when relatives tried that. But then I tend to do blank incomprehension rather a lot when confronted with other people's expectations of arbitrary power structures. Perhaps because I don't think telly's that interesting by comparison. Perhaps because I am a grown-up and I have the choice between table and telly. Who can say?

There's a lot more wrapped up in this stuff than I envisaged. Interesting.
hirez: (psyche-out (ii))
"The English are a nation of scrap-dealers..."
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
There appear to be half-posts in my head about non-driving pivilege and Clarkson's odd response to the Sky malarkey, but as was pointed out on friday, I appear to be in the process of developing a rage-laser (for turning incoherent rage into cohered rage, which might be useful for cutting through a dense Bogon flux. Although I suspect powering the thing would turn out as messy as one of those orbital X-ray lasers the seppos were going to use in the 80s) so instead I shall admire my trousers.

Mostly I have been listening to amateur electronic noodling and Australian psych-rock. And why not.
hirez: (Hand-staple-forehead)
The smoking remains of Privilege Denying Dude has been rocking my white, male and cisgendered socks this weekend. A nerve accurately struck, I think.

The steampunk ATAT was pretty good, too.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
I'm sure there's a medium-format joke somewhere that would involve me banging on about how all Americans bear collective responsibility for the crazed actions of a small number of so-called 'science fiction' authors, some of whom I'm sure can write as well as their literary peers. It would probably also include a section on the irresponsibility of opening bookshops where children might wander in and become exposed their unfortunate ideologies.

However, I'm buggered if I can get the words in the right order, so you'll just have to think up something along those lines for yourselves.

Puppet, right? Either have significant whitespace, like the bondage-and-discipline languages or terminate your lines with semicolons like a proper grown-up's system-writing language. Actually, fuck it; make it look more like Python and less like Ruby.
hirez: (Pie!)
One of these days I will actually finish one of the Bento boxes from the splendid Japanese takeaway in Easton.

I'll just lie over here and move very carefully.

(End of whine. Oddly coincidental with being stuffed to the gills. Funny that.)
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: (Default)
I really should know better than to follow Mr Ducker's (patented) random links. Through a combination of (special) circumstances, I discover that The People feature in more than the one Whovian New Adventure nov. Bugger.

Comedy moment: I lost my GPS.

[ There would have been a poll here, but I ran out of inspiration and then prodded the wrong button in a fit of idiocy. ]
hirez: (irradiated)
So. Simply Saab, splendid spares suppliers, seem sorted. Sell self second-hand spark-box.

(That's quite enough of that. Although bonus points for commentary in similar vein.)

But... Sapristi nuckos! A migraine starts on just as I'm wheeling the bike out the door for the trek (haw! It's not. It's a Giant.) to Brislington.

Run to chemist, neck Imigran, wait in darkened room for nastiness to pass.

It doesn't. Although I can remember John Cusack now, so the worst must be past.

[FX: Swearing]

Some taxi-work, five minutes with a Torx bit and the 9k is running a lot better (ie - at all).

For entertainment value, I pull the ignition box to bits. The insides are somewhat scorched. (You can't quite see where the potting compound's gone carbonised and bubbly.)

Meanwhile, I now suspect that the smell of carbonised components works on electronic kit the same way that the smell of vom works on humans; when I go to wash the smell of circuit-death off my hands, the kettle starts to arc and emit smoke.

I should change my name to Neil.
hirez: (Challenger)
Might as well finish off the day with a filthy racket that suits my mood:


I'm fairly sure we've been here before, but it seems like a good idea again. Breakbeat drone-rock? Something like that. Defiantly lo-fi, too.
hirez: (dissent)
Anyone spot the Omron joke? No? Jolly good.
hirez: (SantaBot)
Escaped early from $work, where it has been far away feckwit week, clambered over the careless bags piled by people proceeding in a Christmas-homewards direction and found a bus at the end of it.

Bus bus bus it went up the road like a bus.

At the depot (good word, depot. You don't hear it much any more, and if you do it should be in a cockney accent from under a flat cap: 'Daahn ver depot, geezah') the bus is waved to a halt by a chap wearing an OpenBSD jacket. Apparently the bus we are on is about to explode and would we all like to sod off this one and pile on to the unmarked bus in front?

We duly pile.

There are six of us. On the allegedly exploding bus, we were arranged about the interior in a studidly careless manner. On the unmarked, cold and not-exploding bus, we arranged ourselves in exactly the same way.

(I lied about the OpenBSD jacket.)
hirez: (Box Frenzy)
If you're the offspring of a Goon Show enthusiast like me, the name 'spon' will resonate strangely. (You'll have to your own Seagoon routines, I'm feeling a bit dim today.[1]) Grandfather had a cow named Spon, and another called Platerack, but that's a different story.

Thus I was more pleased than most to discover Spon End and the associated website.

It appears the residents have never had to deal with the Spon Plague though.

[1] Probably for the best, since it would be about as bad as unfunny twits emitting lines from Python/H2G2/R&M/Fast Show/The entirely unfunny thing with the chins/Whatever the kids are 'down with' this week.[2]

[2] How long will we have to wait for the first painfully bad telly-thing featuring (whatever)-macros?


hirez: (Default)

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