Oliver Kamm's latest post about Paul Foot is stonking. One sign of Kamm's return to (literally) forensic form is the proprietor's reponse to the “suicide commenting” from Chris Lightfoot that immediately follows the 'Blog entry I link to. I'm sure that, having regained my approval, Oliver can now rebuild his self-esteem and learn to love again.
I think they mean that chimpanzees also find yawning infectious, but it's interesting all the same.
Lately, the number of unique visitors to PooterGeek has settled into the low hundreds. Unfortunately this increase in traffic necessitates small changes in the previous free-and-easy regime here. As part of this process (of improvement) I would like readers to take a moment to fill out the simple registration form below. All data will be treated in the strictest confidence. Thank you in advance.
PooterGeek brings you extracts from the government's new terrorist advice pamphlet.
[Requirements: tin buckets, plastic bags containing sufficient sand to half-fill each receptacle]
Distribute the buckets around your home at points located near news sources. At the first indication that you might be exposed to threats to your way of life from self-proclaimed genocidal extremists insert your head into the nearest bucket and pour the contents of the bag down the back of your neck into the bucket until all remaining space in the container has been filled.
[Requirements: white adhesive tape, posters]
If war is declared against a murderous dictator, apply the tape diagonally from corner to corner of each window in your house, in each case using it to secure in place a poster bearing the legend “Not In My Name” or “50 000 DEAD?”.
[Requirements: placard, TV camera crew]
If, during the liberation of oppressed coloured people, you find it necessary to draw the attention of the authorities to the intense personal suffering this is causing you, do not deploy distress flares. Instead, walk out into a city street to a designated assembly point and raise aloft a banner carrying the words “BUSH=HITLER”. Media outlets will send help immediately.
[Requirements: transistor radio]
Otherwise stay indoors and listen to BBC Radio 4. If four days go by without John Humphrys denouncing the war then you must assume that London has been lost to a nuclear attack.
[Thanks to Leasey]
My street is full of Guardian-readers. I have leafletted it many times for the Labour Party and rolled my eyes at the windows full of anti-war posters and photocopied invitations to “subversive” gatherings of poets and “thinkers”. I've tried hard not to get into arguments about pre-emptive military action and top-up fees, but I just want to scream at them: “You aren't progressives; you're political prudes! Really doing the right thing makes you feel dirty.” Middle-class people don't like getting their hands dirty. (That is why, for example, I pay my taxes. Dedicated professionals can then continue to kill or imprison crazed murderers and rebuild remote village schools on my behalf.)
There's a token working-class bloke living near the main road. He had a “Support Our Troops” Sun centre-spread up during the Iraq war and a cross of St. George hanging out of his upstairs window during Euro 2004. I think he's currently telling east Cambridge to reject the EU constitution. He probably votes Tory. I wonder if he would have put up the pro-war poster if he knew then what we know now.
I overheard the following through an open, gentrified front door while walking home yesterday. An early-middle-aged drabbie was calling up to her husband, “There's a spider down here that I wouldn't mind if you killed!”
When they dug That Man out of his spider hole I “didn't mind” so much that I put up my first non-Labour window decoration. It was a picture of Saddam with his face crossed out in red ink, taken from the front page of Time magazine.
There might have been some naked dancing as well.
I'm back, but I won't be doing much 'Blogging because I'll be spending lots of time at a conference over the next two weeks.
It's simple.
If high school nerd and all-round misfit Anthony Michael Hall doesn't hack the Pentagon mainframe in 24 hours, maverick pilot Tom Cruise won't be able to launch his fighter-bombing raid with musclebound, homo-erotic foil Val Kilmer in time to stop half-Russian, half-South African drug dealer Joss Ackland from beating the truth out of battle-hardened Vietnam veteran ex-boxer Sylvester Stallone.
If Stallone cracks then he will blow Eddie Murphy's cover and his white, but borderline-suicidal and strangely accented, rookie partner Mel Gibson won't be able to find the serial killer who's out to assassinate Molly Ringwald before she has time to overcome her teenage angst and be made over from awkward geekiness by her friend Melanie Griffith who is actually her older self who has travelled back in time from the future so that she can ensure that Melanie meets and marries Michael J Fox instead of Emilio Estevez who will grow up to be ruthless Wall Street businessman Michael Douglas.
Molly can only meet Fox at the school prom if Kevin Bacon and Patrick Swayze succeed in teaching him to dance and in stopping the townsfolk from being taken in by superficially well-meaning (but actually bigoted fundamentalist Christian) new mayor J T Walsh who not only wants to close down the steelworks, where welder and nightclub entertainer Jennifer Beals works, but ban dancing throughout the county as well.
Will they make it before the helicopter explodes, killing the cute bear-like creatures who have lived in peace on the wooded planet for centuries, unaware that Chewbacca is their father?
Apparently, when I got back from a curry in London and wrote that “One Last Mission” spoof at one a.m., I misspelled “enrolment”. Thanks, Dad.
One thing I didn't mention when I joined the rest of the 'Blogging world in discussing the UN's development index was that Sierra Leone is still the least developed country on the planet.
I like watching Right-wingers flip between saluting Singapore as an “Asian tiger” and squirming at its cramping nannyism. Lately, as this week's Economist reported, the city-state has been doing its best to persuade the rest of the World that the country that banned oral sex between consenting adults and the sale of the magazine Cosmopolitan is reforming. For example, you can now buy (sugar-free) chewing gum (if you register with a pharmacist first). And they are becoming more relaxed about homosexuality “after researchers found that cities with high concentrations of gay residents tend also to be centres of innovation”. Some restrictions on bungee-jumping and busking have also been eased.
I'm taking the weekend off from 'Blogging. Go out, people, and hug a stranger.
PooterGeek?
No one's called me that in a long time.
Yeah. We know. How does it make you feel to hear it?
It's another man's name. Listen, friend, if you want to ask me about enrolment do it now. My office hours are for students.
You know that's not why I'm here. There's an election coming up. You know what that means.
Yeah. Too much empty commentary. Too many wasted words.
This isn't a job for Instapundit. “Heh” won't cut it. You're a maverick, Pooter. You always were. We need someone to go in quiet, make 'em laugh, then hit them with the killer blow. Don't you sometimes wonder if you've still got it?
Not while I'm conscious, buster.
Remember when you took down Mr Dave without a shot being fired? I bet you do. They still talk about it back at the academy. I bet you remember the sweet taste of victory. I bet it tasted sweeter than those post-seminar vodkas you're having one too many of these days.
And I remember when it all went wrong. I remember when the comments and emails came in so fast I didn't know where to start. I remember when I lost her to that, that keyboard.
close up of Counsell's face—computer cooling fan blades cast spinning shadows across his sweating brow—the tumbling digits of a Webpage hit counter fade in—the sound of computer keys tapping grows louder and louder—we hear the phrase “you've got mail” repeated ever more rapidly, delivered by a female voice rising in pitch and menace—cut back to university office where Counsell grips desk and wipes forehead
I've got a life now, Mister, and I'm not exchanging it for some transient online celebrity.
We've got the old team back together. Berlinski's in. Levy's on board. Garrard. Kingston. Duff. Timbeaux. Reel. Maoi. You're the last piece of the puzzle.
I don't care if you've got Norman goddamn Geras riding shotgun. I remember when he started to ask questions. I remember when the burnout did for Anthony… Every hour of every day they're clicking, all over the World—content, content, content. All they want is content. It never stops…
Scared you can't cut it any more? Scared there might be a young pretender out there, with a faster quip, a faster argument, scared there might be a faster googler? It's nothing to be ashamed of.
Your time is up, my friend. I've got business to attend to.
That's my card. Keep it next to the Stolichnya, old timer. You never know when it might come in handy.
Get out of my office. Now.
[Picks up business card. Taps it against fist. Tosses it in bin.]
I'm on a roll this week. I've been banging my head against a piece of code the past couple of days—until four o'clock Thurs, when my officemate and I went down for tea. One coffee and a Cornetto™ later, back at my desk, I nailed the bug. And I've just got back from a curry in London with a couple of old lab mates. One of them is going to set her research assistant onto an experiment I suggested as soon as she moves to her new lab in Sweden.
In other science news, monkey walks like human, Stephen Hawking admits he was wrong about black holes, and Mars found at South Pole.
[Reader, stick with the Hawking story to the very end, especially if you are Judith. You'll be amused to read what was at stake in Hawking's bet with his fellow physicist.]
I had an idea at work yesterday. This is worthy of comment because few of my ideas survive beyond five minutes of my examining them in daylight; next to none survive my explaining them to colleagues.
Philosophers, historians, and sociologists of science often, but not always, subscribe to one of a limited range of theories about how science progresses. Scientists themselves usually don't. They do, however, encourage the sorts of tweedy boys I listed to get the wrong idea about the way science works because scientists like to tidy up or glamorize their thought processes retrospectively. In a microscopic attempt to put the record straight, and without going into specifics, I'm going to explain honestly how my poxy little idea was born.
The Campus librarian circulates a list of scientific papers and, occasionally, newspaper/magazine articles that she thinks the locals will be interested in or that locals have written. Yesterday it included a paper with an author whose name I recognized. The authors of the paper had done a big computer analysis of lots of biological data. It immediately struck me that the analysis was relevant to a question that an experimental (non-computer) biologist had been wrestling with—in fact he had asked me in the past to look out for publications of a related, but different, type and let him know if I found one.
So I phoned the experimentalist, who is a full professor at one of the top three scientific universities. We didn't piss about with all that “how are you?” bollocks. Within about ten minutes he had run me through the results and implications of about two years worth of painstaking laboratory work and I'd directed him to a tool to analyse another side-experiment of his. We also talked about my idea.
The paper I had found wasn't what the experimentalist had been looking for, but I pointed out that there was a technique in existence which could be used to investigate another related phenomenon. “Was it a question worth asking?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, and (to paraphrase) “bugger me if that technique wouldn't be useful for another problem I'm interested in.” (At the end of the conversation he did ask me if I'd found myself another job yet, but that was the extent of the smalltalk)
I am pretty sure, that, if I can find the time to pursue it, this idea will lead, in turn, to another interesting paper. It should answer a simple, but subtle question. Even if the answer is ambiguous, it might still be worthy of some public discussion. Will it cure cancer? No. Will lead to a vaccine against HIV? No. Will it get me another publication? I hope so. 1.7 people will read that publication.
Tweedy types, note: I wasn't thinking about something else; I wasn't lying in the bath; I wasn't inspired by a suggestive visual representation or analogy. Of course, if my idea hadn't been a poxy little one, but something of world-changing significance, by the time I was ready to collect my Nobel Prize I'd have invented a pleasing little domestic myth involving my burning my hand on a stove and watching a bubble of skin form, and it reminding me of the opening of a particular protein structure, and my immediately beginning to wonder if there was some way such a “blister” could be “lanced” using molecular tweezers… You suckers would have believed it and anyone who knew my field would be muttering “bullshit” under their breath during my prize-winning lecture.
I'd just like to begin today by saying thank you on behalf of the people of India, Egypt and Kenya to the government of the Philippines.
Today, 21Jul04, is the national day of Belgium.
Courtesy of the Anonymous Economist, here's a short, sharp, myth-cracking article from the New York Times opposing a return to the draft in the USA: a professional soldier writes in praise of the professional soldier. Read it before it goes subscription-only.
Our Man in Washington sent me a typically thoughtful email about the differences between US and UK attitudes to party politics the other day. I want to write about what he said in it at some length—with my “serious” hat on—but that requires concentration and some work-free time. Right now, I need to consult you people about something more pressing.
The Genome Campus's wittily named canteen, “the DiNA”, has begun selling a new range of crisps, or “chips” as you would probably call them on your side of The Pond. These “snacks” are “inspired by the colour and passion of Latin America” (I read from the wrapper). The crisps are rather more unfortunately named than the place flogging them. I want you to imagine going up to the counter and saying, “Could I have a round of the BLT sandwiches, an apple juice, and a bag of Latinos, please?”
Is it just me or have some marketing gonks been very silly indeed? (At the risk of sounding even sillier, the “Latinos” themselves are rather tasty—mmm, “Sour Cream and Sweet Pepper” flavour.)
So, my fellow Anglophones, can you see “Latinos” catching on in North America? Are they the sort of thing that US tourists will buy to take home so their friends can also laugh at the packaging? Do tell.
“Sorry. We're all out of Sour Cream Latinos, sir. We've got some packets of Fried Chicken flavour African-Americans though.”
This reminds me of those long-gone days when Michael Jackson was blacker than me and his fans were madder than both of us. Jackson wrote the song Billie Jean about a stalker of his who clambered over a wall, chased him round his swimming pool, and claimed that she was carrying twins—only one of which Jackson had fathered.
A sovereign state holds undivided jurisdiction over all persons and property within its territory. No other nation may rightfully interfere in its domestic affairs.
More: What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?
Roper: I'd cut down every law in England to do that!
More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country's planted thick with laws from coast to coast—man's laws, not God's—and if you cut them down—and you're just the man to do it—d'you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake.
Let the winds blow.
Both normblog and The Daily Ablution currently have posts up about the United Nations Development Programme's chart of “most developed” countries. A commenter at The Ablution points out that all six of the top six most developed countries are constitutional monarchies. Stephen K will be pleased.
Research brings us more evidence that healthy people are healthier and that the rich are getting richer.
Some of my earliest memories are of watching Apollo missions on television. I used to collect PG Tips picture cards of the space race. At infants school, every day that I could, I wore a blue cardigan with an embroidered lapel badge saying “Junior Astronaut”. Even grotty little jpeg pictures like this still make me gasp. If I'm a trillionaire in 2020, I'll be booking a berth to the big ball of cheese.
In an effort to keep PooterGeek ahead of the rest of the 'Blogging competition I bring you a new feature: “Pooter's Futures”—stories obtained anything up to twelve months in advance using tachyon-based Web time-travel technology.
Following his refusal to accept his own resignation as Palestinian leader, Yasser Arafat today took himself hostage. He has released photographs to the media in which he is seen brandishing a copy of The Ramallah Echo in one hand and a hacksaw in the other. Speaking through a megaphone from his compound, he threatened to behead himself “or someone of very similar build” if Israel did not take down the West Bank security fence. He said he would then release the video to the Internet the moment working drivers for his graphics card became available. Claiming simultaneously that his martyrdom would inspire the Palestinian people to rise up to overthrow the Zionist Entity and that he sadly regretted that he had no control over the terrorist organization holding him captive, he told the Israeli Prime Minister that Israel's government had one week to respond to his demands before he permanently denied Sharon the satisfaction of ordering Arafat be executed.
Following Manchester United's 0-3 shock home defeat by Newcastle last Saturday, both opposition leaders have continued to call for Tony Blair's resignation. Blair had made repeated public statements before the match that, given Newcastle's form, it would probably be all over for them “within 45 minutes”. Conservative leader Michael Howard said that Blair's team had entered the game under the completely false belief that Man U represented a real threat. Howard who had previously placed a £100 bet on the Reds at odds of 7/2-on claimed that, had he been aware of the flaws in Alan Hansen's report on Newcastle's defence, he “wd hve pt his mney on the Grdie bstrds”. A spokesperson for Ladbrokes refused to comment. After the result, Liberal Democrat leader Charles Kennedy recorded two versions of a party election statement about the game: one, praising Newcastle's “inspired performance under difficult circumstances”, to be shown in Newcastle's natural constituency in the north east of England and a second, claiming that Manchester United had been “robbed”, to be broadcast in the south of the country and in mainland China.
A single second-hand Minuteman intercontinental ballistic missile was today located by American weapons inspectors in western Iraq, hidden under the suspiciously large rug where former president Saddam Hussein habitually parked one of his five armoured Winnebagos when holidaying in the region. Asked about the find, during the seventh month of his trial for crimes against humanity, Mr Hussein confessed to having heard and been puzzled by the many loud banging noises and jets of vented fuel vapour. Apparently they had disturbed his caravanning trips to that site for the best part of five years. He thanked the prosecution for finally putting his mind at rest.
Popular filmmaker and buffoon, Michael Moore was shot and killed while addressing a rally for sufferers from Veracity Deficit Disorder from the second-floor balcony of a branch of the US fast food chain “Dunkin' Donuts” in Memphis today. Speaking from his coffin he denied widespread accusations in the Right-wing 'Blogosphere that he was in fact alive and that his apparent demise had been staged as a publicity stunt. Moore blamed his assassination on a plot involving agents of the House of Saud acting under instructions issued by the recently defrosted head of Walt Disney and added, “George Bush was probably implicated somewhere too,” but he hadn't “figured out how exactly yet”. He added that a new “director's cut” DVD of Farenheit 9/11 will go on sale this week, featuring his own commentary and 12 inches of previously unseen footage.
Trust me, I didn't set this up as some kind of parody.
The Kerry and Kamm question here seems to have settled down into a reasonably good natured discussion about my being an irritated fan and the difficulty of inferring foreign policy intentions from campaign rhetoric. Over on the corresponding entry at Harry's Place, posters going by the names of “Lenin”, “Trotsky”, “Krupskaya”, and “Socialism In An Age of Waiting” are still bickering—to the tune of 28 comments so far. Kerry's name has appeared once.
“Are you the Internet People's Front?
“Fuck off!”
“What?”
“Internet People's Front! We're The People's Front of the Internet! Internet People's Front, God!”
If you want to see them really go at it check out this post about the Muslim Association of Britain and the British National Party—one-hundred-and-ten posts today and counting.
A popular, pro-war, Left-wing 'Blog called “Harry's Place” linked to PooterGeek this morning and the number of hits I'm getting is scary. It's lucky you're not here to download images or I'd be afraid of exceeding my bandwidth limit.
Here is the follow-up to the 'Blog entry Harry pointed at (posted before Harry linked to my original). Here is my normblog profile. Here is the infamous post about “G”. Here is Tony Blair's Independence Day address to the American people. Here I am on the streets for Labour. Here is a leaked Butler inquiry transcript. Here is what I look like. Here is the last bit of typical, topical PooterGeek 'Blogging I did.
I feel like Woody Allen in reverse lately. I do middle-class observational comedy and people only ever seem to appreciate my serious stuff.
I've both praised and mocked Tom Watson MP in my time, but he deserves recognition for his part in Labour's holding off half of the entire Liberal Democrat party machine in a by-election on the day after the Butler report, and he deserves congratulations for earning his spangly new award. Nice work.
Thanks to Nicholas and Hind for listening to my woes and cheering me up Friday evening at Nick's impressively well-attended party. Hind told me that one of her friends had come along to my last gig in Brighton and liked it so much he bought the CD. Nicholas told me, to my surprise, that I might yet win my before-the-war £20 bet with him over how long it would be after the start of hostilities in Iraq before national elections took place in the country, but also took pleasure in my having to pay for expensive Islington hippie fare because he threw his party in the wholly organic Duke of Cambridge “gastropub”. [Har har, Nick, it's called the “Duke of Cambridge, but it's in London. Damian will have to schlep down to The Smoke and subsidize designer farms. Très drôle!] Worse, I had to admit grudgingly that my salmon was superb. Overpriced of course.
Nicholas Grassly works for the United Nations.
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