Operation Enduring Statistic

I’m not one for numbers, but some of them are just too striking to be ignored.

Guess how many Brits died in WWII? A total of 450,400 of our military and civilians.  I heard that stat on Radio4 and it found it surprisingly low…so I did some digging. Given that the UK population in 1940 was 47.7m, that gives us a 0.94% death rate. Remember that.

So…to Iraq. I had to look this up. A survey in The Lancet says that 655,000 have died. Out of a population of just 27.5m.  Guess the death rate? That’s right! 4.36%. Yep. 4.36% versus a pathetic 0.94% in ol’ Blighty. Isn’t that just mind-fuckingly awful?

Just remember that next time you see George or Tony grinning like shot foxes.

Holy shit. I just bought a Mac.

I’ve just done something that surprised me.  It will suprise many of you that know me, too.

Ladies and Gentleman: this weekend, I purchased a Mac.  No, not a mac, a Mac.  What do you think I am?  (Don’t answer that.)

Redmond: when yours truly – lifelong Windoze fanboy – buys a Mac, you should know you’re in the shit.  Obviously not financially – because I only paid you for 1 XP licence and you’re absolutely rolling in cash – but spiritually, metaphorically and potentially in the shit.

I’ll let you know how it goes.  I’d write more now, but I just want to go stare at it and make cooing noises.

I just noticed a couple of things

Tonight I’ve been polishing off a bottle of red and ruminating about the state of all things.  Two issues are bothering me.

1. Why are the people who work in health food shops the most mishapped, pallid and woeful our society can muster?  I smell snake oil.
2. Why is it creepier that Jesus told Bush to invade Iraq, whereas it was God that told Blair to join in the fun?

Answers on a postcard, please.

Monikisms

I’ve been making a note of things that my pal Monika says that have me chuckling.

1. “Hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.” (meaning: very warm)
2. “Shut the front door!” (see also “mother trucker!” & “son of a biscuit!”)
3. “My dogs are barking!” (meaning: sore feet.)
4. “Two drinks away” (meaning: someone who could be convinced to partake in a homosexual act after consuming just a small amount of alcohol.)
5. “Stinkin’ clowncar” (meaning: rhyming slang for a Lincoln Towncar. See also Shaguar.)
6. “Roast beast” (meaning: roast beef)
7. “Duvvit” (meaning: duvet)
8. “Ginger pinchers” (meaning: those tongs you get in sushi restaurants for serving slices of ginger.)
9. “Wine down”(meaning: end of day drinking. See also “play it by beer”.)
10. “Beast beer” (meaning: any low-end beer brand which features an animal on the can. Normally a predictor of poor quality, although I hear good things about Moose Drool.)
11. “The DL” (meaning: to keep something on the ‘down-low’, i.e. not publicize it.)
12. “Car farm” (meaning: rural property with a large number of seemingly abandoned automobiles left out front.)
13. “Yard ape” (meaning: the kind of person who sits out on the deck overlooking their car farm whilst drinking a bottle of bud.)
    

A visit to the clap clinic

Yes, you read it right. Today I visited a clap clinic and by the end of this post you’ll know why.

Where to start? Well my 2-4 month trip to the States has taken a surprising turn. I’ve been behaving badly with a colleague (someone senior who I don’t report in to) and she has a rather strict door policy. “Show me your papers!”, she demands breathlessly. And a few dollars, some pee and a vial of blood really don’t seem to be a big sacrifice for a shot at sexing the most desirable woman I know.

So, after a choreographed mid-afternoon office exit maneouvre worthy of an espionage novel, we drive to the Planned Parenthood clinic. Crossing the sidewalk with her I begin to feel very self-conscious; I desperately hope that we don’t bump into anyone from work.

With some trepidation, we enter. M takes the lead and assertively notifies the receptionist of my presence. She seems keen and if this wasn’t a clap clinic, that would probably be quite endearing. If done a little less loudly.

The whole setup is designed to protect your privacy – you have to queue far back from the reception desk as not to overhear and the long counter is divided up by office cube-style vertical partitions. If they would only refrain from bellowing your (first) name across the room then it would all be fine.

Predictably, there’s a barrage of forms to fill in. I’m claiming to be an uninsured (albeit mature) student on an exchange programme; so they want my financials. My claim of a meagre $500 monthly stipend fools them and gets me the maximum discount bringing it down to $70. I could claim this back but we don’t have a company expenses code for clap clinics and I’m not minded to put it under “business meetings” because then I’ll have to name my co-worker… (It’s very much on the down-low.)

Anyhows, the forms are quite amusing. From the “how many?” and the “when did you start?” questions we get to the “Q. How do you protect yourself from STIs?” (I answered with a bashful “erm…” although I considered “lucky rabbit’s food suspended from cock-ring”. Note to L: that case of persistent thrush might actually have been myxomatosis.)

My favourite question: asking if I used a seatbelt. (Diligently, but rarely during sex.) Or whether I own a gun. (No, but I’ll buy one if the news is very bad.)

I handed the forms to M for her to fill in her details as nominated party. She put “friend” as relationship. Disappointed, I was tempted to prefix this with “sex”. But I’m getting way ahead of myself here.

Paperwork done, the people-watching starts. So does the judging. It’s alarming how quickly one jumps to conclusions based purely on first glances. I segment the waiting room into sluts, sex-pests and hookers before wondering how exactly I’m being perceived.

The mood is generally solemn, but M and I are joking and flirting which gets us some funny looks from the receptionist. (Who is extremely hot, by the way, although at that point in time I have never felt less interested in sex. Except possibly at funerals and in Asda.)

Pee is provided. A nice nurse explains what they’ll be looking for. (I was worried this bit involved horrendous instruments of torture and my man-piece. It did not.) Tests agreed, a second nice nursey takes some blood with an accuracy and competence the NHS can only dream of. And then I’m done. I whop out the Egg card, pay and wait outside for M who has collected the car. Well, I waited down the road outside a back clinic because that seemed more respectable.

At home, I shower 4 times and burn my clothes.

And the results? Well, I didn’t post this until I knew them — or I could have been setting myself up for an embarrassing blog entry. The all-clear is a relief. Spiraling towards 30 it does feel like I’ve somehow hit the reset button on the sexual odometer. Alongside “no car crashes/tickets/insurance claims”, “no fillings” and “no marriages”, my STI-free status feels like I’ve really achieved something.

I may frame the certificate.

Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a sexy colleague to be highly inappropriate with.

As a sop to my undiagnosed autistic tendencies, I’m going to be adopting a list-based format for the next few posts. Just so you know.

Anyhows, I’ve just been on a two-week field study in Milan and Barcelona. A great time was had, even if it was extremely hard work. Here’s my top 10 memorable incidents:

1. Getting stuck in an tiny ancient lift in a 19C office building in Barcelona. Having to be rescued by a girl using scissors.
2. Encountering a Barcelonan taxi driver who had tourrettes syndrome. We were so smashed when we fell into his cab that for the first bit of the journey, the strange animal noises (“mehehe mehehe!”) he was making seemed purely conversational and meaningful in some way. His condition only dawned on me the next day.
3. Acting as lesbian wingman to a bisexual colleague in a divey dyke bar. This, after getting denied access to a Milanese lesbian bar. (All part of the Italian lesbian outreach programme? New PR people required.)
4. Skinny dipping at midnight in the hotel’s rooftop pool and having to look my colleague in the eye the next day. (OK, I was in my pants, she was skinny dipping.)
5. Having to pretend to a contrite colleague the next day that I didn’t see anything. And not mentioning the fact that the pool was underlit.
6. Accidentally ordering a $90 ham platter for breakfast.
7. Marching out of a restaurant because of some stupid minimum-ordering thing.
8. Buying our (extremely) camp Italian interpreter a rose in a restaurant in order to demontrate just how un-homophobic I am.
9. Fending off our (extremely) camp Italian interpreter for the rest of the week. His alter-ego: “Lilly Labouche”.
10. A most memorable and delightful Sunday lunch in a sunny Barcelonetta. (I’d like to recommend Bar Mut & Agua amongst others. But definitely not Moo. See 7.)

Chip-n-pin whores

Chip and pin has infected all our lives. It’s a necessary evil. But it’s also shit and utterly inconsistent. It’s so unusable it makes me want to cry all the fluid out my body. So, for the benefit of the mindless fleshbags who design the chip-n-pin terminals, here are 5 usability heuristics that you shouldn’t fuck with unless you want me to get all drunk and aggressive.

1. The card slot needs to be obvious. I recommend shaping the card slot as something anatomical that catches the eye.
2. When you’ve rammed your card home, the terminal needs to show grateful it is. I’m thinking a green light, perhaps a chirpy meep and maybe also a lustful wink.
3. When you plug your numbers in, it would be nice if it made a happy bleeping noise upon every keypress.
4. Pressed the OK button without entering 4 digits? An unhappy bleeping noise is what’s required.  High tech, eh?
5. Transaction finished? To save Tracy/Jamilia/Uneque from have to say “please remove your card” upwards of 250 times a day, how about actually getting the machine to move the card? Pop it up like a piece of toast in a Morcambe and Wise skit? WHY NOT?

Make it happen people. The status quo is a festival of idiocy!

Isokon oddity

Went for a wander last night, up to Hampstead to cross one building off my interesting-things-to-see-in-North-London list. I’ve always felt the Isokon Building was one of the most visually appealing structures, and certainly my favourite bit of modernist architecture within 10 miles.

So, there I was, standing on Lawn Road papping away with my wide-angle lens when an old lady wanders in-frame with her shopping. I politely put my camera down (she wasn’t very modernist) but instead of passing through she came over to quiz me about my intentions. Having satisfied her that I wasn’t some kind of opportunistic property re-developer or axe murdering Al-Qaeda [1] type, we got chatting about this fascinating building and its history.

To cut a long story short, I got invited in for a glass of wine and a chat. Although it’s only a tiny studio flat, it was devastatingly stylish. I hope I have such a good sense of design at 81. I don’t want to invite a burglary so will refrain from mentioning the original artwork on the walls.

All in all, a serendipitous and interesting evening.

[1] It’s just occurred to me that the CIA should have figured out much earlier that Al-Qaeda were a threat…aren’t we all taught that the letter U always follows Q? An absolute giveaway I’d have thought.

Today’s neat-o browser trick

Next time you’re on a long webpage that you’ll be scrolling down whilst reading…hit the space bar. Neat, huh?

Works with Firefox & Safari. Also Internet Explorer. Meh.

If you love your iPod, set it free.

I’ve had an ipod for about 18 months. Perhaps surprisingly for a gadget fiend, this was my first mp3 player. Of course I’d been aware of them since the “Rio Player” back in ‘99 but I suffer from a laughably protracted gadget decision-making & buying cycle.

Pod and I have had a tempestuous time together – although we have just stumbled upon some stability. A potted relationship history:

• Bought in April 2006 before I started spending my working week away from my mp3 collection.
• Almost instantly sent back due to disappointing sound quality. Remedied through some decent replacement headphones.
• iTunes on the PC was such an absolute travesty that it almost went back again, until I discovered Anapod Explorer which allowed me to negotiate directly with my neatly categorised collection of mp3s rather than having to go via the the mangling medium that is iTunes. Worth the $25 at the time, I felt.

But I was frustrated by my inability to update my ipod from anywhere other than my “home” PC. No good if you’re staying in London all week, ripping entire discographies down from bittorrent using your idiot neighbour’s unsecured Wifi connection. (Yes, I’m speaking to you, Mr Netgear of Kentish Town.) Schlepping my ill-gotten gains back home on a memory stick before being able to update my Pod seemed entirely pointless but unfortunately a necessary exercise.

And then something great happened. I discovered Rockbox.

Rockbox is a completely different operating system for your iPod. (Works on quite a few other mp3 players, too.) It’s been a revelation and I wish I’d seen it sooner.

A summary of benefits:

• A smug sense of satisfaction knowing that I’m well and truly out of the clutches of Steve Jobs and the music lobby. My ipod is now mine and I can do with it what the hell I want.
• The ability to update my mp3 collection from any machine I can cram a USB cable into. Heck, I even store my mp3 ripping software on my ipod in case I want to rip on the road. It just functions like a big phat 60gb USB memory stick.
• Nice fade up/down effect when you pause, un-pause, or turn it off.
• Freedom to play lots of different formats (mp3 & 4, audiophile flac, lovely ogg, even vile wma.)
• It uses folders! Just like my mp3 collection! So whilst I have tidied up the tags, it’s considerably quicker to get to stuff.
• Gapless playback. If you listen only to popular young people’s music, this might not be a problem. But when you’re listening to a Bach Magnificat or an opera the micro-stutter between tracks really irks.
• If you’ve got a microphone, you can use it as a capacious dictaphone that creates mp3s. (Apparently with a decent mic you can do good gig recordings, too.)
• Almost infinitely expandable and update-able.

There are a team of lovely geeks working on Rockbox, even as we speak. It gets better over time. I can update the software easily and for free. Or extend it with many weird and wonderful things – such as a ZX Spectrum emulator. (I played Chuckie Egg on the train this week and it put a proper nostalgic grin on my face.)

A few downsides:

• You can’t play any music you bought off iTunes. But that serves you right for being conned into buying a licence to play rather than the real deal – suckerz!
• It can’t cope with album art as of yet, but that doesn’t really bug me so much.
• The default “skin” is rather ugly, but changing it to something more pleasant is easy. And when you get bored, you can change it again.
• You lose the standard contacts and calendar. I’m sure there are open source replacements but I never used them anyway.

So there you have it. Oh, did I mention you can play Doom, too?