I sat down to do a summary of 2008 from Kenny's perspective only to realize that nothing of any import has happened. I mean that; absolutely nothing.
The closest I can come to anything of note is that the total financial meltdown has not hit me yet. I say yet because there is a slim chance it might in April, but even then there are escape routes. I suppose my new found love affair with all things from Cupertino is noteworthy too.
I could list a bazillion things that didn't happen that I wish had, but that's not playing the game really is it?
Resolutions? Move house as soon as possible. Get ginormous TV and SkyHD+ and associated sports package. Buy Mac Mini for all my media needs in the home. Develop a better storage and backup solution for house. If humanly possible, buy a piano. Change car for something with a little more ooomf. Make sure I take a holiday -- the last time I went on holiday was August 2003 and this year I have managed to sell 5 days back and carry over 5 days so I cannot complain that I don't have the time to take.
And then there's that whole revolution deal that I keep putting on hold.
Right, I must away to transform myself into Amy Winehouse. If I get chance, I might post some pics before I head over to tonight's do chez Mr and Mrs Fashionista. If I don't post before, all the best for the new year and don't snog anyone I wouldn't. Smooch.
Since I heard the Fiona Apple cover of I Want You (the Youtube link from a few days ago), I have been desperately trying to get my hands on a copy of the MP3. On the Fiona Apple website, it alludes to the fact that you can get it on iTunes. This is true, but only in the US store, which requires a US credit card so I've been a bit stuck. After trawling t'interweb for a while I found a site that streams it in Quicktime but doesn't allow you to download it. Enter the gift of wget.
A while ago, I was toying with the idea of embedding this little gem into the blog when Maest had made some God-awful pun. Again, it could not be downloaded so I typed wget URL in a console prompt and bugger me, if there is no wget shipped as standard on OS X. I swiftly razzed on over to sourceforge, pulled down the source and compiled it. Voila. I knew there would be a reason I would have gone to such lengths. And that reason was today when I found I Want You locked down in a web page. All I did was wget it and bang!, I now have it on my iPod. One less kitten will perish today.
In other news, I am frustrated by the Telegraph crossword today. It has far too many pop-culture references for a lowly Kenny to be able to cope with. De Niro was fine, but I'm looking for an actress's name and I am unashamedly stumped. If I remember correctly it is _ _ E / _ E _ _ . I expect this kind of modern nonsense in the Guardian, not in the Telegraph. I mean, who has time to spend watching every Hollywood production? More to the point, who is interested? The limit of my descent into pop-culture is when I read Bryony's column. [Update: It was MAE WEST]
Finally, what on earth is going on with Stevie Gerrard? Fisticuffs in a nightclub? I awoke this morning to a flurry of "chatter" (yes I've been watching too many spy films) on the subject between York and somewhere South of Stoke (it's all the same place). I fear the Waaart's blood pressure is at tipping point. I don't think I have ever seen such blind panic in an email. Histrionic is a word that springs to mind. I tend to err on the Waaart's side when he says it is potentially disastrous for Liverpool's Premiership hopes if Gerrard is convicted of ABH and affray and sentenced to jail. I differ when it comes to the national side. Gerard is a nice to have but is not essential to the team in the way he is essential to the scousers. His England performances are so hit and miss that it would probably be safer to have someone who plays at 75% consistently rather than fluctuating between 0% and 100%.
Having typed that last paragraph, I must apologize in advance for the flame war I have probably just started.
Right -- a light lunch and then it's off out into the wicked world once more.
Well Fashionista, Mr Fashionista and I hit the Trafford Center to acquire some garb for New Year's Eve. Wow. We must have walked about a parsec. The Trafford Center is not quite Mall of America big, but it's big enough to wear your legs to three inch stumps. I am currently typing from the top of a crate.
The thing that I have learned tonight is that were I a girl, I would have hell finding something to fit me. For a bloke I'm not that big built. I'm 6 foot tall and weigh in at about 180lbs so I'm certainly not massive. The number of dresses that we saw that Fashionista went nuts for and then, when the largest size had been located, weighed up my size and the dress and shook her head, was phenomenal. We ended up giving up on a dress because there was just no way any of these would have fitted. We spotted one top that looked like a fair candidate with being a size umpteen or so. When we unlaced it and wrapped it around my chest, there was a gap of about four inches. As for shoes: there is nothing remotely near big enough for me.
It struck me as we wandered around that I have spent most of my adult life thinking I was kind of small for a bloke. As store after store didn't have anything that would get anywhere near me, I started looking at other blokes and women around the place and sure enough, the majority were smaller than I am. I guess there's some Freudian guff to be derived from that.
I am tempted to try to describe the outfit that I have bought but I fear I will not do it justice. I think I will wait and let the pictures speak for themselves. When they do, be sure to focus on the color-coordination and attention to daft detail. I'd like to say that it was all Fashionista's doing, but I actually got involved. It's terrible. Whenever Fashionista and I get together, she takes great joy in pretending I'm a girlfriend. I cite the Dolly Parton gig as proof of previous emasculation. I still have a Backwards Barbie teeshirt complete with hot pink logo that I wear for work sometimes, to the delight of my cohorts there, thanks to a Fashionista moment. She's definitely in my top ten of people on the planet if only because of the complete enthusiasm she has. If I had to dispose of a body, I think she'd be the first person I called just because she's wily.
Alors, that really was good fun even if the masses were out in force. That said, if there is one thing worse than shopping for tat, it is shopping for tat in the sales. Amen to that but we did laugh a lot and we got what we went for.
Doff of the beehive to Fashionista if you're reading. And a flirtatious wink in the direction of Mr Fashionista whose patience must have been tried this evening. Roll on Wednesday.
I have just caught myself praying. Just after I posted that last entry, I checked my phone and realized I had managed to set it into its "silent" mode. Usually I thoroughly approve of its wont to be quiet -- it's as if we are magically connected and it knows when I really don't want to take a call from some oik somewhere -- but in this case we had a bit of a tiff about it. I had missed a text from Fashionista which detailed the plan. We are going to the Trafford Center after all. I'm already thinking sashimi even though I've just eaten about half a lamb, chips and veg.
The Vanquisher popped up online just as I had finalized arrangements to point out that there is an Apple store in the Trafford Center.
I prayed that the Apple store was nowhere near where we are heading because I know my limits when it comes to temptation. The last time I yielded to temptation, it led to a marriage followed by misery. I know how this karma thing works. It ain't pretty. I would become a complete puritan but that would involve forsaking debauchery and that just would not do at all. Instead I live with the guilt -- that way I can enjoy life while beating myself up about my lack of restraint. I like to think of myself as a modern day Oscar Wilde except without the talent for writing, the penchant for men or fashion sense.
Now I need to make a list of things that I need. There are not many people who I enjoy going shopping with but Fashionista is one of them. This will probably be more fun than the actual party.
I've just watched last night's BBC remake of The 39 Steps with Rupert Penry-Jones. For the first quarter of an hour I sat wondering whether I would last out. Rather than the gritty spy drama I remember, it looked like it had been well and truly costume-dramatized like so much of the BBC output. After that, enter the suffragette/spy and the whole thing started to gel into a romcom with a subplot of some nasty German spies. I ended up loving it. The dialogue was witty, the bosch clad in long leather coats like they should be, the hero and heroine suitably polar opposites and, of course, the plot totally implausible. A complete masterpiece. As soon as it's out on DVD, that's another one for the collection. I could obviously upload it from my PVR and burn it to DVD, but that sounds like effort.
I think we (as in the royal we -- Kenny and his boring everyday alter-ego) approve of Penry-Jones. Apart from the poncy double-barrel name, he seems a thoroughly decent chap. Unfortunately actors of a similar style who came before him almost always ended up doing period dramas and you get sick of the sight of them. I hope he doesn't succumb to his thespian side too much. If I might be so bold, I think he would make a fantastic Bond. I've not seen the Quantum of Solace yet (or the one before) but apparently they are trying to intellectualize the Bond series somewhat, which would make old double-barrel a great choice.
In other news, I was meant to be going shopping for my Amy Winehouse dress at the Trafford Center later today however my consultant fashionista is unreachable. On reflection going to the Trafford Center to buy a one-night only get-up seems like a costly affair so instead I'm going to do a quick google for images of Amy outfits and see if I cannot come up with something cheap and cheerful from Matalan or Sainsburys. Do they sell fishnets at Sainsburys? Guess I'll find out. If not, it will be leggings. Come to think of it, I have no idea how to put on a suspender belt so leggings may be a better bet. The one thing that I may have trouble with is footwear. My balance is awful at the best of times so high-heels are not an option. We'll (royal we again) be looking for some kind of ballet shoes which I am almost certain Sainsburys will not stock. I wonder whether I can Amazon some in time...(like that? the verb to Amazon? Gah, no pleasing you lot).
The rest of my day will undoubtedly involve more Alias, football and maybe more blogging. My heartfelt sympathy goes out to all those who have returned to work today -- it must be awful. That said, I bet normal blogging frequency resumes now that you are back. ;)
I have spent the last couple of evenings working my way through Alias. I'm still only at the start of season four even though I've put in some hours over the last few months. I think if I am ever tempted to go on Mastermind, my specialist subject will be Alias. More specifically, the hairdos associated with it.
Humphries: "Name?"
Kenny: "Kenny Groover."
Humphries: "Occupation?"
Kenny: "Annoying Smartarse."
Humphries: "Specialist subject?"
Kenny: "The life and hairdos of Sydney Bristow."
Humphries: "Okay Mr Groover, you have two minutes on the life and hairdos of Sydney Bristow, starting now. Where was Bristow when she wore a purple spikey hairdo with associated hot punk girl outfit?"
Kenny: "Nice airport."
Humphries: "Correct. What hairdo was Bristow sporting when she thought she had seen Lauren in a German nightclub, just after the assassination of the hacker Cipher?"
Kenny: "Black gothed up ringlets."
Humphries: "Correct"...
...
<ding ding>
Humphries: "And at the end of that round Mr Groover, you have a record 49 correct answers, no wrong answers and no passes."
This truly could be my passport to success. Either that or an ASBO for stalking anyone with a purple spikey punk hairdo.
Thankfully I will be distracted this evening. I've not seen the Vanquisher since last weekend, so we're going to head on out to the usual haunt to continue to plan the revolution. In the meantime, I have a lunch to attend, an elderly paternal grandparent who took a fall on Christmas day to visit, and a git load of errands to run.
I'm preparing what I need to cook later on tonight. One of the things I am particularly arrogant about is how things get prepared. To be brutal, if you don't do it my way, your life can be nothing but miserable. I am very meticulous about how and when I chop things. I like to operate on the basis that I have pre-prepared chopped whatevers at hand. After they have been used, they can be washed up thereby minimizing hassle. If that is not the case, I go into blind panic and you can just write the whole thing off as a complete waste of time.
Today I am doing battle with someone who is quite happy to wing it. My methods are, apparently, wrong and take all the fun out of cooking. At this point I ask the question, when is cooking fun? Answer: when you're doing it your way, and no other. Is it any wonder I hate kitchens? I look in amazement at people who enjoy the process. If you're my age or younger, the ready meals that you get in Sainsburys are good enough. Why the hell would you bother paying twice the price for the ingredients, wasting hours of your life only to produce something that might (if you're lucky) be fractionally better than the ready meal? And then be saddled with having to clean up?
The only time I take to a kitchen in earnest is when I'm doing something I know cannot be emulated. You should try my aubergine sometime. I swear no-one can put so much love into a vegetable dish.
I take my hat off to those people who can cook really well, and I know quite a few. They will insist that I have just never learned. My ever so juvenile response to this is that I'm now too old and besides, it's kind of like heights -- you can either handle them or you can't. I can't. I get dizzy on a step, just like I get dizzy when I smell a peeled onion. I'm on my way to perdition every time I fire up a gas ring. I can't see that ever changing. I have about four dishes that I do really well; the rest J Sainsbury does better.
You can tell that I'm digging this can't you? I have to go burn something now. When it's good and destroyed, we'll enjoy Aubergine au Kenny.
I have just received an email from the Waaart. Somehow he has managed to live without a scanner for the past century or so but now has one and is threatening to start scanning photos of yesteryear, when we both had two kidneys (good times). I don't have any of our old pictures thanks to a divorce so I have been happy in the knowledge that there were about two mildly awful shots of me as a teenager.
I think I may have to disable the posting of images in the comments. If these things are going to be leaked, I want to censor them. As I keep saying, this is not a democracy.
Thanks to the parental units' MP, Andy Burnham (Culture Secretary), I have some code to write. The Right Honorable Member for Leigh has decided, in a Al Goresque Messianic fit of self-importance, that internet sites should be rated according to their content. I could just put up an 18 rating but that would be too simple. In fact, persons who are younger than 30 are more prone to being of a moonbat disposition so maybe I should put up a 30 rating. I think I will write something that pre-parses the content and rates it on the fly. I will then sell this to ISPs to use as their rating system. I will then become rich, develop a cocaine habit and spend the rest of my life stoned off my box effusing in the most offensive language possible. Okay, I might have to stop at some point in that process, but I was starting to like the sound of that, probably a little too much.
On the whole, I try to run a family-show here but some things just cannot be expressed without the issuance of several carefully chosen profanities. I take that back. I have just done a cursory (no pun intended) search and have counted about a thousand instances of objectionable language in the last five years (to be fair that did include derivations of feck as well as the usual suspects). Prior to that I did everything in flat files and the search doesn't look in there. So I reckon I drop a bollock on the use of the profanisaurus two out of every three days on average, which, it has to be said, is probably considerably better than most newspapers, radio stations or TV channels.
What do we reckon? We could have all sorts of fun with ratings.
Well, in the immortal words of one of the readers of this slightly skewed version of my existence, "I'm feckin' replete".
I have done very well out of Christmas. In return people's gifts were well thought through and I did add some comedic value with my Woolies vouchers, my father's MFI receipt and some rather fine variations on Season's Greetings. My mother, naturally being my biggest fan, hoovered all the wrapping paper to keep them all. I am amazed -- these are not works of comedy genius by any stretch; they are worth a five second titter and no more. I also provided everyone with a scratch card as I am prone to do. Three out of seven were winners so not bad. Once again I forgot to take pictures at key moments. I think I have a couple that will be worth anything.
I've just spent a couple of hours enjoying a few of the pressies. I really didn't need anymore food but it is a Kenny rule that if there is ginger in anything, it must be consumed before anyone else gets a look-in. I have piled through about half a pound of Thornton's chocolate gingers while watching The Sentinel on DVD. I have half a pound left and I just cannot do it to myself. I have hidden those for fear of burglars. For a Michael Douglas film, The Sentinel is not half bad although whenever I see Kim Bassinger, I think back to *that* whole Catwoman deal with great, erm, fondness so the film is probably on a winner.
While the rest of my family were demanding to watch the Queen who, by all accounts, filmed the speech from a home for the elderly and infirm, I demanded to watch the Imam President of Iran, just to make the point that I could not give a cocktail sausage what the hell the Queen says. Thankfully the Gogglebot took over by continuing to unwrap presents for hours and hours -- while her father sat going brighter and brighter shades of red as he imagined all the loot he had to transfer back to his house and where it would all go when it got there. We missed both the Imam and the Queen. I was happy.
I have to say that my favorite present was a Chinese pot that Kidder brought back from his trip there. I expected him to have forgotten to bring one. Mais non mes petit chou-fleurs. It is absolutely gorgeous. This from a man who generally doesn't give a proverbial about anything made of clay. I have left it at the parental units' overnight but when I do pick it up, I will be sure to photograph it. Honestly, you may all mock, but I am smitten to bits with it. I could rant on and on but I will spare you until I can take a picture of it. I intend to make it such a good picture that I might even break out the tripod.
It occurred to me as I drove home that I have once again not been asked to provide an address to the nation. It seems like everyone has a bash -- Queenie, The Rev Gnomic Williams, Popey-baby and now an Imam. I intend to redress the balance tomorrow at some point, although I do have the small matter of a boat load of football to gorge myself on while being force-fed more calories than I usually consume in a week.
I hope you've all had a fab day and that your fondu sets, Wiis or Chinese pots have been abundant.
Because I'm sat alone tonight, I cranked up Fiona Apple's cover of Frosty The Snowman, which reminded me of her version of Elvis Costello's I Want You. You can't buy it in the UK from iTunes which is a swine of a thing, but it is on Youtube.
Tell me she is not just the most attractive woman ever. I don't mean to be unfestive, but damn, I would slaughter every damned flying reindeer on the planet just to see her live.
Call it my Christmas present to you all. If it doesn't make you just a bit a-systolic, might I advise a call to the emergency services? It rattles me something bad.
I have prided myself on the fact that I have not entered a single store apart from the local convenience stores here and at work for the whole of the month thus far, thereby avoiding the great unwashed and their even more unwashed snotting kids. All my shopping has been complete for weeks. I have been smugger than my usual self which is pretty damned smug. So you will appreciate the ultimate sacrifice I have made today. Due to some chronic dysfunction of my family, I was informed last night that I needed to make a last minute run for vegetables and bread.
Quite naturally I screamed.
So I went to find out the opening time of Sainsburys this morning. Result: 6:00am. Get in!
I wasn't so anal as to hit Sainsburys bang on 6:00am but I was there and home by 7:30. I am assured by others who have been to Sainsburys or Asda in the last few days that it has been hell. I have heard tales of multiple near-collisions in parking lots, people scrabbling for the last loaf of bread etc.. My window cleaner said he got so claustrophobic in the grocery store that he left his wife to get on with it and sat watching the near-misses in his car until she had finished.
I may nip up to the top of the road for cigs just to be safe, but that is me very definitely out of consumer hell for now.
I'm sure I'll be back later but just in case I'm not Felicity Kendals and Season's Butros Butros Butros Butros Ghalis to one and all (with the usual caveats). May you be fortunate enough to find a turkey that does not resemble Kylie Minogue, a pork leg that doesn't remind you of the rubber faced irritant Oddie and no Jeremy Clarkson DVDs in your stocking (better still, your house). And go easy on the grog.
Well, since I got my iPod in March and published my list of most frequently played tunes, it appears not much has changed with the exception that Ms Spektor has hit it something bad...
I'm off to watch some really bad TV. I have Pater taping the Thin Lizzy concert on Sky Arts 1 at 10:15 so I have something to distract me from the tedium of Christmas day. How would I have coped in years gone by?
I've just checked my work email like I said I would once a day while I'm on vacation, just in case anything really bad is happening, and am gob-smacked. I have won an award. The funny bit is that my award is for being just the right level of belligerent to get something done that needed doing but that no-one was willing to endorse. This is my infamous arrogance in action. I should email back and say that I should not be encouraged.
That is one result that is more surprising than the Chelsea one yesterday. I expected to be roasted over an open fire for my actions.
It's a cash prize. I think I'm going to donate it to charity. How nice am I? Shut up. You all obviously know me better than mi'learned colleagues. But I'm serious about the charity thing.
I am looking for car insurance because mine is up sometime in mid-January. I hopped onto Compare The Market and (eventually) got quotes that gave me acute pains in my left buttock, where my wallet would no longer be cushioning me were I to take one of the quotes. With my usual diligence, I thought "screw this, I'll leave it until after the new year".
This morning the phone rang. It was some oik from Compare The Market who reckoned that he could pass me through to someone who may be able to beat the best quote they had given me. I went through all my details *again* with him and then was put through to some other insurance company who proceeded to take all my details for a third time. By this time, I had spent 15 minutes on the phone. He put me on hold for two minutes while he got the quote. Lo and behold, when he came back, he reckoned that they could offer me insurance for 150% of the cheapest quote I had got from Compare The Market. What the hell was the point in that?
Answer:
Insurance company pays Compare The Market for referrals. They act as a cold-calling service to feed in sales leads to the insurance company, for which they are paid a commission. It's kind of like click-stream but with phones. It is a totally moonbat way of compensating someone. Surely commissions are earned when a sale has been made. This is why I have never understood the internet advertising model. Unless you make a sale, what is the point of paying someone? I could happily call on my mates all day and ask them to get quotes and suffer fifteen minutes torment so I get a commission and then split it with them. Easy money, non?
I am reminded of an old British Gas practice that Pater used to have to deal with. His engineers would call in imaginary gas-leaks so their mates would be called out and get paid. The mates would then return the favor. I remember my father coming home one day when such a scam had gone on and he had spotted it but could do nothing about it because he was in charge of a gas works that had a feck-off big IRA bomb planted right on the side of one of the gas holders. I do not think I have ever seen him so stressed. He was used to handling bomb-threats -- in fact he was amazingly calm and collected about those -- but when fake gas leaks were called in, his moral outrage shone. As teenagers, we recognized the signs and got the hell out of Dodge.
What Compare The Market are doing is basically calling in false gas-leaks. In effect all they are doing is selling my call to another company with a 5% sales lead, just like google get paid when an advertised link is clicked.
It is absolutely bonkers.
This is how the whole of the banking sector ended up in this state. There's a big appetite for selling nothing more than a wing and a prayer as a potential customer. And like any other business, it's just volume that makes the numbers.
I know some of you are much more au-fait with accountancy than I am, but really, can you explain to me how this kind of model exists? I look at it like I wasted 20 minutes of my life that I will never get back, the insurance company will have paid Compare The Market something or other. The only person who wins in this is the VAR (and I would drop the value add from that). If I could charge these people my going rates for 20 minutes of my time, they would not have the temerity to even think about calling my number.
Money for nothing. And where does that lead? To precisely where we are today where people who make things or do things are going out of business while complete intangibles account for profits. Knowledge economy my arse.
Does anyone remember how much I paid for my car insurance last year? Because I'm buggered if I can.
I've been on two price comparison sites and both are outrageously expensive compared to the figure I am willing to pay. Has anyone else noticed that their insurance prices have gone up even with an extra year's no-claims? And what's the deal with these companies who will not quote? I am a 30-something, single male who has 20 years driving experience, has never claimed against his insurance (I didn't bother claiming for that shunt), no driving convictions for 15 years and I drive an under-powered small automatic car. I'm not seeing any red flags in that description.
I am now using my new Edimax AR-7084 ADSL 2+ router. The install program was rubbish but being a man who knows his onions when it comes to mad networking skillz, I tweaked a few things and I am now roaring. It is undoubtedly faster than my Livebox. For anyone who hits this searching for how to install the Edimax as your connection to the Orange internet. I found the following worked:
PVC0 VPI: 0 VCI: 38 (it defaults to 33 which is the wrong virtual circuit) PPPoA PPPoA VC Mux
Doing a bandwidth speed test had me coming in with 6.5Mbps downstream and 500Mbps upstream which is about the maximum I can expect seeing I'm on an 8Mbps LLU line and a couple of miles away from the exchange.
The downside to this superfast connection is that I happened to see that one of my friends on Facebook had become a fan of Jeremy Clarkson. Apparently I share a birthday with him. How much does that suck? Prior to this I only know two people who had my birthday -- a lass I went to school with and Lisa Stansfield. I am no longer in good company.
I am so excited. Second only to a new Fiona Apple CD, this is about as good as it gets. I was chatting with the Vanquisher on Saturday afternoon about the problems he was having with his cable modem which got me thinking about my ADSL router. It is not optimal at all. In fact, when I compare the wireless speed that I get with it to that which I get at the parental units', it is v. poor indeed. During the epic battle to get Pater wireless that I waged earlier in the year, I bought him an Edimax router. It is the dog's nads. So I hopped on to Amazon and bought their ADSL router. It arrived today!
I am a huge fan of Edimax networking kit. Their USB wireless sticks are immeasurably better than anything out there. Their cable wireless router worked like a treat (much better than the previous one I did battle with) and it just screams. I have high hopes.
I am now going to disappear offline and see how good this thing is.
Well, Pater and I got our football groove on yesterday afternoon. I didn't know that the Man Utd game was on Freeview so missed it. Idiot. We are now World Club Champions, as well as Premiership Champions and Champions of Europe. It makes me all fuzzy inside. Although that might just be indigestion.
I watched West Brom beat Man City in a game that was, for want of anything better to describe it, utter shite of the most overpaid kind. Honestly, it was that bad that when Benjani was injured, I sat amusing whoever was listening alleging that he had been taken off because of a fractured dreadlock. "I can't watch the replay. I have never seen a dreadlock at that angle before. It is unnatural. Sickening." I cried. "You're an idiot" came the response. "True", I replied, "but at least when things get really bad, I can retire to the dark recesses of my mind and entertain me. You guys all just sit bored. Never a dull moment being Kenny."
Arsenal vs Liverpool was a much better game. I thought Liverpool would win but I obviously wanted Arsenal to win. I got a draw which is not too bad. As much as I loathe Van Persie, his goal was good. I have no feelings one way or the other for Robbie Keane, but hell, his goal was amazing. I'm sure that football people will not appreciate how good it was. You need to be a cricket player to understand how hard it is to try to judge something that is coming in from behind you that you need to connect with. It was either pure luck or complete genius. Goal of the year for me.
It's that time of year where I have to do boring things as well. Tax the car, renew insurance. I was not made for the mundane. My gut reaction is to get online and just throw a card number at the problem. My time where I am not doing such things is worth more than saving 2p. Unfortunately, it seems that the companies that compare quotes appear to be eejits. I tried to get a car insurance quote from Compare the Market but the (severely crappy) holding page told me I was SOL. The text informed me that their site would be down for maintenance from sometime Saturday until 5pm Sunday. I was doing this at about 18:30. We would never schedule an outage of such length for our portal. If our site was down for that length of time, we would all be fired, no questions asked.
Now I have two weeks off. What to do? I battered the Telegraph crossword before my first cup of tea had brewed. I guess I now need to print out the Guardian one and see whether that is anymore challenging (the Grauniad always seems to provide a limp crossword on Mondays).
No doubt I will be back later. Everyone around me is going out shopping. The only shop I will be entering between now and Christmas is the one at the top of the road here where I can buy my cigs and other consumables.
From an IM I received, it sounds like you might be getting a guest-blog from the Vanquisher at some point today so keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you -- I have given him a carte blanche on annoyance reduction in the junta that will be ours after the revolution. The poor lad has a list longer than mine, mostly of people I have never heard of but I trust his judgment.
For once in my life, I am absolutely speechless. Who on God's green earth thought this would be an appropriate place to recruit spooks? I don't know what MI6 pay but I have seen what MI5 pay and, quite frankly, I would not get out of bed for it. I guess that at least they obviously pay peanuts for their marketing people.
I just called Pater's cell phone because I needed to ask him a question. What did he do? Answered, identified the fact that it was me and shouted for my mother to come and talk to me. This is the story of our lives. I can be sat in the same room as him and he will shout "L, ask Kenny whether he wants a brew." Mater will ask me, I will respond and so it goes...we appear to communicate by proxy. Hilarious.
I have just sent him an email saying that if I had wanted to be talked at, surely I would have called Mater's phone.
I am on day three of my party season. The night before last was the work "do". Last night was chez Albert. Tonight is the Vanquisher and his overly intelligent mate. I might wear the Winehouse wig just to set my intellectual stall out.
After tonight, Christmas will be officially over for me. All my gifts have been wrapped for over a week. My last minute Albert Junior and Alberta Secundus pressies were a success. Albert Junior is, as we speak, programming Java. He's just interrupted me and told me to rename my blog "the world's funniest blog". Ah, the innocence and complete wrongness of youth. I'm actually quite touched. Albert Junior seems to see me as some kind of role model to aspire to be. Thinking about it, Mrs Albert seems to treat me in a similar way. I think the best guiding rule anyone could ever have is to always think "What would Kenny do?" and then do completely the opposite -- you would not go far wrong.
While I'm feeling seasonal and mellow, I will mention the fact that I got a very sweet email from an old colleague in Australia. The last time we were in the same physical location was about 1995. We sat in various pubs around Haworth plotting a management buy-out of our old company. Nothing ever came of it, but nothing has ever come of either of my MBO attempts. We did have a fantastic time though. We've been out of touch for a long time but thanks to the gift of Facebook, we can now trade barbed compliments on a daily basis. The note that I got from Aunty (my name for him -- he is Antipodean but it doesn't really trip off the tongue that well -- in response he calls me Po) was a very thoughtful missive lauding my ability to make him laugh which is high praise indeed given he is possibly one of the wittiest people I know.
I've completely forgotten where I was going with this. Ah well. Probably for the best.
Du café and then it's the long and winding road back to the dark place.
This is the type of earth shattering analysis Maest, Waaarty and I undertake on a near daily basis...
From: Kenny To: Maestro, Waaart Subject: Ug
Why is the cute lass from upstairs so chatty with me today? --
From: Maestro To: Kenny, Waaart Subject: Re: Ug
Maybe you're stood next to somebody she fancies? --
From: Waaart To: Kenny, Maestro Subject: Re: Ug
Betty doesn't work for MegaCorp does he? --
From: Kenny To: Maestro, Waaart Subject: Re: Ug
I don't think he would turn as many heads as he used to. That's the problem with being an icon of a past decade. He should have taken a leaf out of my book and reinvented himself every ten years. ;) --
From: Waaart To: Kenny, Maestro Subject: Re: Ug
Aye. You can imagine the conversation:
"Ey Rachel, look at that old fat bloke over there... 'e looks a bit like he's modelled 'imself on that old git who sings with U2, Boneo or something."
"Yeah Claire, 'e does too. Pity about that. I bet he was top totty in 'is day."
"Aye. 'an look at the hunk he's talking to..."
"You mean that gorgeous sex sandwich who looks like he reinvents himself every 10 years or so?"
I am sat limiting my potential for doing damage. I have unplugged my PC from the engineering network lest I feel the urgent need to log into one of the live systems to "fix" something.
I'm joking. I'm just tired. Being sociable saps my energy.
I'm waiting for an Amazon delivery. Given I am descending upon the Royal Albert Hall later and I already had a Christmas present for Albert Junior, I felt obliged to buy Alberta Secundus something to do with hamsters. Like you do. In an uncharacteristic fit of efficiency, I had the presence of mind to bring some wrapping paper with me. So once Mr Postman has been I will be being girly in front of all my colleagues. Whatever shred of respect they have for me will evaporate.
As I typed that, my parcel arrived so I am now all wrapped up. As predicted mi'learned colleagues were merciless. Apparently I should be wrapping with a big box of chocolates and an industrial size glass of Chardonnay to work through. That sounds remarkably similar to my vision of Dido sat in a big jumper in a stark, very wooden kitchen crooning away about why you should not think of her. Bless her cotton socks.
Look at that -- it's nearly time to set my out of office email up. Two whole weeks off. How sweet is that?
You would not believe how much a hotel room in Leeds costs. All so I can pretend that I am sociable...
Alors, that is not why I'm on here. I received an email from Nski overnight. I am inclined not to reply -- 'tis the season to be jolly so I'm not sure dealing with a sociopath will be a good complement to jollity. What I don't want to do is end up in a protracted email discussion because therein lies the path to deeper madness; I tread a thin line at the best of times. What does the panel think?
Before I start, it is always ever so nice to see a hit from the Telegraph, where Ms Gordon works. It still makes my day to see that she bobs on here every now and again. Apparently it is to prove to colleagues that some people really do like her, but that's okay by me. Her Facebook status says that she is ten pints of snot mixed with lemon and ginger at the moment. As she says, sexy.
Okay, to business. I'm in a quandary. Tomorrow night is the office Xmas do. Somehow the chap on reception managed to catch me in a weak moment and I coughed up £10 to attend. I don't know what could have softened me up so much that I would have just amiably agreed to parting with dosh for the sake of a Xmas do. I can only think that the lass in Starbucks had not only added two extra shots without telling me, but she'd winked at me while doing it. Maybe I had just avoided being fired for being arrogant but that is such a common-place event that I more or less live each day in that state. It must be the lass in Starbucks. The point being that I am meant to be going to the do tomorrow night. I have three choices are far as I see it. I can attend and then drive home late to spend too few hours in my bed before turning around and driving back to Leeds. I can grab a hotel room. Or I can blow it off completely. Hmmm.
On Friday, I have invited myself to Albert Towers in York. School's out for two weeks as of then and the worst I can expect during that time is a call from some paranoid project manager whose world is falling apart because I have not been around to marshal things in the correct direction. Every couple of months, I invite myself chez Albert. Mrs Albert and the all the little Alberts don't seem to object too strongly in that candy and flowers usually arrive with me. I suppose it goes some way to compensating for the fact that Albert and I sit with our heads in our hands, burning what is left of our hair with cigarettes, lamenting how utterly shite it is to be back in the UK, until one of us has to extinguish the other -- we call it a night after that.
So, if I am to attend tomorrow's function and stay in Leeds, I will be going from there up to York on Friday. This means two nights packing which must be done now. Eek.
Saturday, I have an evening with the Vanquisher. Apparently one of his mates who is doing a PhD in something mathematical is home from Uni so will be joining us. The Vanquisher is under the absolutely absurd assumption that his mate and I will sit comparing notes on all sorts of wizardry. I suspect that the only thing I will be able to outclass this guy on is the use of slide-rules. The Waaart and numerous others will attest that for a guy with a maths degree, I have to be the most God awful mathematician in the known universe (okay, outside of Berkeley or UCSC). I suspect that the limit of our geek love-in will be some imaginative metaphors around the quality of the barmaid's back-end database or ample E-PROMs. I jest -- but you get the point.
After that, I have a myriad of other invites which I think I will politely decline. My only surefire attendance will be New Year's Eve when the Amy Winehouse kit will be donned. Back in the eighties when blokes wearing eyeliner was not quite as frowned upon as it is today, I was a big lover of the over-eye-linered look and spent most of my Friday and Saturday nights dowsed in it, badly. Think Robert Smith without the hair or the weight. NYE will see me resurrect my mad make-up skills but I may have to study how awfully she applies her gumf first -- perchance a trial run. All photographic evidence will, naturally, be destroyed.
Right. I now have a decision to make -- tomorrow's do or not? Must remember to pack wrapping paper and tape if so (kids' presents). I know -- it might be handy if I knew whether there were any hotels handy mightn't it? Guess I'll do that now.
Well my last little job (which was actually a big job because it meant physically doing something other than wrapping) is done. i finally managed to summon up the guts to hit the post office. I must not have had my game-head on because I did it just after the schools finished so stood in a queue for quarter of an hour surrounded by snotting infants and their intolerant parents. I am a saint. The recipient will never know how much I put on the line to ensure she got a Christmas present. That's partially because she appears not to be speaking to me at the moment but let us not dwell on that particular detail.
I emailed the Waaart and Maest to gloat that Christmas was now a fait accomplis for me and that I hoped their 20th century ways of visiting shops worked out for them. I added that it was okay for them to hate me for my Christmas efficiency. The response came back "We do hate you, but what has that got to do with Christmas?" Sometimes I can just feel the love oozing. Others, like today, I hope their turkey is undercooked to an extent where it causes some moderate discomfort.
I meant to mention this last night but got distracted by something else...
To all the pseudo-eco-warriors in my street -- congratulations on burning God knows how many watts by lighting up the street with Christmas lights. It's like Blackpool illuminations crossed with the Las Vegas Strip. Your hypocrisy is duly noted and will be thrown straight back at you whenever I get the chance.
I'd like to say that I am gobsmacked, but I'm not really. Bernard Madoff's ultimate con-trick echoes many things that have gone before.
There is not one part of me that believes that he and some shyster auditor were the only ones complicit in such a phenomenally huge scam. To bluff some of the world's biggest banks with what equates to an Amway deal takes some doing. I can't make out whether Madoff's confessions were made to pave the way for a plea of senility/insanity or not. It is no more shocking than the fact that our financial systems have been a figment of our imagination for a period that stretches back longer than most of us have been around.
Let's face it, most of us know jack about the workings of high finance. I know enough to run a company and no more (although I would always bow to a second opinion). Up until about five years ago, I could not get my noodle around short-selling -- if you're a halfway decent person, that concept is a complete anathema to anything you can dream up. Short-selling seems like grade-school economics when you compare it to hedge funds. To this day, I have no idea how they work. It seems that I am not alone. Some of the biggest banks in the world appear to be in the same boat.
The clever bit appears to be in the marketing. What looked like a very conservative fund to both the trained and untrained eye in a time when things were going loopy again (post 2002), looked like a winner to those who surveyed the current landscape. Kerching if you can keep up the facade. Look at the names who had cash in that fund -- HSBC, Santander, RBS. These are not amateurs.
It makes you wonder whether the whole of the fallout of the current economic meltdown is not purely down to a handful of individuals. If you think about the last twenty years (which is about as long as I can say I have nearly understood the madness), there's a litany of rogue individuals that are responsible for the most God-awful collapses. Off the top of my head, I'll go with Nick Leeson, Robert Maxwell, Ernest Saunders, John Rusnak. These guys crippled massive institutions. I don't even remember the names of the Enron people.
There's an old adage that an unholy amount of the world's wealth is held by a very, very small minority. It transpires that a percentage of that minority being greedy is sufficient to kill the rest and that the regulatory bodies have no real power to oversee it. The banking sector appears to have been left to play its own merry little game of hot potato, only in this version everyone got burned.
Call me old communist Ken of yesteryear but have I not been saying this since the last economic ice-age? Living on projected earnings is bonkers. Price to earnings ratios that make triple digits are mad. Likewise, companies with cash where the market value is less than their asset value is insane. It's not boom and bust, it's bipolar. If you want mad, look at Google's fundamentals -- yes, we know they are big and good and whatever, but are they really ever going to justify their stock price? If you're an honest Jo Schmo, the answer is no. If you're a city slicker, the answer is "who cares"?
Can any of you predict what the next exposé will be? My imagination is stretched and I still didn't get as far as where we are now. Were it not for the fact that SMEs are in hell right now, I would be severely tempted to give up the ghost on Big Company Inc and start a lifestyle business making wooden toys in Wales.
Meanwhile, for the moment, I find myself working for a company that is not exactly unaffected by the global economy but appears to be better shielded than most.
Alongside my incredulity of global economics, I am in a position where I influence rather a lot of cash expenditure and that makes me nervous. It's not chump-change that I am dealing with. I know in my heart of hearts that what I do on a day to day basis will not collapse entire economies but I think you cannot be human if you don't get home at the end of a day like I had today and reflect on whether what you are thinking is right. If a hundred people worldwide made assertions like I did today and we were all wrong, it wouldn't kill everything, but it would be a byline in the papers. That a handful of people in the scandal that is finance might not have the same kind of moral code that I have scares the Bejesus out of me. The really frightening thing is that they probably never gave it a second thought as they watched the bonuses sailing in.
The first Monday in forever where I did not hit the snooze button, the traffic was reasonable and I got in very early and what happens? Yup. No power. I am currently depleting the battery on my Macbook and using my dongle to catch up on the weekend's reading (incidentally you guys who do blog are slacking over the weekends -- it has not gone unnoticed).
How is it that in the 21st century we are subject to power cuts? It beggars belief.
Last thing. I've been promising a bit of why Regina Spektor is a tad South of central. I think these are nearly good examples. She's wonderfully out there. It's ditsy and playful. If you can do that with a piano and make rap sound acceptable, you're on my list of top people.
I suspect that there are more than a couple of people who will disagree with me, but what the hell, they probably still have vinyl.
For reasons that I started to bore you with in a draft post, I have an early bath despite the fact that it's the paternal unit's birthday. If I say the phrase "ex-wife", most of you will know that means Kenny leaving tyre-marks as he disappears. I can honestly make a hair-drier take off like an F1 car. When it got to T-60, I started to twitch and did one. It's best for everyone. Anyway, I wasn't armed and I hate to verbally assassinate dumb animals because it makes them so much more feral.
I came home to take care of some business. I needed to move some money around, tax the car, all that happy jazz. One of the things that has been on my list for a few months now is to order a new cheque-book. I have had the same one since I moved back to the UK, but it appears to have but one cheque left in it -- that is how frequently I use it. I was cursing because I couldn't see an option online to order one so I ripped the request slip out of the existing one and looked for where to send it. Hello? What is this? Yup. Cool. I can just text them and I will get a new one within 4 days. Now that is service. Naturally, I would have preferred to log into my bank account and order one rather than have to do battle with my cell-phone keypad but hey, it saved me having to call anyone or leave the house so I'm happy.
I'm annoyed though. I found a Christmas present that I have not wrapped so as soon as I have hit the post button on here, I will be on it quicker than the wife's hand on payday. That done, all I need to do is get to the post-office tomorrow (which I blew off on Friday) and Kenny's world will all be in order. I have five more days at work before two weeks off and thanks to EU law, I carry over five days and sell five days holiday back to my employers. Terrible eh?
I'm babbling. I should get on and do stuff. Of the morrow.
Apparently there is a TV show called the X Factor. I know this only because I am sick to death of hearing people endlessly droning on about it. From the conversations I have been unwillingly party to, it sounds absolutely wonderful. If you're a pre-pubescent person with X-X chromosomes and an allergy to breathing, that is. To the rest of humanity I fear it must be a level of tedium previously only ever encountered when the test card used to grace our screens.
You may all berate me for being so summarily dismissive, the fact being that I have never even heard the theme music let alone watched a moment of the show. The whole premise of it turns my stomach. In general I disapprove of anyone who is not media-trained being on the airwaves in any capacity whatsoever. I might extend that general tenet and say I disapprove of some who do have media training. This is not through some kind of Stalinist scheme to gag the general public -- just a desire to not spend my evenings impersonating a bulimic.
If you like the X Factor, please do not feel victimized. I reserve the same amount of disgust for other reality/celebrity shows too and I have never seen a single minute of their transmissions either. It is bad enough to have to listen to the one-line summary of what went on in <insert-random--crap-here> in the news on Monday mornings, although I do get a kind of secret kick that Shelagh Fogarty oozes disapproval as she reads it.
Instead I have been watching the very affable Kenneth Branagh in Wallander on the BBC's iPlayer upon Pater's recommendation. I watched two last night and I am quite impressed. The production of it is very stark. There's a frostiness and emptiness that somehow makes it seem more intimate. That makes no sense whatsoever, but it is a very peculiar aura that follows Wallander around. I'm not sure whether it is cinematic brilliance or just low budgets; whichever, it works for me.
I must now away to luncheon. 'Tis Pater's birthday and for once in my life, I am on top of my game with all things present-like. He even has a card. Normally I send out generic cards with check-boxes for birthday, Christmas, Father's day, Easter, whatever for about five years in advance with instructions to check the appropriate box on the appropriate occasion and display the card as needed. This saves everyone time and money, trees are saved and I sleep easily in the knowledge that I am doing my bit for the environment. I had a "to hell with it" moment yesterday and ended up buying a specific card, just because the hamster on the front of it must share the same hairdresser as my father.
It's official, if attacked, four out of every five rock hard Northerners would fight back and win.
The fine people of Manchester have spoken. The plans for the Big C-Charge in Manchester were defeated by a ratio of 4 votes to 1.
From the Times...
Geoff Hoon, the transport secretary, was last month accused of trying to bully Manchester into accepting congestion charging by stating that it would not get a penny of the £1.5billion if it voted no.
He said: "There is no plan B. I would not want people to be under any illusion about that."
Asked if Manchester would get even a small proportion of what it needed if it voted no, Mr Hoon said: "None whatsoever. If the vote is no there will be no central Government funding. The rules are very clear."
I am overjoyed. Mr Hoon can stuff his bully-boy tactics right up his proverbial. And he should probably stay away from Manchester for a while.
It has come to my many attentions that there have been some rather odd behavioral deeds and antics within the comments of this here armpit of Cyberspace, specifically false Gods and their putrid little false prophets cropping up leaving inane comments.
I ignored it when "God" turned up because he blatantly was not credible. The "omnipotency" headache was mildly amusing. His views on midgets and all things ginger appealed to my interest in cuisine only. Now "Allah" rears his numerous ugly behinds to start quoting Sharia law. Sharia was something Allah invented because he was pissed he lost at poker to Lakshmi. He never really got over it. To this day, he can only be seen in the company of men's men -- hence the requirement for all his followers to sport ridiculous beards.
So a heads up for all would-be deities from me, Vishnu. I am a fair and just God with many decencies about my many persons. However my many patiences are being variously tried. If I see a Guru Granth Sahib turn up on these pages, some major league cosmic bad karma will be bestowethed upon all associated with this cesspit of moral turpitude.
For the first time in my life, two weeks to go and my Christmas hassles are over. All I have to do is hit the post-office tomorrow lunchtime and all is great. Wrapped, locked and loaded.
To those of you who haven't finished (or don't get involved in it), you may all despise me for my efficiency. I make no apologies. It must be my Germanic ancestry.
If I have learned anything from 20 years in bleeding edge technology it is this: if something goes wrong on a network, midst the spaghetti that populates patch-panels, switches, routers and firewalls, all you need to do is locate the pink cable (there will only ever be one pink cable and it will be thicker than the rest) and wiggle it. Problem solved.
Of course I am not saying that this has just happened.
What I enjoy about finding a new musical love is when it turns out that their back-catalogue is bigger than you could imagine. I kind of liked the ditsy little Fidelity by Regina Spektor from the advert so I hopped onto iTunes and listened to the trailers for Begin To Hope. It sounded good enough to chance an arm so I did. I loved most of it so picked up Mary Ann Meets The Gravediggers which was quirky enough to keep my interest. After that I downloaded Soviet Kitsch. By then, I was hooked. Today, I noticed there is another album called 11:11 so I downloaded that because I've been on a big Regina kick for the last couple of weeks. This is a wonderful thing. It's always disappointing when you follow someone's output and then sit hanging around waiting for their next album only to find that a) it's crap (some of Tori's misguided efforts) or b) they might have decided they have enough cash (Kate Bush silent for years, current talk of Fiona Apple having retired). When someone isn't on your radar for a few years and you suddenly have three or four albums to catch up on, it's like Christmas. Complete joy if you're Kenny.
Believe it or not, I had never heard any Joni Mitchell until I was about 30. I used to stay in the Holiday Inn in Binghamton quite a lot. The lass behind the bar there, Holly, was a massive Joni fan and every night when I went down to dinner, she'd have Chelsea Morning belting out at obscene volumes before the bar got busy. After a couple of trips, I hit the local CD store and bought a boat-load of Joni CDs. I suddenly had a whole career to catch up on. To have been in a car with me for the following few months must have been unbearable while I caught up with it all.
It's a good job I don't share my commute at the moment. I have four albums of Spektor to love now. I've only put up the breezy tracks on here so far and I keep promising I'll put up some of the more esoteric tracks, and I will, but for now, this is my top Regina tune. You have to love the Russian/New York drawl. Strange how she manages to let the music take the lead when her quirky vocal style is more unique, particularly in Us.
Sorry Maesti and Waaarty -- not much to really jibe me about in this is there? Hmmm. I wrote that and I suddenly suspect there is. Have at it. At least this way, you can do it in public rather than by email. ;)
A week ago, I had two people from St Albans and three people from Manchester who had a crush on me. I assume they were all called "Big Vern". How did my popularity plummet so overnight? Was it the chintzy little Christmas decorations? To my knowledge I have only offended one person in the last week -- do you think there's some kind of block voting going on?
-- Don Superman outfit and dive from wardrobe into car.
-- Arrive at work just in time to perform piece of spin-doctoring worthy of Peter Mandelson.
-- Pat self on back and feel smug while enjoying vente four-shot cappuccino numero uno.
-- Take delivery of Winehouse wig.
-- Amuse office while sat on a conference call wearing said wig.
-- Amaze oneself by having been lucky rather than good once more.
-- Confirm away win of last week is concrete.
-- Pat self on back and feel even more smug while enjoying vente four-shot cappuccino duo.
-- Christmas curry lunch with team.
-- Perform minor miracle while performing secondary miracle while on "mute".
-- Do performance review making sure it is heavily focussed on performing minor miracles (and associated secondary miracles), away wins, wins for everyone and the fact that I never sit being smug (today I was in character with wig).
-- Finalize the expenditure of huge sums of money on Christmas kit to play with deploy in the new year.
-- Drive home feeling smug while enjoying third vente four-shot cappuccino.
I may now slip out of the Superman costume and return to being plain old me with all the faults that come with that particular package. I'm still beating myself up about my faux pas last week but hey, you can only apologize so many times.
My gift wrap will arrive tomorrow so I have tomorrow night sorted; wrapping what's left of the pressies while listening to the Utd game. All that will remain is the postage of one item and the job will be done.
You may now all despise me for my smugness, luckiness, smarmyness and faux pas. If I had the energy, I would put up a splat Kenny with Xmas pudding, but that would require thought, something I am becoming less capable of as the minutes go by and I count down to a reasonable hour to go to bed.
Gordon Bennett. Whoever writes the scripts for Spooks is quite possibly the best screenplay artist ever. And whoever directs it makes Spielberg look a wazzock. That was one absolutely amazing piece of drama. Even the paternal unit (who is not prone to gushes of any description whatsoever -- where the hell did I get that from, I wonder?), volunteered "that is the best piece of television I have ever seen" from the background as we had our weekly conference call to discuss it.
Quite sincerely, that series on its own and BBC Radio 5 make me more than happy to stump up the license fee. I have all the previous series of Spooks on DVD or as purchased downloads. As soon as this last series is available, I will have it too. It is a rare programming gem that makes millions for the BBC all over the world. If you're in the US and like your spy dramas gritty, keep an eye out for MI5 (I know there are some vague racist connotations to Spooks which is why they rebranded it over there) on BBC America. You will not regret it for a moment.
I have taken the liberty of actually researching some hardware that I am about to buy. My level of interest in hardware architecture is about the same level as my interest in secular basket weaving or Bill Oddie's love life (shudder). As soon as you have given me the number of cores a processor has, the number of processors a box has and how much memory is in it, I have more than enough information to satisfy my sheer grunt-power lust. The rest is utter tedium.
Sometimes though, something peaks my interest. I'm looking at HP c-class blades that are dual quad-core beasts. The problem that I have is that they advertise the onboard dual NICs as "multi-function" which, upon further investigation, means that the NICs can double as HBAs. My tiny brain does not compute. How can this be? If I can use the two onboard NICs as HBAs, then I can stuff in a quad port NIC into one of the mezzanine slots to provide multiple network interfaces.
An extensive google of the subject has proved fruitless. I can find no explanation of how this "multi-function" works other than the liberal use of the acronym iSCSI which I am familiar with but which does not explain how you can have a NIC function as a HBA. I understand how photonics work. I understand how electronics work, yet mix the two and my brain just sees pink fluffy clouds and deep blue seas. I suspect I was conditioned by someone at some point to transfer into that idealistic state as soon as my brain starts over-clocking. Utterly baffled.
Any ideas anyone? Zimmer? Evil Albert? Words that I will understand please. As we all know, I'm not that bright.
I know I have gone over the top with the Christmas decorations on here but the Waaart and Maesti were insistent. If you feel it's too much to take, let me know and I'll cut it back somewhat. I try not to overwhelm your senses but sometimes I get all out of control and just run with what feels right. I may have pushed that particular envelope just a fraction too far. Mea culpa.
To the project manager who signed up to make sure there are green lights on the Gateshead Millenium Bridge on December 24th, all I can say is good luck. May your gant chart be both accurate and suitably sand-bagged.
I must have taken my thicky pills last night rather than the "stop Kenny murdering random people" ones. Having waltzed through a very disappointing Telegraph crossword yesterday, I printed out the Guardian (set by Paul, who is an utter git) and proceeded to batter that. Today, the Observer dropped through the letterbox and I snorted a derisory snort in its general direction.
"Not so fast Kenny. You see that half of the crossword? That's your brain, that is -- blank."
I will overcome it. It just goes to show what happens when you get a bit blasé.
Apologies for the colloquial reference in the title, but it is very apt.
I've been weaseling around on t'interweb while listening to Regina Spektor. I think she takes the grand prize for being completely off her box to wonderful piano. Some of the tracks on Mary Ann Meets The Gravediggers are just about as hatstand as you can get. Yet if you watch her live, she appears to have all her faculties about her. I think it was Quentin Crisp who declared himself the last stately homo in Britain. Along similar lines I think Ms Spektor should be a grade A listing building.
Back to the Winehouse thing. I am assured that my wig will be with me by the middle of next week. If I like it enough, I may wear it to the work Christmas party. Hell, I might just start wearing it, period. It's probably very warm and so much suited to our current weather. From looking at pictures of it, I think it may need some work to be truly Amy-esque. I plan to have little plastic bags of talcum powder embedded within it that I will allow to fall at key moments throughout NYE. Half of me thinks that is a fantastically excellent idea; the other half thinks that no-one at the party would be surprised if it were genuine and I face the very real prospect of shocking everyone into a coma that mere talcum powder will not treat. I just do not get the respect anymore. Thinking about it, doesn't Amy keep other stuff in her hair, like candy? I can see some work coming on to prepare this properly. Ideas about what I need to stash in my wig are more than welcome.
Alors, enjoy some Regina if you please. This is one of the saner songs. I might try to establish which I rate as the most fruitloop and post it at some point later. I think she's not so much lithium as ritalin. Bless.
Thank you for your concern. I now know who Scarlet Johansson is. When the Vanquisher enlightened me last night, I nodded approval but I've just googled her and I'm afraid I must be gay because she does nothing for me. I will stick with Ms Apple.
I have to do the unthinkable this morning -- enter a shop in December. A Sainsburys run is a must if I want to eat. I guess that I can pick up some gift wrap while I am there although I have a suspicion that Sainsburys will not sell Christmas duct tape -- if I don't find any on Amazon, I will spend this evening being Dido, dressed in a big jumper, lamenting the passage of sailors and wrapping presents using regular duct tape. This will mean I have precisely three presents to wrap on Monday evening and that will be it; Kenny's Christmas will be over, apart from a bit of postage. Thank God. It really does wear on me. I still have the small matter of a dress to buy though in order to be Amy Winehouse on NYE -- I have been actively sizing up all the lasses I know to see if I might be able to borrow one rather than buy one, but remarkably none of the females that I would be comfortable asking to borrow a dress from are anywhere near my height, so I guess I'm doomed to be branded a freak when I go shopping. I suppose for that true Amy look, I should start work on my crack habit too -- I've no experience of hard drugs -- where would one go to buy such things? Marks and Sparks? Bargain Booze?
I will leave you with a comment that one of my Antipodean friends left on my Facebook status, which amused me no end:
"Always the master of the mixed metaphor - or is that the scrambled simile, or perhaps the parsed participle?"
Parsed participle. That is good, and I'm seriously miffed that I didn't come up with it.
Update: Dammit. By bumping into someone I know in the store, I forgot my gift wrap. Amazon it is.
You know how I said I had all my Christmas shopping done? Well I have -- the last of it is sat at work waiting for me. What I have not got is gift wrap. I have two choices: I can nip out tomorrow and buy some or I can sit with the central heating cranked up to its "Volcanic" setting and happily sweat buckets while I order some from Amazon. I think you know which way that one will fly don't you? Besides, I bet there is such a beast as festive duct tape and you just *know* Amazon will stock it. If there isn't, by this time next year there will be, because I will have gone into manufacturing. It's a perfect combination of masculinity with a casual doff of the cap towards the season that every man hates. Once I have finished this, I will look into the matter and let you know.
Regarding temperatures, I've just about had it with the nasty damp cold. A week in the UK is fine, but any longer is extravagant. The reason that I got around to thinking about wrapping things is because I had arranged to go out with the Vanquisher and Emma tonight -- I stepped outside to smoke and envisaged being sat outside the Railway, or the alternative of cranking the heating up to its "FIONA APPLE" setting, wrapping presents in a stark wooden kitchen, wearing a big jumper and crying into a glass of Chardonnay about the fact that my love had gone. Quickly establishing that I had no gift-wrap and the fact that I am not Dido, I decided I would venture out. Although it sounds like Emma might not join us -- her Facebook page reads that she got a little tiddly last night and had a fight with some ice that has cost her a bruised ass. I'm sure I can persuade her if I say I'll pick her up and drop her home.
So, onto Amazon I go...Christmas duct tape. Completely recession-proof and most probably fire-retardant too.
ACK: I asked Rob the Vanquisher to suggest something hotter than a volcano. He replied Scarlett Johansson. I have no idea who on earth he is talking about, but I liked the lateral thought. When I told him I might substitute the name of someone I had actually heard of, he suggested "well if it's anyone else you'll have to type it in caps to make up for a lack of hotness." -- I now feel like I am even less street-savvy than ever.
I've been stretching my fair use agreement tonight by hitting the BBC's iPlayer. In general, I've given Have I Got News For You a miss for a while, which is silly really because it never fails to have me in hysterics. I think my problem is that as the years go by, I find Ian Hislop to be way too up his own arse. He's funny until you see through his faux liberalism. Paul Merton, on the other hand, has a razor-sharp wit. I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone more hilarious. Anyone who can sit beside Germaine Greer and still keep a comedy rolling has to be a master of his craft.
The other guest on the show I've just watched was Mark Watson who seems a bit good, if understated. I suppose you have to have some cahunas to shine with Hislop and Merton, but when he could get a word in edgeways he was spot on. It's late and i can't be bothered googling him -- does anyone know off the top of their heads what he does or where? In general, do we approve of him?
As well as HIGNFY, I watched the episode of Spooks that I first watched last week, just to make sure i got all the nuances. You really cannot afford to blink with it so what seems like a throwaway remark becomes vital to following the why's and wherefore's. I'm still really annoyed with myself that I could have been fooled into thinking that I knew what was going on. This series, while having a couple of dodgy premises, has led the viewer (okay, me) a merry dance all over the shop in trying to identify the mole. Once they'd sold you the pup, you laughed in disbelief and discounted the whole shebang, only to be astounded that you had been double-duped. Great entertainment. I can only hope that they don't do the usual finalé thing and have me on tenterhooks again. After not really developing any empathy with Jo in the previous series, I now have -- which means that she almost certainly is due to be disappear a la Tom or Adam or Zoe. Oooh -- there's a thought -- they should bring back Zoe (Keeley Hawes) from South America. That would blow my little mind.
Never let it be said that I don't learn from my mistakes. I can repeat them exactly. How many times do I have learn? Apparently n, where n is considerably larger than 10. Let's say a couple of orders of magnitude larger. Remind me the next time I text something that if the recipient doesn't know me well enough, they cannot see the sarcasm dripping from the words. I feel like a royal git, maybe Prince Phillip -- in fact definitely Prince Phillip seeing he says the daftest things too. I bet they don't let him text people for fear of some kind of WW2 deal kicking off. Thankfully my texts do not start wars. Yet.
So that was my royal cock-up. It made the drive back from Bristol all the more bracing; to have something to mercilessly beat yourself up about is always good when you're in a confined space with only a flat bluetooth headset for company.
Apart from the above faux pas, I had a fantastically productive visit. I have won friends, influenced people and taught them the ways of the Kenny. I will write a book on the ways of the Kenny when it comes time to move on. I'll let you know the strap line now though -- forgiveness rather than permission. Permission involves someone else making a decision. Forgiveness means I get to make the decision. One of the best lessons I have learned from my much lauded ex-CEO of two different companies is that it is better to make a decision and live with the consequences than to miss the window of opportunity by sitting on it. That is not to say you should not weigh up the pros and cons, but operate on an 80/20 rule. Trust me, it works. Well it has done until now. Here's to induction.
On the drive home Johnny Wilkinson was being interviewed by Simon Mayo (as was Jeremy frickin' Clarkson but I'll not go off on one about how much I hate him -- I just do -- he's on the same list as Kylie and Oddie -- odious little oik). I've never been a big rugby fan. In fact, I think it's an utterly ridiculous game whichever code you play. I can watch rugby union but to be honest, I'd sooner have a nice cup of tea and a scone. I used to play it as a kid and the only thing I learned was that it hurt. Anyway, I'm rambling. Wilkinson has got to be the nicest chap on the planet. He's pleasant, rational, educated, philosophical and just an all round top chap. I was amazed. When I think of rugby players, I think footballers without the looks -- i.e. illiterate morons. I dare say that if I met Wilkinson, I would never peg him as being a rugby player. To be honest, he impressed me that much with his analysis of his life that I am teetering on the brink of wanting to read his book. I normally stay well clear of autobiographies of sportsmen because you know what you'll get -- a ghost-written pile of nothing over oodles of arse-wipingly tedious chapters. Wilkinson physically wrote his own autobiog which must be some kind of record in an age where most celebrities can barely spell their names. If you're looking for a stocking-filler for the man in your life (I'm looking at Maest and Waaarty here), you could do worse than get them JW's book. I think we can safely say that Kenny approves of JW.
I wrote that and then something sprang to mind. Please tell me JW is not the rugby player that Charlotte Whatsherface is/was dating. If he is, I take it all back and the guy's a jerk for being so dim.
Okay, I need to get my read on. I have loads of catching up to do and haven't even looked at Bryony's column yet.
Update: Thanks to my handy-dandy Bryony connection, I am now relieved to find out that Charlotte Singer-y lass was dating Gavin Henson who is not JW, so all is well with the world.
It is being widely reported that the England cricket side are set to shun the rest of the Indian tour because of recent events in Mumbai unless their safety can be absolutely guaranteed. I can understand their reluctance to go back and be humiliated by the Indian test side but if their reasons for not returning are purely to do with last week's horrors, then I have to shake my head a little.
Maybe I'm still a big kid. I like my sporting heroes to be fearless. The thought of KP and Freddy whimpering down a phone line about how frightening it all is blasts away any respect I might have had left for them. We expect this kind of wussy behavior from prima-donna footballers not cricketers. I have never considered myself brave but, relatively, it appears I am. As soon as the FAA opened up the skies after the September 11th attacks, I was on a plane to Baltimore. I was more nervous about the amount of hardware being toted within the airports than I was about getting on a plane just a few days after. What kind of a mind is it that thinks retreating under a safety blanket is a worthy course of action?
Apparently it is not unprecedented. Previous cricketers refused to go on tour after the September 11th attacks. I only know this because they have not been backward in coming forward on the radio to relive their terror and decision-making process. Dear God. I hope their post-traumatic stress doesn't recur. We would have a national crisis.
I may sound a bit harsh but let's put this into perspective. When London got hit in 2005, England and Australia were in the middle of an Ashes test series. Did the Aussies all pile on the first plane out of London? Did they hell. They carried on and had the Ashes stolen from them by the same bunch of pansies that are afraid to be on the same subcontinent as somewhere that had an attack.
Sorry guys. Losers in every possible sense of the word. It's one thing to beaten in a game. It is entirely another to not show up to it.
Christmas shopping is complete. I have excelled myself. I haven't left the house once. God bless Al Gore for inventing the internet.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am in debt to Al Gore. Not only has he made my Xmas shopping less stressful by negating the need for me to have to interact with the great unwashed, but he also facilitated my ability to pay for things by virtue of the fact that I work for an ISP/mobile phone company, who are not called Blue. Not Blue would not exist were it not for Al Gore so I would be stacking shelves at Tesco for three groats and a pebble an hour. You don't get a great deal for a few groats nowadays. I am well aware of the old adage that if you take care of the pebbles, the groats will take care of themselves, so I have a slush-fund of pebbles in an offshore account, which I am planning on using to build a shrine to Mr Gore.
Saying I have finished is not strictly true. I still have Die Frau Führer to worry about. I can't afford Poland even with all my saved pebbles, so I have told her to go splash out on a new laundry basket. I know. I am the Golden Child, Prodigal Son and Alan Sugar all rolled into one tidy bundle. The existing beast apparently breaks some kind of Germanic law so must be assassinated and replaced by something engineered by people called Hans and Otto. It was her idea so I am happy to just stump up some cash rather than face months of analysis as to why whatever I would have got her would have been inferior to its Östereichische equivalent.
I also have the problem of the paternal unit's birthday before Christmas which I have not solved. What do you get for a man who has quite literally everything he needs? It's like asking me what do I need. I have no needs at all, unless you want to buy me a house or a nice Chevy Captiva and pay my fuel money. Squat. At the moment I'm actually trying to give away stuff. Likewise my dad wants only a 4x4 but given all my pebbles are earmarked for the Al Gore monument, he is SOL. In years gone by, a few packs of smokes and some tins of booze would have been the obvious choice but he's quit smoking and appears to have cut back on booze so I'm literally bereft of any inspiration. All suggestions are welcome on that one.
The problem that I detailed last night (the one you so singularly failed to empathize with) surrounding stuff being delivered to a third-party pre-wrapped did not disappear. In the end I had to order mulltipe items from the same vendor so having them all posted straight to me made more sense, albeit unwrapped. It adds a degree of faff but at least it's faff I can do at home. If I'm lucky, I'll get a sympathy vote from the recipients where they sit saying "Bless Kenny. He really tried with the wrapping this year didn't he? Look at that -- it's Xmas duct tape."
--
Final thought for the evening on a more serious note. I have a horrible suspicion that Sam Leith from the Telegraph has been made redundant. I knew they were cutting jobs and Bryony's Facebook status says she is "reeling about Sam" so I can only assume that Sam is a casualty, which is a damned shame. He was the other member, along with Bryony, of the Facebook group "The Two Worst Writers At The Telegraph" which they formed together. Fact is there are much worse. If it turns out to be the case, I will be very sorry. The only consolation you can offer is that if you've been Literary Editor at a broadsheet, you have a damned fine CV to throw around. Sadly, the pink slips seem to be in fashion this Christmas.
It has to be said, nothing says good morning like touching your breaks and sailing freely out of a T-junction into the path of a speeding milk float. I was that shocked I dropped my lipstick in my coffee.
My car could only be less suited to driving in icy conditions by being rear-wheel drive. What I laughingly call an engine (it has all the grunt of a hairdryer) is underpowered at the best of times. It is automatic with a token manual override that occasionally thinks it knows better than I do -- I might have to explain that I am not requesting that it stay in second gear, I am demanding with menaces. I do not appreciate being second-guessed by a piece of silicon. The way I look at it, I have many years more driving experience in much more diverse conditions than it has, ergo I am right, as per usual. There should be a Kenny override on any electrical appliance manufactured. It's dead simple:
Seeing I'm feeling generous, you may all initialize your own variables.
All that said, I suspect even with the wrong tool for the job, I made a better job of getting around this morning than many others who appeared paralyzed by a dusting of snow and a bit of ice. I made it to work in just over 2 hours, which is not that much longer than usual. I guess my years of Tundra living saw me right.
The bad news is that I am meant to be driving down to Bristol tomorrow. If the weather remains this grim, I may bite the bullet and take the train on the basis that while I am comfortable driving around in these conditions, from what I saw this morning the rest of the world are not.
Here's the deal. After spending about half an hour on the phone with the be-Flip-Flopped one discussing a present for someone, I set about trying to purchase said item. I had to consult the Oracle because the item in question is beyond your average Kenny's peripheral vision. It involved girly things. I'll wait for the predictable comments that I should know it inside out. Fact is that this is up-market stuff. By that I mean top shelf of the outdoor market in Wigan. Who am I kidding? I don't mean that. I'm not that extravagant.
Thing is, I now have identified the gubbins in question and have tried to order it gift wrapped to be delivered somewhere. After a multitude of sites allowed me to get to a point where I was just about to commit to parting with cash, they all let me down by not having a wrapping service. I know I could just have it delivered here and wrap it myself, but that would involve me making a pig's ear of it and then having to incur yet more expense posting the gift -- the chances of me seeing the recipient between now and Christmas are next to zero. I suppose there is always the extreme option of getting in my car and driving somewhere to drop it off, but that is just madness. I know if I go into Wigan or Manchester, I will be able to get it gift-wrapped by someone who knows what they are doing, but that will then mean that I have to deal with the carriage. Why is it so hard to get both?
If I end up having to do battle with the great unwashed in a mall, I will want that detail written all over the gift-wrap in big sparkly letters so that the recipient *knows* that I actually left the house to buy it. I think she knows me well enough to know that I do not undertake such trips lightly. As previous wives will attest, you have more chance of me getting down on one knee than being the recipient of a gift that I physically went and bought -- such a romantic aren't I? Not that this, in any way, has a romantic requirement. In fact I dare say that if it did, I would be unceremoniously kicked in places I have only ever been kicked in before on the football field or school playground. I suspect that is the reason why I feel compelled to get her a gift. Devilment should always be top of one's reasons for presents otherwise the whole damned thing is so one-sided.
Okay -- genüg rambling. I have a revolution to orchestrate.
Kennys do not do cold. Long term masochists will recall my extensive ranting on the subject of winters in Minneapolis. I went into severe depression at about the end of October and did not heave myself out of it until I knew I was relatively safe -- about July 4th. Between those dates, all bets were off.
Today, when I got into my car, the external temperature read -8C. Having destinated at work, it is now snowing and the sky looks like the snow is going nowhere fast. I am going to be insufferable. It is that cold that I refuse to walk over to Starbucks, which means I am not caffeinated, ergo even more cranky and intolerant than usual -- not a pretty thought.
Without knowing it, I have solved the world's energy problems in the title to this post. Hippies are plentiful, renewable and perfectly willing to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the environment. Everyone's a winner. No need to thank me for my genius. Call it a gift to humanity from someone who is not feeling very humane today.
I would expect any further commentary to be saturated with venom.
Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.
-- Edith Sitwell
373493 glorious calls to prayer (okay, hits) since 2nd September 2003
