Redshift

I've not had anything to say for weeks now, nothing at least that isn't either political or ultimately objectionable, so I've kept quiet awaiting the reawakening of my muse. And here we are…

After the discreditation (too strong?) of the Steady State Theory it is now is generally accepted that our universe is in a state of expansion following The Big Bang. No matter where scientists look in space things are moving away from us; everything in space is moving away from everything else. This bit I understand.

The bit I do not understand is simply voiced: there is no point within our universe that can be identified as a centre. Look, I understand how everything can be moving away from everything else, but there's something fundamental I'm missing out on.

Space is big. No, bigger than that. Bigger by orders of magnitude too vast for my simple brain to comprehend. I'm used to thinking about the journey to work, to the shops, even the distances between my home and the seaside. The size of space though, it defeats me. And I have no problem with that, none whatsoever; some things are indeed meant to just be.

Despite the size of space, knowing that space is expanding and everything is moving away from everything else, my personal grasp of basic physics infers that somewhere in our sky there must be bodies adopting a course approximately parallel to our planet or solar system. No, our galaxy.

Our galaxy is massive and we are an almost-insignificant almost-nothingness at a near-meaningless point within it, of that I've absolutely no doubt. But science must be able to find an edge, a boundary, beyond which other large conglomerations of stars, dust, black holes and star stuff are moving en-masse, in a direction measurable relative to ours.

I find it unreasonable to suppose, yet at the same time completely plausible to think, that our tiny mote of a world is indeed at the centre of our universe. Leaving aside broad philosophical arguments centred around the nature of self and being, if there's nothing keeping pace with us it flies in the face of everything I know about probabilities, chance, randomness.

But no, that last bit is wrong. Flip a coin. It is either the side you chose or it isn't; I'm being capricious to prove a point.

If everything on the Internet was subject to review, to critique and ultimately approval after 'publication' we might advance towards a multitude of enlightenments as a collection of individual groups but generally as global society. But who can we trust to review the myriad of words written daily, even in our mother tongues? Partisanship, religion, simple spite, an inability to differentiate between humour, satire, sarcastic commentary – the need to preserve the intent of those who would make our lives more interesting – all count against what would quickly become censorship.

To make the assertion that something is a fact but without any supporting evidence is as easy as breathing. To provide the foundation on which a statement rests? Yeah, somewhat more complex. Ultimately the assertion will be received by the uncritical without incident, by the remainder with a sceptical eye. But even this fails to take into account all the nuances of humanity's approach to our interactions when faced with external stimuli at or beyond our limits of comprehension, or past the point of our willingness to engage.

When I started composing this (a few weeks ago!) I'd just eaten my first quesadillas, bought from a supermarket. I'd asked The Internet with what I should eat them, and a man who knows about such things responded with a suggestion of beans or rice, dipping them in salsa. Sounds good. I ultimately chose my own path: an unseasoned (at least not additionally) beef ravioli accompanied my Mexican food. Tasty! I'll be getting more, and definitely taking the advice given. And modifying it; a character flaw.

On the Saturday evening just gone I stayed home and watched a film from my 'list', a film with almost universally bad reviews, a film that makes more sense if one's read and enjoyed the book. As I have, twice. AND some of the followup series!

IT'S a film older than both my daughters' ages added together, so why HAVE I not watched it before the weekend past? But first, what is it?

'Battlefield Earth'!

I reckon it's L. Ron Hubbard's master work (ignoring, that is, the other stuff he's a little more famous for.) The book is.

The film? The film's hero isn't cast well, the acting is over the top in places, wooden as a spoon hewn from an immobile wooden thing rooted to an immobile earth in others, but as a hopeful, swords-and-sorcery epic it'll do for me. Not that I, a dyed-in-the-wool sci-fi enthusiast, can get into the genre easily. Unless Arnie's in it. Conan The Barbarian, oh yes.

But Arnie's not in THIS one. John (occasional massive hits) Travolta is though, as is Forest (solid body of work) Whitaker. Not Mr Whitaker's finest work, it must be said, nor is it Mr Travolta's. It's no Armageddon (Bruce Willis), that's for sure.

But it's mindless fun, everything's nicely telegraphed well in advance. Undemanding.

But; yes, a but. I didn't cry. I cry at everything I watch these days, especially kids movies at the cinema. It's probably not a coincidence that I choose films designed to evoke something primal in kids and their slaves.

But does it get Baz's Seal of Approval?

Yeah, why not‽

Does this mean I'll watch ANYTHING with a Rottentomatoes.com score of 3% with a preceding book?

Hell no, and neither should you.

A question: I read the book of another film years ago and loved it, absolutely loved it. So should I watch 'Hawk The Slayer'?

And will I take your advice if you give it? If there's only me reading will I take even my own?

What's the worst that'll happen? Mass extinctions, the end of humanity? Heh, no! Time wasting? Not that either.

Mind expanding? Yeah, why not.


Incidentally, I still haven't bought that bloody diet and exercise book either, another recommendation I'm, er… working on!

Bhagavad Gita

"Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

Robert Oppenheimer, widely known as 'the father of the atomic bomb' said these words around 20 years after the 2 nuclear weapons detonated over Japan.

Ah, it's a powerful, evocative phrase alright, but one holding within a small mistranslation of a small section of the Bhagavad Gita. Nevertheless I'm allowing it; the man did translate it himself. From the Sanskrit.*

This evening I feel bad, something of a pale shadow of the man. Clearing some long grass in the Turner Estate's Lower Field (despite knowing it'll adversely affect the drainage) I disturbed a small frog.

Now it must be said, I carried on clearing the growth and disturbed another small frog. Then another. Three unique frogs, with one thing in common…

Today a human, the same human who'd previously allowed their lives to flourish undisturbed, arrived with a big chopper and casually destroyed their habitat.


*The word is 'shatterer'.

Cock

Behold! You know when a dog listens to you, listens so intently and with total focus that there is no doubt it understands you? And it cocks its head on one side as-if to underscore the extent of its devotion? Marvellous! Ruby dog often evokes that feeling of omnipotence, yes.

Oh I wish there was a drug I could have produced in large-enough quantities, and then have delivered to the human (and near-human) population of this island nation by a fleet of autonomous drones. A drug to at least mimic that response in others. Wouldn't that be great‽

Yes, obviously. And then, the world!

Let's face it though, I'm more likely to get that sort of response if I become a boy band or enter politics.

Everyone knows where those two paths lead, so I'd best not.

Meaning

Words used to have meaning, used not to be mere scribbles on paper or sounds made to satisfy popular demand.

Take 'hero'. A hero to me is someone who battles near-impossible odds to save a life, or works for a lifetime against near-impossible odds to change lives. A hero is emphatically NOT someone who kicks a ball for a few minutes each week or runs/swims/cavorts quite fast/energetically – or does both – whilst being paid an entertainer's wage. Real heroes do it because it's there, because it must be done, not for the rewards.

For some the distinction between the modern and classical versions of the term is unimportant. And that's a shame.

'Truth' used to be something incontrovertible, sustained by peer or objective review, unassailable. Nowadays it's whatever some politician says – or believes they can get away with saying. And they do. Get away with it. No amount of fact-checking can overcome a recognisable face on the TV or in a favourite newspaper.

Wholesale use of hyperbole is peaking, we can see it all around. There will come a time when even the most hardened Sun or New York Post journalist at least considers giving up.

At least I hope so. I really don't like this erosion of meaning. What's next though?

To be sure, languages must evolve, take at least that for granted. In a lot of cases it's necessary as technology or social change mandates the reduction of complex phrases in favour of a jargon adopted by the general public. In some cases it's the adoption of trivial, inconsequential, transient words emerging from social media. In others it's borrowing of foreign words used regularly by a sizeable proportion of those who speak whatever language is evolving. It seems to me though that dictionary committees are spending more time courting the press than accurately following trends.

Trust and tradition, both are being eroded at rates faster than previously seen. 'Trust' in an age during which words lose their meaning is a bit of a misnomer. There are a very very small number of people and organisations I can trust without thought. And the list diminishes with time.

Yes of course all 'traditions' aren't necessarily good. Hunting foxes, chasing cheese down hills, Morris Dancing, you know…

Well there's a phrase: 'Less is more.' What a load of crap! Someone influential should redo it to be a true reflection of our times: 'More is less'.

Hah! There's a gap in the market; I should apply for a part-time job as a writer, opining from the perspective of a grumpy old bast…

As traditions, trust, language all degenerate where can we find solace in these uncertain times?

Reverting back to one of the biggest comforts of the modern age, at least the sporting world provides some useful distractions: for instance the Olympics (hashtags) and football (obscene spending.)

Reading the news earlier I came across a couple of rage-inducing sentences:

Grabbing a couple of sentences from the article: "Manchester United are on the brink of re-signing Paul Pogba from Juventus in a world record ÂŁ89m deal. United will pay 105m euros for Pogba and performance-related bonuses and other costs could see that figure rise."

And that's a lot of money – some would say 'obscene' – for an as-yet unproven talent. It's a fifth of a hospital, and amounts to a lot of shirt sales.

'Rage' though? That may be overstating things a bit; I've broken nothing, lashed out at no-one, kicked no dogs, swung no cats…

Best to calm down a bit and look at the…

…

…let's not, it's altogether too depressing.

Self-destruct

For a man wanting to become one of the few this world has ever seen to attain the status of a nuclear' button' pusher, Donald Trump has a lot of personal buttons he just does not want pressed.

Unusually for me I'm not going to spend time listing what I think they are, it's pretty evident that every attack on his statements (to begin with) is a trigger for the man.

Keeping the world safe would now seem to be appropriate for all political 'sides' – in the USA and the rest of the sane world – there can't be much more ramp left up which Trump's increasingly adversarial tone can ascend.

'Change' seems to be the driving force behind the man's support. Not the same kind of positivity shown 8 years ago prior to Persistent Obama's success, no. This change is as dark as things get in the so-called civilised world…

I have a theory. Soon 'The Donald' will do something so ridiculous and… no, abhorrent, that the Republican Party – and US voters with at least half a brain – will be FORCED to shun the man. Nothing he's done thus far has worked, but I can imagine his growing despair as each initiative fails.

To be fair though, I thought that about the run-up to Brexit; surely no-one would be daft-enough to vote 'Leave' knowing how ill-prepared we were, how ill-prepared we remain. Look how wrong I was there!

Huffington

Because there's nothing else in this world worth commenting on, not yesterday's family trip to Blackpool, not Brexit, not terrorism or the perceived threats from people we don't know to our way of life, not climate change, not all the other things, I shall post a link to an article about Donald Trump.

Its nothing major, merely relating to yet another of his insensitive statements. It's nothing particularly inflammatory, especially compared to some of the insane opinions he's voiced, no.

The article itself is, to be fair, almost incidental to the gradual expansion of the footnote accompanying every Trump-related article on the HuffPost site.

Please visit and scroll and click the links within the Editor's Note:

Trump Responds To Father Of Killed American Soldier, Can’t Name A Single Sacrifice

Thanks.

BFG

Pizza is on its way.

Late yesterday one of the girls asked to go see 'The BFG': the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's excellent book. My wife has read it to my daughters, and I remain part-way through a similar reading.

Everyone should read the heartwarming tale of a…

Ahhh, but I don't do spoilers.

Suffice it to say we enjoyed the film, I saw enough of the story in my head from the book to be pleased and entertained…

Under normal circumstances the suspension of my disbelief isn't a problem; I'm not massively critical of films I pick or take the girls to.

Rewinding to a point halfway through The BFG though, the insistent pressure on my bladder became utterly intolerable; we had to leave our seats and visit the gents. Awkward with 2 girls in tow. Not that I cared! (We didn't miss much.)

Every time the go out I counsel my two to make sure they've been for a pee. We've done well so far. This time I'd actually taken my own advice and had one just before we left for the pictures.

(sighs) Getting old?

Patch

Inspired by a Tweet:

"@rabryst: Tell me an example of an uncommon reason for crying, in a particular film. That warm bristly feeling just before the tears counts. And go."

Well, I though about it. Here goes:

My all-time favourite movie is Armageddon. It's a roller-coaster ride of epic proportions, a film during which I can suspend my sense of disbelief, ignore my engineer's-innate sense that the physics isn't exactly Newtonian, and simply relax into the story.

Not-quite a ritual but I've watched it at least once a year since the film came out on DVD. I'll never tire of it.

I cry. I cry every time I watch it. I cry safe in the knowledge that my emotions are being manipulated by industry-proven methods not limited to…

No Baz, let's not spoil this.

I laugh too, I cringe, I empathise, I literally sit on the edge of my seat. Literally, not figuratively; I LIVE the movie. Sure the characters aren't as fully-fleshed-out as I'd like, but I really don't care.

Here's a typical quote:

Colonel William Sharp:
"Get off… the nuclear… warhead."

Awesome. In the very best sense.

There are indeed a couple of low points: the short cuts between the world's celebrations of the unlikely teams of drillers and bona-fide astronauts seem calculated to tug at the heartstrings. My disbelief returns. And there's something else not-quite-believable, but I'm not here to fact-check or find bloopers, no.

The very best bit in the whole film, it's tiny, it's understated amongst the joy and the sheer gung-ho spectacle around it. 'Poignant' is a good word to use at this point.

Dan Truman leads a team of NASA scientists tasked with the destruction of the terrifyingly-big lump of rock swinging round from the depths of space towards the destruction of Planet Earth; something at which I'm sure it would excel without breaking a figurative sweat. Now, a childhood disability robbed the man of the chance to become an astronaut; nonetheless he followed his dream and made a massive contribution to our salvation. He believed in the team he was putting together.

Amidst the cheesiness of the concluding scenes after the heroes return to earth he approaches the recently-deceased Harry Stamper's daughter Grace, just reunited with A.J., her love – their marriage finally approved by her dad "I wish I could have been there to walk you down the aisle…"…

A.J. breaks his embrace with Grace, turns to Dan and hands him a piece of cloth, a tattered and charred Misson patch, testament to the trials the team endured: "Harry wanted you to have this". Dan takes it: "He did huh."

Understated, powerful as anything else out there. Perfect. I can feel it now.

And the music starts to swell, a military plane formation arrives, one peeling away as they reach the landing site; it's called The Missing Man Formation.

And then Aerosmith, 'I don't want to miss a thing'.

And then I cry.


No hidden messages here, sorry dear reader.

Damned

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. State, categorically, that something bad is unacceptable, clamp down on it when evidence of rule breaking is found – and STILL get castigated for being perceived as ineffective? Politics is a funny old game, especially the current Labour Party's version – of finger pointing and flinging poo.

Until last year when Jeremy Corbyn was elected, things seemed safe, predictable, boring even. Now the parliamentary Labour Party's raison d'etre is a piecemeal, unfocused, but point-by-point dissection of a man's political evolution. We live in an age of easy access to things that the ignorant would consider to be facts, things which do not require explanation or interpretation but which, without context, are completely meaningless. Eager people lap it up; misery loves company.

Many people are thinking that one event in particular shaped this year and all successive years: the untimely death of one man. A singer, composer, actor, style and lifestyle icon…

Bowie, David Bowie.

Apocalyptic! Some say he's the Fourth Horseman, though that's twisting things a tiny bit.

Now, there's such a thing as responsibility, endeavouring to understand a situation and all its players. Unfortunately the Labour party's voluntary fracturing exhibits no evidence of this.

Deserting one's posts then blaming the leader of one's party for a failure to vote against, or at least to defend, one's party's principles? I've only one word for it.

Despicable. Ok, thinking about it, two words: despicable and classless.

Under normal circumstances a shadow minister tasked with overseeing opposition to the government would do their very best to mobilise against the full range of harebrained schemes the Tories, er… incumbents cobbled together from whatever pot of idiocy these things are stirred in. Opposition depends on team players.

Much like Monty Python's 'fearless' knights though they ran away. Not in a comedic style but in a tragic 'let us run away then blame it on our leader' manner. Responsibility requires sacrifices, demands that respect is earned. The Labour party's response: restricting supporters from voting, demanding a frankly ridiculous sum of money (lots of ÂŁ25 sign ups totalling >ÂŁ4.5 million), and suspending all branch meeting until the election – it's classless.

Blaming Flappy Bird's WallyWorld* constituency office attack on their leader, then suspending the entire branch (at a time when all meetings are outlawed anyway): classless.

Expecting that their leader should shoulder the blame for the alleged, or real, subsequent intimidation and death threats: it's utterly classless.

Revisiting a utopian ideal, anyone who considers themselves 'normal' would say it's a noble thing to aim for a classless society. Well, we got one.


*Some names have been changed to protect the challenged.

Flush

Thursday, today, is the first day since Tuesday during which I've been able to sit down on the gents toilet at work* without first carefully examining the contents of the bowl.

I must explain…

Tuesday, I lifted the lid to be greeted by a mass of toilet paper. Not excessive, not potentially a blocker or an overflower, no.

So I flushed. Big mistake. BIG mistake. The water rose, it rose, it continued to rise, then thankfully subsided. Then continued to subside, almost as the precursor to something awful seen only in the movies or the darkest corners of a fertile imagination.

And then, then a gurgle as the paper passing through the pipe relinquished its grip on the partial vacuum behind.

Now, physics.

Drawn, my gaze was, to the spectacle of a rushing back, then a parting of the waters as a great thing, a positive (albeit brown) Leviathan, rose from the depths and lurched out of the water at me. And then splashed back to an equilibrium of sorts.

Well of COURSE I let out an involuntary, nervous giggle! Things popping out; not the kind of thing I'm comfortable with in the gents at work.

I… yeah, there was someone in the cubicle one-removed from from my very real predicament. They remained quiet throughout.

Lo! The turd sat, becalmed, looking almost accusingly at me. 'Turd' has become a pejorative in recent years. This one though, this one commanded respect.

Lets face it, if I couldn't be flushed after at least two attempts I too would be a bit miffed. A dismissive 'Only human, it is.' was all I heard.

I folded a few sheets of toilet paper and had another go.

Er… stubborn, this one was!

Sod it, I know when I'm beaten! I didn't sit, instead backed out of the cubicle, washed my hands and left.


*We have more than one toilet of course, but I'm not identifying which for reasons of retaining confidentiality in the workplace.