backformore

He (no longer) has his future in British Steel...

Firstly, I can't let the news pass that the Corus plant on Teesside is to close, with the loss of 1,700 jobs. Kick in the guts of area doesn't even begin the cover it. Redcar is already on its knees, economically. I grew up in the shadow of British Steel and the 'Teesside Glow', and learned all about blast furnaces at school. You can still take the train from Middlesbrough to Saltburn and be taken past the molten steel furnaces, which have a strange kind of beauty to them. This was the place that drove the industrial revolution and the empire, and sad doesn't begin to cover it.  

Ignoring that, the Guardian does the top adverts of the noughties, Kate Bush does Running Up That Hill, with David Gilmour, One Queen, eleven presidents, the ten most expensive bicycles in the world and eight hundred years of mischief in Cambridge.

Speaking of Cambridge I finally went to evensong in Kings College chapel yesterday, as Fiona (who I met in new Zealand) came to visit. Magic. There's something about the acoustics in there and the way the sound of the choir fades away at the end of each phrase. I also fulfilled a seasonal ambition by finally ice skating on the temporary rink in Parkers Piece. My ankles now hurt. Fiona advised that the best way to meet new people to to join a local knitting group. Apparently it's where the cool people hang out these days. I'm not sure if she was joking or not. Blimey, Cambridge has its own knit cafe. Cameron Diaz apparently knits. Or at least has someone to knit for her.

You can afford the money for these books but with the best will in the world you can't afford the time to read them all....

Not South Wales, CA - I was looking today at some photos from this year's Council of Higher Education Caving Clubs event. I did their, er, branding/marketing/artwork/corporate aura and was thoroughly present during the early days. One year I co-ran the beer pong event (poster below, click for bigness). It was one of the most exhausting things I've ever done. This year there were 240 young cavers there. It's obviously in rude health. Or healthily rude. And looking at the photos, I really wish I was a bit younger. And there.

      

I have also just happened upon a forgotten track I have blanked from my memory, lurking folornly in the recessed folds of my hard drive. Newly titled 'It Is Happening Again', it's an experimental ambient type thing (remember them?) that I threw together back in I'm guessing ooh, 2002. 'Swoopy' sums it up, along with 'iffy quality of sound'. Still, it's mine, and as such I love it. The last third I like - much like the state of affairs on my last remix.

Meanwhile, Borders has gone bust. I posted about Borders vs. WH Smiths the other week. This just goes to show how much I know about high street retailing. Well, I'll miss it. Other things what have caught my mind of late include National Geographic's best photos award, David Mitchell doing passion and the Matrix rooftop scene. In Lego. And: "Not a fan of this new Tiger Woods Driving Game from EA. Feels like they rushed the release." (Graham Linehan Twittering).

Finally, as Humph would have said, this week's prize is something for the busy chef marking down the time to Christmas, it's this Advent Collander.

Singing Chipmunks Go Pop!

Bored, CA -  I couldn't think of anything to do this weekend. I was at a loose, or possibly entirely disconnected end.

In a moment of desperation I picked up popular nihilistic computer game 'Grand Theft Auto 4', which I'd previously ignored for being, well a bit complicated. It still is. I managed to fail every single mission although I think I deserve credit for accidentally throwing a cheese burger at a passer by's head at one point. Sorry for the anti-social behaviour. In my defence the controls are a bit tricky. I think they should release a new game, based in the same Liberty City where you run a meals on wheels service and spend some time as a school governor, whilst trying to not get run over or killed in cold blood in a bungled heist. Or hit on the head with randomly flung take away food. In fact, I think that at the end of Grand Theft Auto 4 (if there is one) it should start up again and make you atone for all your sins by making you go backwards through the game saying sorry, repairing street furniture and offering grief counselling.

During the game I also sat in a car outside a laundry for several minutes listening to 'One Vision' by Queen before going and getting on with the ugly business of threatening someone. I hadn't heard it in ages, and it was a beautiful digital moment within an unbeautiful game. There was also a 'worlds collide' moment when the car radio advertised a new computer game called 'Civil Servant'. You have to hand it to Rockstar Games, they know their audience.

Meanwhile, Is this real?, the ten weirdest physics facts, the Muppets do Bohemian Rhapsody (with chickens) and in such idle moment I was perusing the Reading University Caving Club website which hasn't changed since I left it. My favourite bit from back when I was young(er) and funny? - Name Those Pants!

Medianwhile - this week's 'why can't I write like that' moment - The Thick Of It, specifically the line "She's behaving like a squirrel in a pedal bin". I'm so not worthy.

Normwhile - A thought for day, a new feature based upon the popular Radio 4 spot (a.k.a how the nation knows when to go to work in the morning). The Bishop of Coventry was apparently overseeing work on the new cathedral in the 1950s. He asked one worker what he was doing. "I'm mixing cement" he replied. He asked another, also mixing cement. "I'm building a cathedral".

P.S to those who asked whether my sister's house in Keswick is OK, yes. Rest of Keswick, no. Booths is full of water. The jetties are underwater. Here's my nephew's picture of the shore of Derwentwater:

Drums Inside My Head Or Is it Tinnitus?

PRESS RELEASE

Interesting Phenomena Productions are again somewhat aghast to announce the re-imagineering of yet another Shifter proto-classic, 'Someone Else's Dream'. This particular slice of audio excitement comes low on the heels of December's release of companion piece 'The Eye' .

The track has once again been painstakingly reassembled from old magnetic tapes, rusty guitars, bits of old garden furniture and great gobs of electrons by reclusive/exclusive DJ Small Paul. DJ Small sent this track to us from his one man kibbutz that he now runs from his kitchennette/hit factory. An accompanying note explains that producing it "was like creating a sound collage, like finger painting, only with my ears". We're not sure either.

The track is inevitably accompanied by the now obligatory challenging remix - 'The Blurred Memories Mix', which appears to be three different mixes seamfully welded into a sturdy three piece suite of music. 'Genre-wise, it's a difficult pigeon to hole, but we'll start with 'ambient big beat' and offer it to the audience. Plus, for the first time a special guest remix from a fan is included, flown in by least expense via the internet. We give you the 'Sound Impressions Mix' from Alp-based sonic ingenue DJ Marcus. If anyone else wants a go let us know.

Notes for Editors.

Who were Shifter? And does anyone still know?

Shifter were a band from the Thames Valley often admired for their slick professionalism, even though none of those careers related to music in any way. Their music was once described by a passer by as "quasi-grunge-rock via the reactionary optimism of folk-dance-electronica". This was a band were ahead of time, not least that of their own drummer. At the height of their fame (when singer Paul claimed to have been accosted by a fan on a train on the way to work one morning) the band were the noisy owners of 50-60 songs, several of which they could remember, and on a good night even play. A surprising and still top secret remix album 'Back For More' is promised sometime in the distant future (possibly involving star dates by then), and as ever innovation will the watchword. Or is it 'tunes'? We forget. We are promised that the album will be released on CD, MP3, as a wearable fabric and as a pure thought concept, and will be the first album ever to be accompanied by it's own energy efficiency certificate and tog rating.

The main riff of this song is also available as an irritating ringtone. This is part of the nu-Shifter global segmented cross format targeted brand awareness strategy. 'Multiple niche', if you will.

Act of confession - I wrote the lyrics to this song. For this I should be subjected to some cruel and unusual punishment, possibly on an international level. With any mercy withheld purely because of the middle bridge, which is the sort of thing that keeps me awake at night. The song is actually about town planning. Earlier, Brett Anderson of Suede trained to be a town planner but it was only later that Radiohead truly pioneered town planning as the new rock & roll.

Witness, or rather listen to Radiohead's 'Street Spirit":

"Rows of houses, all bearing down on me
I can feel their blue hands touching me
Cracked eggs, dead birds, scream as they fight for life
I can feel death, can see it's beady eyes"

Or 'Let Down':

"Transport, motorways and tramlines,
Starting and then stopping, the emptiness of feelings,
Sentimental drivel, Disappointing,
Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground".

Now there's a band who really knew something about town planning.

Ever wondered what happened to your used teabags?

Waterbeach, CA - Waste. That's what I bought you all here to think about. Normally you don't think about where your waste goes beyond the point where you find yourself rudely awoken by the dustman. This week, I had the opportunity to find out. Whilst other people get to attend glitzy awards ceremonies with C list celebs involving a lots of bread roll throwage and tactical vomiting my career allows me the pleasure of a visit to the newly remodelled Donarbon waste management facility, six miles north of Cambridge. And you know what? It was a pleasure.

It takes all the household waste from Cambridgeshire and Peterborough, as well as lots of other waste. They are keen to show it off. There's viewing galleries and educational facilities and coffee and tea and presentations and display stands. The people there are clearly proud of it and happy to work there. After a while I worked out why. They are doing something genuinely useful to society, which is something I'm not sure I can claim right now. Did you know you throw away your own body weight in rubbish every seven weeks? Did you know that recycling aluminium cans saves 5-10 tonnes of CO2 compared to smelting new material? Basically they take my rubbish and over six weeks break to down to the point where it can be used as compost. They take my wood waste and chip it and sell it to energy providers. They take my plastic bottles and grind them up and sell them on to China to make new plastics. They are taking waste and producing hydrogen, which they hope to power their vehicles. All of which leaves me with the realisation that if you're genuinely concerned about climate change then go in to waste management. Or at least make their lives easier by separating out their rubbish. If I ran the country I would make every single council tax payer spend an afternoon seeing where their rubbish goes. It should be like jury service.

Meanwhile, Youtube preserve the highlight of the 1991 world freestyle beard championships for posterity, how to use apostrophe's and Danny Macaskill (a young bike riding loon) does a Volkswagen advert. Apparently he's currently injured and off the bike till Christmas. Can't think how that happened.

How much for a bottle of that moon water?

Raining, RA - The Bourne films, broken down as a pie chart, via here.

However, what I've gathered you all here to talk about is motorways. Someone once said that if you want to see a representative cross section of the British public then a motorway service station is the best place to start. We'll start with a new fact to impress the opposite sex at parties. Did you know the M25 orbital motorway isn't actually orbital? No, theres a funny break at the Dartford Crossing which is actually a trunk road rather than a motorway. I found this out a work the other day, where I also found out that the shortest motorway in the UK is the A635 (M) in Manchester. 330 yards, apparently. Also, that the M1 was supposed to end at Marble Arch. Did you know how motorways ended up with their numbers? I do. I'm sure I'll have to beat women off with a special anti-women stick with this newly-acquired wattage of motorway trivia. Sorry, went a bit Jimmy Carr there. Won't do it again.

I have to admit lost a fair bit of time on this site, which led me with a crushing inevitability to the Dull Men's Club, a site dedicated to showing men - and the women who appreciate dull men - ways of coping in a world full of exciting things to do. I was a shade entranced by their exciting, sorry, dull archive of the direction of travel of the world's airport carousels. And which is the more dull, being in the Dull Man's Club, or sitting here writing about it? Points to me, I think.

If a dullard is someone who is dull, is a mallard an unwell French person? Which reminds me, it's coming back on monday. Why BBC, with that, Doctor Who and Top Gear over a couple of days you really are spoiling us.

Some less dull things - Hooray! - The return of the ninja cat, how to win a wheelbarrow race, the world's best christmas lights and the Onion News Network does ultra realistic modern warfare computer games. And I know nothing about football, except that New Zealand don't compete in the World Cup. Except next year. Good for them.

Remembrance Day

1 -

At eighteen in 1914 I was a healthy member of society but not very prepossessing. I had only reached five foot two and for a few weeks after that fateful bugle call watched regulars and territitorials depart for the front and believed what newspapers said of German soldiers bayoneting babies. I watched not envious of their heroics but envious of their chance of seeing life. Then posters were out asking for volunteers and I commenced a weekly trip to the recruiting office and strenuous exercises to put on inches. Early in 1915 I presented myself as usual on the Friday evening. The sergeant in charge, an old friend by now, cracked the usual joke about there being “no vacancies in the Guards just now, thank you”, but suddenly became thoughtful. “Just a minute”, he said, and took up the telephone. I waited expectantly A short cryptic talk over the line and - "You know the local Territorial Battalion, 4th Yorks?” I did not, but said “Yes”. “Well they’ve been practically wiped out at Ypres. For a limited period recruiting standards have been lowered and if you’re serious then you can keep your shoes on while I take your height”.

2-

Out of the blue came a sound. Still talking, my companion stiffened and the bolt fell. A cloud of smoke and dust mushroomed about a hundred yards away to the left. A shout from our guide - "Come on, he’s started”, and we were doubling after him. Again that awful rushing roar and the lance-corporal dropped on hands and knees. Instinctively realising the purpose I did likewise. I was to develop that instinct of judging proximity of the burst nicely later on but this time I forgot my full equipment and was nearly brained by my pack. Again the crash climax and someone screamed. The guide reassured himself it was only fright and we were off again this time with hearts pounding and tongues dry. We were not soldiers now, merely a bunch of frightened boys.

Suddenly, more flares, coloured ones among them, and we knew Jerry was signalling his guns. The result came with efficient accuracy -a crash that bumped my ear drums and put me instinctively flat at the bottom of the trench. Then I scrambled into a crouching position. More crashes, merging into one hideous din. Our own guns would be getting his support lines. Acrid smoke and dust filled the air and I felt the earth moving. Sandbags slithered down onto me or knocked breath out and I pressed to the trench wall trying to identify myself completely with the earth. My feet were becoming trapped and I shook them clear. It was dark no longer. Survival -that’s the thing. I saw, in the flashing brilliance a face in a hole that had been a dug-out and dived in -crawled further , then a terrific bump and some of the top fell on me. I was to be buried and yelled to be out. Others were crawling in. Screaming, pushing, kicking I was out again and a load of dirt came into my face.

Ripping roars overhead, above the crack of whiz-bangs told of vicious shrapnel but the mind refused even fear: smoke, flash, one’s aching eyes almost shut, in nostrils that acrid smell of powder and newly disintegrated bodies long dead. An instinctive dive for breathing time into a deep dugout in a clump of tree stumps: full of bodies - out again, and on.  Jerry scattered and went to ground. Instinctively and against all tradition we didn’t wait for it. Caution went bust and we were off. A healthy instinct regarding my lack of weight and muscle stopped me about ten yards from the general melee and dropping on one knee (I hadn’t been best shot on Northallerton ranges for nothing) I picked off grey figures from khaki wherever I got a clear sight. Tommy, who was hardly bigger than me, however, sailed in. One Jerry came at me, but tripped, and I bashed his face with a rifle butt. Lt Hirsch dashed my way and finished him with his revolver. “Stay there Whitfield and carry on. Snipe any you see getting away, I want wounded prisoners”. I tumbled to this and made sure of at least four leg wounds. Had to finish some because they carried on shooting and bombing and bomb throwing as they lay.

3 -

Nature compelled me to find privacy and I strolled away to a convenient shell hole. On the way back a trench too wide to jump saved my life. As I clambered out of the other side I heard the shell coming. Instinctively freezing, the crash came. My arm, reaching up to the trench top jerked and something happened to my shoulder, and then the arm went numb. Mark appeared, running with others. “Are you hurt, Whit?” he asked. “Good God”. I followed his glance and was amazed. My hand was black and swollen. Below the elbow the arm was bare and a little bit a red muscle had burst out. My thumb and two fingers had gone. My thigh and legs were drenched in blood. I thought -if that’s my hand and I can’t feel it what’s the matter with my shoulder? I tore at the tunic and Mark restrained me. “Come on”, he said. At a run he took me across to a dressing station. It was fortunate one was handy, and a cup of coffee was miraculously handed to me. A violent, unreasonable thirst appeared, and after a greedy drink I was directed to Bazentin dressing station, with the arm strapped up and a tourniquet fixed. I felt fine. No head wound and nothing in the tummy. After further poking about there I sat in the queue awaiting ambulances. I never saw the pals again.

I never met my grandfather on my mother's side. He returned from the front missing an arm. This injury probably saved his life and in turn, created mine. He died from lung cancer after a struggle of a life in the 1960s. It's his ring, given to him by his father, that I wear on the fourth finger of my right hand. Other than this gift, I am left with his diaries, which make me realise just how lucky I am. Aged 18 I went to university and had fun. In 1914, aged 18, he went into the unknown with pride. And I'd like to thank him for it.

  

The Song 'Jump' By Van Halen Is Now Playing In Your Head.

Wicken Fen, The Fens, CA. Some Saturday sunshine, so yet more National Trust local niceness must be in the offing. This time, Wicken Fen near Ely, the last remaining bit of preserved and soggy Fenland anywhere. The rest has been drained, like rice. It's an important nature reserve apparently, said to be stuffed to bursting with flora and fauna. Except in November it turns out. I may have seen a small bird at one point but it moved very fast. Anyhoo, behold the majesty and raw emotional power of the Fenland landscape:

Well I was certainly unmoved. It's nice, if you like to spend a morning looking at grass and small ditches. Still, I've no doubt it's groovy if you are a small grub or beetle. It's peaceful, I'll give it that. They apparently have a 100 year plan to improve it, which is what I call a plan. I also drove there (its about eight miles away) only to find that the national cycle networks runs between it and my front door. Which is nice.

So for the indoors amongst you - something from an old episode of TFI Friday, Peter O'Toole deliver lines that are clearly beneath him. Does anyone else remember "Kids in Mash'? Or did I imagine it? Otherwise, why 'Jump' by Van Halen is the best record ever made. He's wrong of course. 'Macho Twats In Space' by Shifter is of course the best song ever made.

I burned myself with a sparkler once. Happy days.

I'm not doing bonfire night. Bonfire night is an event to celebrate a failed attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament. In light of the expenses scandal I think we should give it a miss this year.

...don't fret, I haven't really come over a bit Daily Mail.

Cool, I always wanted a storage medium I can accidentally inhale...

Online, um, ON - I am currently mildly stimulated by this online debate concerning "what technological thing blows your mind"? It's a toss up between Google and the flushing toilet, apparently. There are some true comic gems in the discussion. Personally I'd go for the fact that I can sit on the settee on a Sunday, eating crisps and have live TV pictures beamed to me showing the cockpit view of a Formula 1 car racing round a track at 180 miles an hour from the other side of the world. The technology behind that is mind mangling. Then again, I have little idea of how most technology works. Microwaves? Magic, has to be. Go on, if you're so clever, you explain it without resorting to Wikipedia. Photocopiers? They must contain artistic and very swift pixies, stands to reason. That's why you have to shut the lid so you can't see them at work, and that's why the light goes on - so they can see what the are doing. They feed on the stuff in toner cartridges you know. Photocopier engineers aren't engineers, they are motivational speakers for disgruntled (and non-unionised) pixies.

Also, how come I can stand in New Zealand and speak to my mother in England using a mobile phone? Sound just doesn't move that fast. Ooh, *THOUGHT PANG!* Here's some telephone etiquette for you. If someone rings up and say they have the wrong number, simply respond "It's OK, I was answering the phone anyway!" Normally they say thank you and take this statement at face value. How much is the average face these days? I'm so out of touch with the art of face bargaining.

Here's some well written online niceties:

Initially, It's worth reading this article on scientology by Marina Hyde. Not because of what it says, but because of the beautiful way it's written (if only for the line, "there are times when "Lol!!" – normally the seal-honk of the internet's least self-aware halfwits – really is the most eloquent dismissal on earth").

Consequently, and on a similar pedestal of pedagogy, a swift lesson on how journalism and web 2.0 works  in the Daily Quail - if only for the line "a vast chasm of bollocks".

Incidentally, when's web 2.1 due? And surely the word 'incidentally' refers to dentistry of the incisors? Hold on, I'm losing the thread again, like that bloke who went in before Theseus and didn't think to take the ball of string.

Finally, a rather nice wallet, have some happiness, a Daily Mail headline generator, make your own bible and a bit of a step up from the Raleigh bicycle catalogues I used to drool over. This one is published by Sotherbys. I may not be able to afford all of them. But, all the same, shiny.

Pathetically - I'm making this all up as I go along you know. I have no idea where the gay dolphin fits into all this.