The Word Cloud

Apologies to Cazza's for re-opening the debate but there was an interesting front-page story in the Guardian today which has made me think.

One of the leading scientists in the climate change debate is accused of misrepresenting the figures on global warming.  Phil Jones from the University of East Anglia is the same guy whose e-mails were leaked before Christmas.  This new development is that he allegedly knowingly used flawed data from Chinese weather stations.

The interesting quote in the piece is; 'the revelations about the inadequacies ........do not undermine the case that humans are causing climate change.  But they do call into question the probity of some climate change science.'

This relates back to point about trusting research.  At what point do you say 'I've read enough and this is my point of view?'  Immediately after the original e-mail leaks the climate change deniers at Fox News jumped on it and said, 'there you are it's all lies.'

It's always puzzled me how people whom I believe have a strong and just case still need to dress it up.  It undermines their case when they're found out.  I often find myself disagreeing with people I agree with because I am a purist and believe that even my own views are flawed.  The fact that I can't answer some criticisms doesn't mean I stop believing I'm right.

But we all have this fear of admitting to any holes in our own arguments because the other side will seize on them.  So we are all inconsistant and we all hold contradictory views.  So let's just admit we might be wrong about some of the things we're sure about.

Just read the 'offence' and if you've done it, you owe that fine.
You don't have to confess your answers, just the amount of your fine.
NOTE fines to be added once, not for how ever many times you have done it.  (I proudly owe £575.60)
 
Smoked weed -- £10
Did acid or pills -- £5
Ever had sex at church -- £25
Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you -- £40
Had sex with someone on MySpace/Facebook/Bebo etc -- £25
Had sex for money -- £100
Ever had sex with a Puerto Rican -- £20
Vandalized something -- £20
Had sex on your parents' bed -- £10
Beat up someone -- £20
Been jumped -- £10
Cross dressed -- £10
Given money to stripper -- £25
Been in love with a stripper -- £20
Kissed someone who's name you didn't know -- £0.10
Hit on some one of the same sex while at work -- £15
Ever drive and drank -- £20
Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk -- £50
Used toys while having sex -- £30
Got drunk, passed out and don't remember the night before -- £20
Went skinny dipping -- £5
Had sex in a pool -- £20
Kissed someone of the same sex -- £10
Had sex with someone of the same sex -- £20
Cheated on your significant other -- £10
Masturbated -- £10
Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend -- £20
Done oral -- £5
Got oral -- £5
Done / got oral in a vehicle while it was moving -- £25
Stole something -- £10
Had sex with someone in jail -- £25
Made a nasty home video or took pictures -- £15
Had a threesome -- £50
Had sex in public -- £20
Been in the same room while someone was having sex --£25
Stole something worth over more than a hundred quid-- £20
Had sex with someone 10 years older -- £20
Had sex with someone under the age accepted by rule of thumb (half your age plus 7) -- £25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time-- £50
Said you love someone but didn't mean it -- £25
Went streaking -- £5
Went streaking in broad daylight -- £15
Been arrested -- £5
Spent time in jail -- £15
Pissed in the pool -- £0.50
Played spin the bottle -- £5
Done something you regret -- £20
Had sex with your best friend -- £20
Had sex with someone you work with at work -- £25
Had anal sex -- £80
Lied to your mate -- £5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good -- £25

Look, it started out as a bit of fun but now I am beginning to get pissed off.  I AM NOT TOD.

If you must know during the time I have been off the Cloud I have also been off work with depression.  I rejoined because I felt ready and I missed people here.  But then I walk into all this shit, and it's really hurtful that some people I had tagged as friends before are doubting me now.

I really don't need this.  I am not Tod.

Thanks a lot everyone.

The House at Pooh Corner by AA Gill.

Pooh was just settling down for some tea and honey when Christopher Robin’s smiling face appeared in the entrance to his burrow.

‘Hello Pooh,’ said Christopher Robin.

‘Hello Christopher Robin,’ said Pooh.

‘Tigger and I are going on an expotition.  Would you like to come?’

‘That sounds fun,’ said the bear.  ‘What sort of an expotition?’

‘We’re going hunting big game.  Come out and have a look.’

Pooh Bear stepped out of his burrow to be met by Christopher Robin and Tigger.

‘Hello Tigger,’ said Pooh.

‘Hi there Pooh,’ said Tigger, who was balancing on his springy tail.

‘Look what I’ve got,’ said Christopher Robin, swinging an big gun off his shoulder.  ‘It’s Daddy’s.’  He screwed up his face as he tried to remember its name. ‘It’s a Remington Semi-Auto 7400.’

‘With a Catseye 5” Hunting Scope with push/pull wind and elevation turrets,’ added Tigger helpfully.

‘I’ll make a packed lunch.’  And with that Pooh nipped back inside and emerged a few minutes later with a flask of tea and some honey sandwiches all wrapped up in a red Gingham cloth tied to a stick which he swung over his shoulder.  Christopher Robin hefted the gun on to his back and the happy trio set off into Hundred Acre Wood to hunt some big game.

Pooh made up a Hum to pass the time;

‘A rum-te-tiddly, tum-te-tiddly

We’re off to hunt big game

A tum-te-tiddly, rum-te-tiddly

I hope it’s not too tame

A pom-te-tiddle, a tiddle-te-pom

Christopher Robin’s got a big gun

A tiddle-te-pom, a pom-te-tiddle

See how the little animals run.’

‘Very good,’ said Christopher Robin and then Tigger struck up his own song;

'A wonderful thing is a Tigger

A Tigger’s a wonderful thing.....’

Just then Christopher Robin held up his closed fist just like Commandos did in the jungle as a silent signal for the hunting party to stop.  Pooh and Tigger stood very still.  Then Christopher Robin did that thing where Commandos point to their eye and then out to the meadow before holding up one finger.  Pooh and Tigger took that to mean he had spotted a lone prey out in the meadow.

He signalled them to lie flat and crawl up behind a grassy knoll.  But Pooh was too fat and when he lay down his arms and legs couldn’t reach the ground for him to crawl so Tigger rolled him into position.  They peered over the mound and in the distance they could see Piglet sitting in the meadow making a daisy chain.

Silently Christopher Robin slid the hunting rifle into the firing position, closed one eye and squinted into the sight.

‘Go for a head shot,’ whispered Pooh.

‘No, aim for the body.  That way if you don’t kill at least you maim,’ hissed Tigger.

‘He’s too far,’ said Christopher Robin.  ‘Tigger, go up on to the knoll and make yourself seen.  You can be the decoy.  He’ll come closer when he sees you.’

So Tigger hopped up on to his tail and, holding his toes, bounced up to the top of the mound – boingy, boingy, boingy.  He was in clear view of Piglet who soon spotted him and waved.  Tigger waved back and Piglet started skipping towards him.

Click, click, click went the scope on the sight as Christopher Robin made adjustments for distance and elevation.  ‘That’s it.....closer.....closer......’

Pooh shoved his paws in his ears, ready for the big bang.

Piglet was centred nicely in the cross-hairs of the sight when Christopher Robin held his breath and squeezed the trigger....gently....gently.

The crack of the rifle resounded around the meadow and Piglet flopped sideways; no dramatic flinging of arms in the air, no pirouettes......he just fell.  One instant he was alive, an instant later he was dead.

Christopher Robin let out a loud Red Indian ‘Whoop!’ and ran bounding down to the meadow with Pooh tumbling behind and Tigger bouncing along on his tail.  The stood around Piglet who lay, spread-eagled in the grass, with his eyes half closed and rivulets of blood trickling from his mouth and his little piggy nostrils.  There was a neat little entrance wound just under his armpit and a gaping exit wound on the opposite side of his chest.  Christopher Robin patted the rifle with satisfaction; ‘Point 397 soft-nosed ammunition.  Gets the job done.  Blew his lungs out.  Didn’t stand a chance.’

Pooh and Tigger felt a small round of applause was appropriate.  ‘Come on,’ said Christopher Robin, ‘Let’s string him up and take him home.  It’ll soon be time for tea.’  They found a long branch and tied Piglet’s arms and legs to it and Pooh and Tigger carried him between them as Christopher Robin led the way.

Pooh made up another Hum on the way home;

‘A rump-a-pom-pom,

The three brave hunters, Christopher Robin, Tigger and Pooh

Blew Piglet’s lungs out with a shot clean through,

But there’s plenty more adventures to do

Tomorrow we’ll be hunting Rabbit, Kanga and Roo

A-rump-a-pom-pom.’

Back at Pooh Corner they all sat round celebrating with honey and tea.  Later, Christopher Robin had Piglet stuffed and mounted, with his little trotters raised and his face in a piggy snarl, as a reminder of the day they went hunting big game in Hundred Acre Wood.

The other day I was telling some people about games lessons at school and at the end they all looked at me and one said, ‘Y’know, Vin, that was very dodgy.’  And for the first time in more than 30 years I thought, how come we never realised at the time?

I went to an all-boys grammar school in the mid-1970s.  It tried to model itself on a public school ethos but somehow it didn’t work on boys who had not already been primed in that mindset in prep school.  We were just 11+ successes from state primary schools, not the offspring of the wealthy middle and upper classes.  Nevertheless, it tried to pretend it was a public school in the state sector.

Every Wednesday afternoon was games.  The word ‘games’ implies a range of sporting activities but in fact there were only two at our school: cricket in the Summer and rugby in the Winter.  Certainly not football; we were, after all, a public school – well as good as at any rate.

All schools are run on rules – most of them sensible, but an awful lot incomprehensible.  One inviolable rule when playing rugby at our school was NO UNDERWEAR.  We were not allowed to wear anything under our shorts; no pants, no jock-straps, not even swimming trunks.

Why?

Apparently it was to save our mothers the trouble and the cost of washing muddy pants.  That was the rationale.  To ensure this rule was being followed the teacher would line us up before a game and randomly pull down a boy’s shorts.  Of course, if a boy was following the school rule he would be naked underneath.  If, however, he took a gamble that he would not be picked out of the line-up and wore some pants he risked exposure.  He would be ordered to take his pants off right there and then AND be given a detention for his trouble.

In all the years I was at the school I was never once selected for a kit inspection.   Certainly on some cold days I took a risk and wore pants but I never got found out.

NOW I can see that was very dodgy.  Yet we never questioned it at the time and we all took the rule at face value.  We didn’t even twig that the nickname we had given the teacher should have caused suspicions of his motives.

Bearing in mind we were teenage boys at an all-boys school in the 1970s; no one had ever heard of the phrase ‘politicial correctness’.  And few of us knew the meaning of ‘homophobia’ even though, I’m sad to say, we were enthusiastic practitioners at the time.  So it’s even stranger that we never thought it odd that a teacher, whose behaviour in all other respects influenced our choice of nickname, should pull our shorts down every games lesson. 

A teacher we all called Bummer.

 

 

She was Asian, fine-featured and stunning.  I didn’t have the exclusive contract on being attracted to her – every guy on the course did, too.  She had long black hair and she wore lots of bangles and necklaces which made a soft chink-chink sound when she walked.

We were on the same course at Preston Poly in 1988.  Well, not quite the same course; she was on the Newspaper Journalism course and I was studying Radio and TV Journalism.  We were on different courses – I was on the second floor and she was on the floor below.  But I used to see her around.  She was way out of my league so the best I could hope for was to at least look cool and likeable when she saw me. 

So I settled on the strategy of worship-from-afar; that way, if we never got together at least she was indifferent to be which was far better than actually disliking me.  And that left the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would approach me.  Fat chance.

There were factors in my favour:  we were roughly the same age, we were both trainee journalists and we were both the same species.  In fact that last one was the ONLY thing which we really shared.

 

The School of Journalism occupied three floors: the ground floor was the reception area, the first floor was newspaper journalism and the second floor was radio and television.  The upper floors each had a ladies’ and a gents’ toilets but the ground floor had just one unisex loo.  It was a small cubicle comprising a sit-down toilet, a wash basin and paper towel dispenser. 

One morning I needed to ‘powder my nose’ and nipped into the unisex toilet.  I closed and locked the door behind me and it was only then that I was hit by the foul stench.  The toilet was a disgusting mess of un-flushed shit and pulpy paper towels.  Now when you sit on a loo your buttocks should form a seal on the seat.  So how did someone manage to get faeces OUTSIDE the bowl?  The only way could have been if they stood against the basin and tried to projectile shit into the toilet.  There was crap everywhere and the smell made me gag.

I took all this in in a split second and made my escape.  I unlocked the door and stepped outside.  Just as the beautiful Asian girl was arriving to use the loo.

I froze.

I SHOULD have said, ‘I wouldn’t go in there.’  That’s what I SHOULD have said.  I might even have told her the loo was unusable.  But I suddenly realised she might think I was responsible for the disgusting mess.  She would have seen me unlock the door and step outside.  There was no sign of her when I went in, so even though I had only been in there a few seconds, to her it looked like I had just used the facility.

What could I say?  ‘I didn’t do it’?  That’s just what I would have said I HAD done it.  Even if I had simply advised her not to go in she might have drawn the conclusion that I was responsible. 

She smiled and stepped past me into the toilet and I fled the scene of the crime I didn’t commit.  I didn’t hang around for her to come out, as she must have done a few seconds later.

From then on my shame was as complete as if I had fouled the unisex loo.  I felt as guilty as the real culprit.  It was as if the cops had burst in and found me standing over the dead body holding the smoking gun which I had picked up a few seconds earlier.

I desperately wanted to say, ‘Remember that time outside the toilet?  I swear it wasn’t me.’  Instead I carried my undeserved shame in silence.  I could imagine her telling other people what a disgusting animal I was and how I lacked even the basic concept of hygiene, spreading my ill-repute like a drifting stench.

It’s actually quite easy to get people to be indifferent to you; you simply exist in their presence, you don’t do anything to cause a blip on their radar and everything is just fine.  I hadn’t even managed that.

 Every time I saw her after that I cast my eyes down in embarrassment and felt my face flush – which is more than that damned toilet had done. 

 

The Ringy-a-Bill Man rattled down our street once a week, pushing his handcart piled high with the junk of local households.  I called him the Ringy-a-Bill Man because that’s what his cry sounded like; ‘Ringy-a-bill!  Ringy-a-bill!’ 

He was an old man – well, everyone seems old when you are young but he looked really old.  A horseshoe of silver hair clung to the back of his head, like a slipped halo.  A full beard wrapped around his face, silver like his hair but yellowed at the moustache wear the nicotine of his ever-present roll-up stained the hair.

He must have been toothless because his lips were sucked in as if he’d just sucked on a lemon.   But his dental emptiness didn’t effect his call.  His legs were so bowed he would never catch an escaped pig.

The Ringy-a-Bill came every Thursday and people would come out their houses and give him things: pots, pans, battered old washboards, lengths of pipe – all manner of metal objects.  All would go on to the handcart which itself looked rescued; the green paint was flaking and the wheels were misaligned, creating a precarious wobble which rattled the scrap on board.

Rattle-clatter-Ringy-a-Bill!

It was years before I figured out what he was saying.  Years of repeating the same cry, combined with an absence of teeth had distorted ‘Rag and bone!’  But he never collected any rags or bones, only scrap metal.  The nature of his trade had changed, over the years, but his call remained the same – a cry past its time.

The other regular caller to the street was the mobile grocer.  He drove a bright yellow 3-tonner and when he opened the roller door at the back a stampede of vegetable smells rushed out.  There was the sweetness of apples, the mustiness of greens and the earthiness of the soil still clinging to the potatoes.  The inside of the lorry was shelved from floor to ceiling and I was always amazed at how much he could cram in there without compromising the sense of space.

Mum used to send me out with an order for potatoes which he weighed on scales before tipping into a brown paper bag.  I was always given money to treat myself to some sweets ‘for going’.  The sweet section was filled with jars of Black Jacks, Penny Chews and toffees.  Caramacs, Sherbet Dips, Pink Panther bars, the most teeth-rotting drinks of Cresta and Corona – all the sickliest confectionary in the known world in one 3-ton truck.

The loose change weighed heavy in my little hands; dirty brown pennies, the size of a £2 coin, with a picture of a young queen on one side and Boudicia on the other.  Chunky half-crowns and tiny sixpences, multi-cornered threepenny bits and shillings as big as the modern ten pence piece.  If you fell in the canal with ten bob of loose change in your pocket you would drown.  And the coins all left a sharp coppery tang on the hands.

The arithmetic of pounds, shillings and pence seemed to defy logic; 240 pence to the pound, a half-crown was worth twelve and a half pence, a coin worth three pence and five pence was called a Bob.  Decimalisation, when it came in 1971, made life so much easier; 100 pence to the pound made much more sense, even though some die-hards accused Harold Wilson of stealing 140 pence from everyone in Britain.  Some unscrupulous shopkeepers did use the conversion to sneakily increase their prices.

You could also get beer delivered to your door like milk.  My dad used to get two crates every week – one of bitter and one of Guinness. Poured together they made a Black and Tan, his favoured pint.  In fact when I first went into a pub (under-aged) and was asked what I wanted, I asked for a Black and Tan.  It was the first thing that came into my head but it had the effect of making me seem an experienced drinker.

The creaminess of the Guinness was given a sharp kick by the bitter.  It wasn’t fizzy, which was a disappointment to a palate trained on Coke.  I didn’t really like it, but it wasn’t undrinkable, although I enjoyed the attention of being asked what it was. 

The beer was delivered by a company called Davenports and its song still sits in my head; ‘Beer at home means Davenports/That’s the beer/Lot’s of cheer......’  Every night Dad would enjoy a pint of Black and Tan and the crates of bitter and Guinness would see him through the week.

Another man who used to come to the house was the insurance collector.  Before Direct Debits and Standing Orders many people paid their dues in cash.  The insurance man carried a leather satchel of cash over his shoulder and a ledger book.  All our weekly bills were set aside, each in their own brown envelope for payment to the relevant collector.

If my parents were out they would leave the money under the doormat or just hanging from the letter box.  Life seemed to run effortlessly.  An old saucepan left on the pavement would be picked up by the Ringy-a-Bill Man, the grocer came to your street, collectors would knock on your door and beer would appear on your doorstep.  And all paid for with chunky, dirty, smelly coins with an arithmetic all of their own big green pound notes stuffed into brown envelopes. 

 

I was really excited about getting my new car tomorrow.  But now I'm sad.  I drove into work, realising this was the last time I'd drive my old car.  It's one of those Welsh ones - a Renault Megan.  It's red, 13 years old and I've had it 7 years.  It's been the most reliable I've ever had. 

It's survived being smashed into a wall by my wife who owned it before me (She was trying to avoid a pheasant.  She killed the pheasant AND crashed the car).  And it was in the middle of a three-car shunt but I convinced the insurance company it was worth repairing rather rather than writing off.  I wanted to save it THAT much.

Now it's got a dangling wing-mirror, the replaced wing is a different shade from the rest of the car, there are rust spots and black welds around the wheel arches.  It's had an entire tin of magnolia spilt in the back, for about six weeks had stank of rotting corpse even though we never did find the source.  It's knocked down a pedestrian and accumulated three speeding fines.  We've been though a lot together - good times, bad times, walls....

And now I'm giving it up as scrappage for a new Smart Car.  I feel so mean.  Tomorrow it will feel like taking a healthy cat to be put to sleep.  Even though it cost £600 to get through the last MOT I'm still thinking I've made the wrong decision.

I'm not sentimental about cars - for me they're just machines for getting from A to B - and I don't give them names.  But now I'm about to get rid of this one I feeling I've betrayed it.

RIP Renault Megan N697 SDG.

.......and I write an autobiography, I will actually write an ALTER-biography.  I will alternate my own chapters with chapters written by other people.  BUT they won't just be written by people who like me, I will also commission chapters by people who don't like me.  I will promise not to edit anything they write and I won't look at their chapters until the book is published.

Autobiographies are often self-serving airbrushed versions of a person's life.  I wish someone would have the courage of admit to their dark side; we all have one.  There is only one autobiography I would reccommend; Unreliable Memoirs by Clive James.  It's the first volume, covering his childhood and it is one of the funniest books I have ever read.

The only other one I would reccommend - although it's not strictly an autobiography, more an account of a period in his life - is An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan.

Beyond those, though, most other self-penned accounts are not very illuminating.  So that's why I would write an alter-biography.

‘He’s a really sweet guy but I’m not looking for a special relationship, right now’.  The words of American President, Barack Obama, after it emerged he turned down FIVE requests for a date from Prime Minister Gordon Brown.

‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ he added at the United Nations conference in New York.

One of the President’s advisors told the Downing Street team, ‘Don’t take it personally but he just sees Gordon as a fellow world leader and it’s never going to be any more than that.’

Professor of International Relations at New York University, Dr Augustus Duck, said, ‘What you’ve got to realise is that America has just broken up with George W Bush after an eight year relationship and it just wants some space to find out who it really is.’

Other critics were more blunt; ‘He’s just not into you,’ the President’s Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel told British diplomats.

Gordon Brown’s approaches came after months of flirting, even though Opposition politicians warned ‘He’s out of your league.’  The Prime Minister was said to be irritated by the claims and insisted he could ‘get’ President Obama. 

His big chance came when the pair attended the UN conference in New York but it took five rejections before he finally got the message;

Snub number 1 came when Obama told the Prime Minister he was washing his hair.

Snub number 2 saw the President cancel at the last minute, claiming something had come up in the Middle East.

Snub number 3 offered a ray of hope when the President said ‘yes’ only for Prime Minister Brown to arrive to find it was a photo-opportunity for all the other world leaders. (Vladimir Putin was heard to ask who was wearing the strong after-shave).

Snub number 4 was when Obama claimed never to have received the message on his Blackberry.

Snub number 5 was the final straw when the President sent along Secretary of State Hilary Clinton to tell Gordon that he would make a great political partner for another Statesman and to put Barack out of his mind.   

The American leader’s name was seen scratched on to Gordon Brown’s despatch box and he had to be pulled away from Yukio Hatoyama after the Japanese Prime Minister placed a friendly hand on the President’s shoulder.

 Later, Gordon Brown made a trade deal with President Sarkozy – but he knew it was just rebound trade and he was thinking of the American President all the time.