Voting

We've got the local councillor and the European Parliament elections here tomorrow. I'll be honest and say I'm thinking of voting UKIP. Taking their stated aims at face value and remembering all politicians lie is the key to my decision-making process. I'm all for saving the money currently used to prop up the economies of new entrants to Europe and helping Britain first.

Incidentally… No, not incidentally, call me a racist and we'll have an argument.

Mine this time will be a protest vote. It doesn't matter if you consider UKIP to be a bunch of racist, sexist, lying, self-serving scumbags, the alternatives here are just not palatable – and all parties have their rebels. A few elections ago, when seemingly every voter and their dog catapulted green issues into the spotlight, I was one of those idealistic box crossers. It seemed to make a difference then, so why not now?

Aside from that aberration I've been a lifelong Liberal/Liberal Democrat party voter, even member for a couple of years. Disillusion is now the order of the day, centred on their inability to organise any presence at all in this voting district despite my previous attempts at engagement – my time utterly wasted.

After this year's count and another failure, I WAS considering sending an email to the local LibDems party leader, to twist the 'I told you so' knife… but that just wouldn't be fair. Blogging and talking about it at my ADN account are.

After the debacle of the last Labour governments' repeated waste and stealthy destruction of our safe financial future; the Conservatives' unholy alliance with the LibDems and their accelerated destruction of our safe financial future, and the futility of voting Green this time around, what's left?

To be fair the 2 local Conservative councillors are nice guys, approachable, and they regularly turn out for local events. A part of our community. But voting for 'em? No.

Oh, and my perception of the Green Party is that they're trying to save the planet. An admirable thing to do even in the face of vested interest, but… We've already had 3 identical leaflets of theirs delivered. My emailed observations that they were wasting our precious resources but were at least doing better than the LibDems was returned to me as undeliverable.

So, back on track, to where this started, a UKIP protest vote?

What the hell am I protesting ABOUT – why this stream-of-consciousness claptrap?!

Something. Dunno.

Hand of shame

I have, like the vast majority of humans and humanoid creatures on this planet, a right hand. I'm naturally left-handed but the right is used frequently. Doors, steering wheel, scissors, shaking others' hands… though the list is not endless, 'versatile' is a fair description

My right hand has a special purpose, a now-open secret going back nearly 10 years…

My wife hasn't picked the phrase 'Hand of Shame' randomly, nor was it chosen by accident. Not really.

The first time was on holiday/vacation – a cruise down the River Nile. The second on our Honeymoon, at the Blue Waters Resort, Antigua. When our first daughter arrived we had a brief period of respite, which ended a couple of years after a very successful and mercifully-brief potty training period.

It's a small hand, almost unnaturally small for a man. It's matched very well indeed to its companion. It's called upon to go to places a man's hand ought not to fit – in short, it's likely more versatile than yours. Unless, that is, you can play the piano or do impressive prestidigitation. In which case mine's floundering in your right-man-hand's wake.

Now, do you recall I mentioned it's used for shaking hands? At this point you should engage your imagination…

A few minutes ago, with a tiny amount of assistance from the writer, and with no safety net, it unblocked our toilet.

I haz Laphroaig

This morning I badly needed a decongestant, so the timing of the gift could not have been more appropriate. Purists (and those who abhor the practise, however infrequent, of drinking alcohol before 10am) look away now…

I had it with hot water, maple syrup (the squeezy bottle of honey had solidified due to lack of recent usage,) sugar and a few drops of lemon juice (yup, Jif, from a bright yellow squeezy plastic bottle.)

And it was lovely. Please disregard the fact that I’m currently sat here with Earex drops in both ears to hopefully clear the temporary deafness, and both ears are plugged with toilet paper (there’s no cotton wool in the house.)

Laphroaig is a fantastic drink. It takes time. It’s best approached along a long and winding path. I confess I worked my way up through a lot of the blended Scotches, through the easy-on-the-palate single malts, and thought Talisker was the pinnacle of Scots’ liquid refreshment achievement, until I found Laphroaig. I’m not a drinker, it took a *serious* amount of time.

Incidentally, my previous Scottish pinnacle, ‘Irn Bru’ has now, though marginally, been beaten into third place.

The best summary I’ve heard of Laphroaig so far from a drinker of blended whiskies: “Ugh, it tastes like medicine!” *Medicine?* That works for me, and has in the past been an often-used ~~excuse~~ reason for getting the glass out. Forget Cask Strength and other marketing ploys designed to extract the unwary buyer’s money… The best Laphroaig by a long distance was the 15-year-old, now sadly not marketed.

I was introduced to it (thanks ‘Bob’ the builder) on a cruise down the Nile. Transported in so many ways to a more relaxed world (for society’s elite of course) and broad as the following statement is, I really cannot think of any combination of 2 things that, when combined, are more redolent of the luxury I imagine existed in the bygone age visitors to Egypt expect to encounter.

Computer book required

I don't read enough. I bought 3 novels a few months ago with the intention of making time. Of course it didn't work! To help speed things along I'm thinking of narrowing my focus somewhat – to something I'm certain can start this process off. At the dawn of the UK's home computer revolution I bought a book about computers.

A key phrase from it still resonates: something like "computers are fast rule following idiots", then the obligatory "garbage in equals garbage out." It seems that those words are both truer than ever and at the same time subject to disproval based on what we see every day. But that's a topic for another time…

I'd like to re-acquire a copy of the book.

A quick trawl through the histories of various computers and computer companies from that era indicates a publishing date after 1977, and before 1982. It's a fairly big window given the massive progress being made at that time, so how can I be sure?

Well, 1977 as I'm certain the Tandy TRS-80 was mentioned in the book, as was the Apple ][. 1982 because when my first computer (a 1K RAM Sinclair ZX81) arrived my focus narrowed from the previous theoretical 'what if' to the more practical 'eeek, what now?!'

I wonder, can you help me find it?

Some help:

It's heavily slanted towards the U.S., relating to both that country's computing history and its then-contemporary devices. That's not surprising.
It has a picture or a photo of a computer on the front.
The colour beige or orange features predominantly on the cover.
it's the same size as a thick novel.
Er… I know it's not much help!

So, how about it? Have you got what this quest needs?

Not a blogger

I'm not a blogger, not really. Why? I have a blog, I post stuff to it, I have extended periods of time without activity (in the blog and real life.) So, why do I consider myself not a blogger?

I arrived on the Internet in 1997 – at a time when the term 'Information Super Highway' was still in common use, and before it was referred to humorously (but accurately) as a series of tubes. I'd spent around the previous 15 years messing about with computers but electronically-isolated from the rest of the world. BBS' were for Californians and graduates of MIT, obviously. The UK, as far as I was concerned, was isolated and that was fine with me.

People for whom the Internet has always been a part of their life, and who may have been the merest of glints in their parent's eyes when I stepped out into the slow lane of Information Super Highway, may grasp what I'm trying to say but not actually relate to it. That's fine. Anyone of my generation or older (cringe) may share the same perspective. This one:

I don't write for an audience.

Though this statement is demonstrably not true given the fact that my new posts automatically notify a couple of social networks and I've an RSS feed, the only clarification I can give is this: I don't write for a big audience.

Hello.

Local politics

If you abhor politics in all its forms look away now. This is an edited repost from 2012 – written at a time when the illusion my vote could change things, lots of things, had been bent out of shape. It might help your decision to click (or not) if you know I live in the UK. An interesting footnote (in a post without footnotes) the deceased, well-respected local personality and ex-MP referred to towards the end became a tad less well-respected after this post appeared. It's entirely-unrelated to this rambling post, you'll be pleased to hear.

Sit down, I hurt my back on Thursday so I've time to write whilst I'm recovering. I'm in a foul mood too.

I've voted Liberal Democrat all of my life. Technically speaking I've voted for the Liberal Party too. I am, depending how you slice life, currently in my mid-forties and thus old enough to remember the merger with the SDP. I once voted Green, when everyone else was talking about doing so and then subsequently did. I've missed voting maybe twice, apathy is an extremely powerful force. I am, ultimately, uniquely qualified to talk about my voting past in a way no-one else can.

To prove a point, this:

Why have I voted Liberal Democrat (LibDem) all of my life?

I actually believe in the party's central principle of fairness, equality, of not pandering to vested interest. Before you ask, I've read up on their principles, their national, regional and local manifestos. I reckon I'm a social Liberal Democrat with occasional leanings towards the Orange Book creed (or whatever you call it.) That explanation might be enough for you, most folk, however here goes…

I first voted for the party because my mum and dad did. Upbringing has a major effect on character and aside from my many character flaws (see my wife, children, cats, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, etc. for the big list) I think I'm a fair advert for the way my parents lived their lives. When I stopped voting LibDem because mum and dad did I started voting thus because I made a decision to.

Two party politics fails to address the essential problem with a system centred around, er … two party politics. Extremes. We bounce from once set of divisive policies to another, always ultimately at the expense of the very people adding their 'X' to the ballot paper. People believe change is good, so vote for the opposite party to the one they believe is causing their woes. There's never been a middle, sane, ground.

My LibDem votes, while not exactly wasted, didn't seem to me to make much of a difference to my day-to-day life, but I lived in hope.

And then, before the seemingly-interminable preamble to the last General Elections hit the mainstream media, there was sanity. An alternative that was germinating in the minds of the public. The Liberal Democrats. My chance to make a difference had arrived! Voting was no longer enough, I wanted to join the party and, in a small way, help out locally. So I did. Join. Helping out? We weren't given the opportunity…

Now, the local party when I was a member was and, in my opinion still is, extraordinarily badly run. They've missed pretty much every opportunity to engage with voters when opportunity's there staring them in the face, knocking on their door and (insert other metaphors for the bleedin' obvious here.)

Social media and the web, these days, can play a massive part in helping the general public shape their views on politics. A few clicks and, if interested parties have done their jobs, opinions can be formed.

Knowledge, as they say, is power. The links to Heywood & Middleton's LibDem party site, for instance, lead to its host's holding page. Pisspoor.

So … The recent local election candidate had no leaflets published, and had, along with every other candidate/councillor/human being zero presence on even the local party's web site. I asked her for her 'manifesto' for local politics and, receiving none (though she welcomed questions,) suggested she complete a pitch on an independent local news site.

At the time of asking only 5 of the 19 LibDem candidates had 'pitches' (brief bios, manifestos) published. Not even the party leader's husband, I believe an ex-councillor and once-aspiring MP had one! Pitiful. Last time I looked there were 7, including our local candidate. Yay, she listened! Here's her 'pitch.' It's actually worth a read and converted me from being 'not bothered' about voting to, well, I voted for her. What else could I do but place my mark in the 'right' place?

This ward had 175 LibDem votes, down from last year's 511. Not a single LibDem candidate got elected. There's 5 left in the town. Obviously related to the backlash against the national party, but testament to the obscurity of the candidate and the running of the campaigns. It's a shame, but obvious even to me that things would go this way. Last year's candidate, by the way, is now in London, apparently pursuing a career that, I suspect, would have taken him away even if elected as a local councillor here.

Here's the thing … Why should I, as a concerned amateur, have to point out the obvious … that publicity has a direct influence on the electability of every candidate. Knowing nothing about someone doesn't exactly endear one to them.

So, I did my best, I got involved. Where did it get me?

My integrity and party loyalty was, on Twitter, called into question by the local Liberal Democrat party leader. She called me a liar for alluding to the local party's previous inadequacies, accused me of using an email she sent me (detailing the candidate's political CV) against the party. I'd already thanked her for it and used nothing from it. Nothing.

She accused me of not being a true Liberal Democrat, of using abusive language … and mentioned to Tim Farron MP, Liberal Democrat Party President, that I'm a disenchanted ex-member of the party. That last bit is indeed true. Very true.

Tim Farron, by the way, is very, very effective in his use of the media, is approachable as @timfarron on Twitter and comes across as being deeply committed to his party's success. He appears to understand the modern world. To my chagrin I voted for his opponent, Susan Kramer: a candidate unencumbered by the demands of also being an MP, and endorsed by more LibDem people that I respected than Tim. If I then believed she'd do a better job than Tim is doing now she'd have been utterly awesome! (Yes, I'm struggling to seamlessly inject an unjustified Kung Fu Panda reference here.) But, and apologies for the convoluted nature of this paragraph, that's that digression over…

My disenchantment is pretty much all the local party's fault but, of course, the national party's failure to pull the plug on this unholy alliance with the Conservatives has played a big part. I placed a bet that they'd see sense and provoke a General Election due before the end of 2011. But no, I lost my stake. Despite that I still vote Liberal Democrat.

Now an attack on my political record is a bit rich coming from someone who initially stood as a candidate for the Conservatives and changed parties after her election. It wouldn't have stopped me voting for her though, even as an aspiring MP… People change their views though, it's what reasonable people do, adapting to changing circumstances. Most people though, essentially the great unwashed multitudes of sheep, stick with something all their lives because of some misguided notion that, eventually, 'their' party will generate a utopian ideal specifically tailored to them.

So, back to where I started. I'm proud to have voted Liberal/Liberal Democrat all my life. I voted for (Sir) Cyril Smith and, when Liz Lynne was parachuted into Rochdale from 'the south' despite my obvious 'safe seat' reservations I voted for her too. 'Big' Cyril gave his recommendation.

I've voted for LibDem party candidates at every single opportunity, in my past and here too … wherever eligible to, I have. So, should I vote Liberal Democrat at the next Council elections? I believe it's the local party leader's turn for re-election.

My gut feeling is no, I won't vote for her, not in a month of Thursdays! Why the hell should I?! Maybe, if she did me a favour and changed parties, it'd make things so much easier.

Whatever, we've got a year for her to change my mind.

…

Ok, enough of this politics crap, I really don't like its nasty taste. I do though reserve the right to blog/post about local/national/international politics at any point in the future.

Ketchup

A potentially contentious post follows.

If you’ve been buying (or have been bought) Heinz Tomato Ketchup all your life, then let me tell you, you’re doing life wrong.

Try Tesco Tomato Ketchup instead. It tastes more tomato-ey, less vinegary, it’s got a better texture than its frankly artificial-tasting competitor and, the best bit, it’s approaching half the price!

Which? Magazine’s blind taste tests (login required to read the full article) and my discerning palate can’t be wrong.

Go on, give it a try, what’s the worst that could happen?

Cake

This post was inspired by a comment from @neilco on the App.net social network:

"I’m pondering a world where cake is the currency. My dad had this to say about both money and cake: once it’s gone it’s gone.

Just imagine a delicious, frosted, edible currency."

My daughters have an uneasy relationship with cake. The lure, allure, whatever you wish to call the experience, of cake is strong and yet its execution in my household is weak. Before you think this is going nowhere, let me explain.

Cakes are bought, put on plates, cut into manageable portions, put on smaller plates and distributed according to the size of the family member to receive them. Number 2 daughter gets the smallest portion, number 1 the next larger, my wife gets the next-up in size and I, being head of the household and biggest, get the biggest. However, the distribution of sizes isn’t at all as straightforward as this outline implies.

Daughter 2 is still relatively clumsy so the floor gets some, she eats some, she sees something interesting on the TV, all is lost. Daughter 1 is also relatively clumsy, the TV plays a big part in her life too. So, the unconsumed cake, where still edible, usually goes to the head of the household. Me. (My wife is health- and weight-conscious.)

Now, Daughter 2 loves to share. It’s at the very core of her being. A slight issue is the concept of sharing is somewhat unconventionally applied in her world. I get my slice of cake, it’s lovely and moist and identical in all-but size to Daughter 2′s. She looks over want WANTS mine. There’s nothing in-your-face confrontational about the process of her taking over, it’s seamless. One minute it’s all mine, the next I’m feeding her bite-sized portions…

You’d think that would be the end of it. Nope, not by a long way. Because I try to be the best dad I can (let’s not go there) I feel the need to reciprocate the largesse dispensed by my 2 daughters. Ice cream or a trip to ‘The Cupboard’ is allowed. It’s only fair. And when it’s all over, am I owed a debt of gratitude? Maybe, but I’m unlikely to ever collect.

‘The Cupboard’, by the way, is where we keep the snacks, not some instrument of discipline similar to a mediaeval iron maiden. No, ‘The Cupboard’ is a simple cupboard with shelves, situated at ground level with deliciously-edible contents available to all-comers, incidentally a strategy being re-examined as this very post is written.

Eventually I finish my cake, dreaming of simpler times – a single example being once when our 5 cats sat in a perfect semi-circle whilst I fed them the meat from an otherwise excellent triple pack of supermarket sandwiches.

In summary, quantitative easing seems a clumsy instrument compared to the arrival of even a single cake at Turner Towers.

Computer assistance required

Why do people ask for assistance with computer problems they haven’t solutions for? That’s an easy one to answer: so they can show off their superior ability.

An example using you as the twit: there’s something wrong on your screen, a dialogue box appears and you can progress no further. What do you do? You ask your shining white knight to assist! Easy.

Said knight (me) arrives, asks you to do nothing more, not even move the mouse, then asks a series of questions. My first word though is “STOP!”

You:

Dismiss any and all dialogue boxes remaining on the screen,
Pan and scroll the screen so that the area causing problems is no longer visible, let alone in focus,

Answer “What were you doing prior to the event?” with “Nothing!”

Answer “What were the contents of the dialogue box, even approximately?” with “I don’t know, something technical, how am I supposed to know?”

Answer “What do you need to do to progress?” with “I don’t understand.”

Eventually a dialogue is established, an approximate timeline leading up to the error is ascertained, and other big words…

A plan coalesces!

“Right,” I say “I think I know what’s causing the problem and I’ve a solution* I think will work. Should we try it?”

“Yes.” you say.

I start to patiently explain the background, the reason for the error, and steps necessary to avoid the ‘thing’ happening in the future. And this is where it falls apart.

You click, pan, scroll, press buttons, dismiss dialogue boxes, and then, as if it wasn’t enough, offer an alternative solution. You do it before I finish. Every time.
“I know mine will work,” I say. You ignore this with “Yeah, but…” so I walk away.

Until the next time…

A few minutes later I observe a thought bubble above your head: “Er… that didn’t work, crap idea, I’ll go and ask X…”

A quarter of an hour later I observe X walking away a little flustered, and Google search appears on their screen. Eventually a solution appears and it’s implemented. X of course gets due credit. It is indeed only fair.

And there’s a smile on your face, you did well fixing that.

Until the next time…

Sense of humour

My oldest daughter is often challenged by her homework – there’s way too much for a 6-year-old, but the school gets good results and we don’t want to rock the boat, at least not just yet. The latest batch has what I presume is an exercise related to imagination.

The brief being to create a monster, describe its likes and attributes, and draw a picture. The most important bit, the one daughter 1 was most challenged by, giving said monster a name.

It should be easy, it’s only a name. Right? But we’d only recently finished with the weights and measures homework, moving together throughout the house finding objects for me to illustrate what things weigh. Brain full.

5kg was easy for her – 5 bags of sugar.
100g less easy given perfectionist daddy’s insistence in diving into the miscellaneous food items drawer. But we got there.
63kg is what a mummy weighs. Not this mummy here you understand, as I noted at the bottom of the page to the teacher, in a pitiful attempt at humour and face-saving.
30g is a packet of crips (chips if you’re the wrong side of the Atlantic Ocean.)

So, a name for the monster? She didn’t know. So I explained what it must be like being one. “Just imagine what life must be like as a monster,” I said. “Everyone’s out to get you simply because you’re going round the countryside eating small children and sheep. And, do you know, that’s wrong.”
She looked at me for a moment. And then looked again.

I continued “Imagine all you want is a quiet life, to just go down to the shops and buy some nice food, go home at the end of the day and sit down with a cup of steaming hot chocolate. And you can’t because the villagers are out to get you, stab you and set you on fire.”
At this point daughter 1 opened her mouth and said something very appropriate: “?”

Ok, non-verbal communication is indeed very powerful, but let’s move on…

“So,” I said “let’s pick a name now. Please.”

“Flib-blob-floo-boo,” or something very close, was her reply. I’m still not sure if as an answer or because I’d melted her brain. But I pushed for an answer – it was past her bedtime.

“How about Buttercup?” I asked. “Just because it’s a monster doesn’t mean it has to have a horrible name like Raaarg or Snaarlf.”

“No.” came the emphatic response.

“Snowdrop?” was met with a giggle. On our way now, I hoped, but I’ll spare you the despair I felt when each subsequent pick was rebuffed. Close to giving up or getting her mother to help I gave it my best shot: “Jim-Bob?” (her name) “or Ag-Ack-Ack?” (her younger sister’s name.) Incidentally I’m not in the habit of divulging my family’s names publicly. Apart from the cats.

Simply “No.”

My patience wearing thin, inspiration arrived: I asked her to pick a letter of the alphabet to start the name off.

“F” she smiled.

Imagine my thought bubble: “Uh-oh.”

“i” arrived quickly, much to my relief.

“s, h, l, e, g ,s, !”

Done, at last!

And here she is:

I have what’s been called a well-developed sense of humour. Ok, I’m putting a positive spin on it. Being frank, a lot of people think I’m a bit weird. And some think I’m a lot weird. And, do you know, I have no problem with that.

I do have a problem with the dangly bulbous-ended thing between Fishlegs’ legs. I dare not ask, especially as I made the assumption a girl would pick a female monster.

…

“A tail?” you say.

Naah, she’s seen my willy.

@bazbt3 🏡

…powered by empathy and Schadenfreude

Author: @bazbt3