me and my mate steve jobs

Could I possibly be more of a non-mac-using-mac-head? It's verging on tragic really. I am immersed in IBM compatibility. I use windows and have done since I owned my second computer (The first was an Amstrad CPC so it doesn't count)

Despite this I consider myself a Mac person. Just look at my laptop wallpaper - its a longing for something enabled by something else. It's a digital oxymoron - it's sad.

I used to use Apple Macs all the time. Back when I was the unofficial editor of the official school newspaper. We had a suit of 12 Apple Mac IIs and Classics - there were only two of us using them. I thought they were the business. I defended them to the hilt against my PC loving fellow geeks.

Then I went to university - we bought a compaq. A few years later I started building my own - all windows based of course. I did all my university work in the Windows 98ed Computer labs and then went to the empty Apple Mac lab for solace and mutual respect. Just me and my half eaten apple buddies. Man and machine. I didn't use them for actual work - I didn't trust them. I loved them but I didn't trust them.

And so now I haven't used a mac in any serious capacity for eight years. Ironically one of my PC loving fellow geek friends from those heady school days now has an ibook. Where did it all go wrong?

I'm glad it's not like this all the time

A week or two ago I wrote a post all about watching Derry City play in a chip shop in Ballymena - that's me watching it in a chip shop, not them playing in a chip shop. It was a post of joy and optimism. A post proclaiming love and peace in a country thought of as a recovering war zone. I was uplifted writing it.

Now I am crestfallen.Coming from Northern Ireland it is hard to avoid topics of religion and politics. If you see a film in NI it generally mentions the "situation" Plays set in Ulster tend to have a group of loyalists and a group of republicans playing montagues and capulets, stand up comedy routines tend to have at least one Big Ian reference - they're not funny otherwise. It's hard to avoid these topics, but not impossible. A group of us make short films in this country and I can't remember one reference to "the troubles" - unless you count a prank involving an Irishman in Camp David wearing a balaclava.

I had intended this blog to be sectarian free but thinking back over the past couple of months I can point to at least six posts with something to do with political religion in Northern Ireland. and here I am about to write number seven - I guess I failed.

You see it's like this. Derry were playing the return leg of that football tie in Paris last night. I went back to Ballymena to stand outside that chip shop waving my rangeltic scarf (creating it involved mutilating two separate football scarves to make one but I think it was worth it) If I thought I would witness a similiar show of bon ami I was sadly mistaken. Two drunks paying no attention to the football and a rather angry looking youth who called me jaffa scum because I was wearing a hearts shirt. I left despondent.

A friend of mine lives in a loyalist area of Derry, or should we say Londonderry. Her nephew is the result of a mixed marriage and is being brought up a a Protestant in a Catholic area. She told me today how she had picked him up from Boys' Brigade last night. They had gone to buy stickers in a shop near her house and as they were leaving the shop he looked up at her and said, "It's just as well we went to your shop and not ours. Cause if we went to ours they would have see me in this uniform and known I was Protestant." He's four. So young, so cynical. She said it nearly brought tears to her eyes - it very nearly brought tears to mine.

Things have improved. Things are improving. I just wish they'd hurry up a bit.

Humour - Radio 4 style

What's the difference between an entamologist and an etymologist?

An etymologist knows.

those poor welsh

There are stirrings among the people, unrest in the streets, the people are dividing into two, and conflict seems inevitable. We have until November 20th to sort this mess out or all hell will break loose. It appears that some people are no longer happy with the mythology-ridden George as the patron saint of England.

They say he wasn’t even English, that he gained his considerable wealth through fraud, that he was as mean as a mean thing, and that as Archbishop of Alexandria he was so hated by his people that when he fell from grace and was incarcerated they stormed the prison, dragged him out, murdered him and threw his remains into the sea. And not a single mention of a dragon anywhere the Welsh will be relieved to know.)

These Anglo-Saxon rebels want St Edmund put in the place of George. They claim the whole George thing was nothing more than Normandic propaganda (those damned French are usually to blame)

St Edmund (the Martyr) was an Anglo-Saxon king round the middle of the century – the ninth century that is. He battled hard against the Danes (those damned Danes are usually to blame) but lost. Legend has it that he actually threw away his weapons wanting to imitate Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was arrested, tortured, tied up and used as a target for javelin throwing practice. Legend has it that the whole time, as he became a human porcupine, he refused to deny Christ. They had to behead him in the end.

Sounds great – lets change now. Except I can’t really see it happening. People just couldn’t be bothered. It seems a lot of hassle to change after we’d got used to the old guy. The English don’t really do much to celebrate their Saints anyway. And is Edmund really that much better than George?

His history, too, relies on legend and mythology (even if it is slightly more realistic that fighting dragons.) He, it appears, isn’t actually English either – He’s German (Like our current Monarchs), born in Nuremberg (which explains his love of motor racing). And, unfortunately, the Welsh don’t come out any better. Edmund’s flag is a white dragon on a red background (which, let’s face it, would really mess up the Union Jack) symbolising the English Dragon which did battle with the Celtic Dragon (The red dragon – seen on the Welsh flag) fairly constantly.

So, let battle commence – but please have it sorted by November 20th (St Edmund’s day) so the English know which days they are supposed to do nothing to celebrate their Patron Saint as usual.

Meeting minutes

Ecco shoes and a cheap suit £170

Teacher Planner and Pen £7

An hour and a half of drama dept meetings instead of relaxing with a skinny latte in starbucks -£2.40

Making notes so sparse and confusing that I've forgotten what they mean 10 minutes later

-Priceless

anyone know who these guys are?

Is it possible? Can it be true? Is it conceivable that I have already forgotten who won Big Brother this year? How insignificant must it be that I can forget so quickly? And I'm usually good at the insignificant stuff. Every year they leave my mind more quickly than the previous. Some time around Big Brother 9 I'll have forgotten who won before the show begins.

oh, and just in case you're interested the people in the photo are Lee and Sophie from Big Brother 3 apparently.

inanimate conversations

I had an interesting conversation last night. It was a conversation between two people – it was going strong before I joined, it was going strong while I was a part of it, it was going strong after I left, and all the time it was a duologue.

Confused?

I had popped down to the Co-op in Ballycastle to pick up a gift for the school caretakers and the rain was bucketing down. The car park was empty except for myself and a cyclist in a bright yellow waterproof cape thing. He was deep in conversation with someone but that person wasn’t immediately apparent. As I approached he looked up from his bike lock and directed his conversation to me:

“…coming over, no more than five miles. I mean what kind of a situation is that? Who do you think is to blame? I couldn’t believe it but it doesn’t matter. I got soaked. Would you look at this rain. I’m completely soaked. And this thing doesn’t do much to keep the rain out. It’s a terrible day. They say it’s some weather system from the other side of the Atlantic that causing it. Some hurricane or other.”

“Hurricane Gordon?”

“Aye, something like that.” Well at least I knew I was playing a part in the conversation. “It’s been like this all day. I didn’t know whether to do my shopping or not but I had to take the chance eventually. I mean it may never stop, may it?”

“Well, I doubt…”

“Imagine that, huh? Rain forever. I wouldn’t mind so much if that were the case, you’d expect to get wet then. I think they should invent some kind of covered bike. Perhaps even one with…”

“Four wheels and an engine? They have, it’s called a…”

“I’ll have to get changed as soon as I get home you know. Soaked through. It’s a lot easier getting wet than it is getting dry you know. This jacket is ringing. I’ll leave it by the radiator and maybe it’ll be dry by the morning. I’ll need it in the morning. There’s a change in the weather you know. You can’t be going out without a coat like you could a week or two ago…”

As I walked off the conversation continued without a break. He chatted to his bike lock, he chatted to the loaves of bread, he chatted to fair trade chocolate, he chatted to the stella artois (though these Belgian beers don’t speak much English – they probably didn’t understand a word he said.) He chatted to the checkout assistant. And as I walked back past his bike towards my car he chatted with me again:

“…getting darker. I don’t think it’s going to let up anytime soon. It’ll rain right through the night you know. Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow but I can’t see this rain stopping any time soon. I’m soaked you know, this thing hasn’t…”

“Do you know you have made my day? I have had a blast chatting with you. Don’t ever change you ability to talk to anyone. It’s people like you who make this area one of the friendliest parts of the world. Safe home.”

“Oh”

There was silence. I loaded up my car and drove off. As I looked in my rear view mirror I could see him in the distance as an advertising hoarding started up a conversation with him.

Hurrican Gordan (and his little Irish brother)

There are two sides to every story, it takes two to tango, He who hesitates buys the stock two points higher, Too many cooks spoil the broth. Life occurs in twos. That's my theory at the moment anyway. The best arguments are two sided. Especially, it seems, when it comes to the weather.

I got very annoyed yesterday. I overheard (was nosily listening in on) a conversation between two americans over for the Ryder Cup. I knew they were over for the Ryder cup because they were obviously rich, were wearing visors (who other than golfers and golf fans wear visors?) and they were americans in Ireland. There is another reason I guessed they might be over for the cup - the fact that one of them said to the other "I hope the weather's better in Dublin when we're at the Ryder Cup." A bit of a giveaway you'll agree. It was his friends reply that incensed me so. "Well, you have to expect rain if you come to Ireland - It's always raining in Ireland."

I could have dropped. "It's always raining in Ireland." For starters we're not IN Ireland sonny. We're in Northern Ireland, you want to leave the security of the Bushmills Inn and try making that statement in Dodge? But we won't even start on that. For main courses it does NOT always rain in Ireland. And for desserts it's some hurricane on the other side of the Atlantic that's causing the bad weather here, so, indirectly, it's your fault it's raining right now! - These are all things I could have said if I had the courage and my brain worked faster than it does.

Yep, the weather's a funny old game. And I don't envy the forecasters' job for a second. They can't win. Earlier they said it would be stormy and, in the early evening, its wasn't. "Pah! never trust a weatherman" we said. Then by late evening the trees were being pulled out by the roots - were we happy? Did we hail the weather forecasters? I think not. When it all comes down to it there are two views of weather people, and for once I'm going to put them in the positive:

We put too much weight on what the meteorologists tell us simply because we assume it is some kind of science. Just because something ends in 'ology doesn't make it a science - just look at Psychology. Weather forecasting is right up there with magic eight balls and radio 4 horse racing tips. We really need to stop expecting so much from them and start being amazed that they get it right as often as they do.

Weather forecasters are always right. They tell us how things are at the moment - the way things stand at the moment. If the weather system changes direction or speed its not the forecasters fault. Think of it as someone trying to say how the premiership table will finish up in may - as things stand right now Portsmouth will win the league - I'm assuming that may change in time though.

At the end of the day both statements are correct. It's just rich american golf fans who aren't.

beckett

Never mind. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

£3 clothes £7 a month

What will it ever take to remove the blinkers that we all seem to don when out shopping? Its all well and good to talk about ethical shopping in a lovely middleclass way while we choose our fair trade coffee just after we've filled our trolleys with bananas and oranges that have been reduced to unbelievable prices and just before we pop off to Primark or Matalan for some £3 jeans. We can be really selective in our crusades, can't we? And at the end of the day, if we knew for sure that a product was produced in sweatshops we wouldn't buy it, would we? Just because something's cheap doesn't mean somebody is being exploited. Who are we trying to kid?

We can no longer claim ignorance as a defence for choosing price over moral high ground. We're savvy enough to know that huge supermarkets selling huge amounts of products at tiny prices while making huge profits means that someone is paying somewhere down the line. I live in a rural area where farmers will tell you exactly what they think of the price of milk in the supermarkets. How much worse is it for the fruit producers in third world countries who are already living at the edge?

But things are changing, aren't they? I mean the big companies all have ethical standards, don't they? They're doing their bit for fair trade, no? Hmm. No.Well known brands and stores continue to sqeeze every little bit of profit they can from their suppliers. Its a cut throat business and, let's face it, we like the prices we're getting. Recently the campaign group Labour Behind the Label brought out a report showing that clothes prices have fallen by a third - 33%! Meanwhile in Bangladesh wages have halved - 50%! Suddenly the figures are starting to make a bit more sense. Aparently some workers live off as little as £7 a month where the cost of living is estimated at £30 a month. The figures are beginning to make less sense again.

Meanwhile Asda, Next, Top Shop, Matalan, Primark etc etc are pulling in the money. I wonder how far below the cost of living their exectutives are earning. Isn't it time we made a little more effort? I for one no longer feel so good about my fair trade purchases.

every little helps

Those crafty checkout operators are on to me. I knew they would eventually - they're not as dumb as they look - I used to teach some of them so I know what I'm talking about.

Tesco - that faceless farmer hating superpower - have a promotion on at present. If you have one of their club cards then you can earn extra points on it by bringing your own bags. They publicised it with TV ads featuring celebrities carrying their shopping in their own type of bag - so Martine McCutcheon uses a hand bag, Alan Titchmarsh uses a wheel barrow, Alan Wicker uses a suitcase, and Paul Daniels pulls all of his shopping out of a hat. I have to admit I sneakingly quite like the ad but don't tell anyone. Oh, and did you know Paul Daniels has his own blog - it came as quite a shock to me when I typed his name in google looking for information about the ad and ended up reading about how he had to eject three spiders from his house last night.

Anyway, I never remember to bring a bag to earn my "green points" so I started pretending to the checkout operator that I had a bag in my pocket and when the transaction was complete and she'd turned to the next customer I'd start filling my pockets with stuff and try to carry the rest in my arms to the car park. Inevitably I had problems trying to unlock my car with my keys under three apples in my pockets and my arms full of bagels and chorizo, but I got my points - I felt so underhand.

But the last time I was in Ballymoney Tescos it didn't work. I don't know why. I carried out the plan to perfection. I waited until someone was about to go towards a checkout and then nipped in front of them (to make sure that the operator had a customer directly after me), I puffed out my pocket to make it look like it contained a bag, I smiled sweetly and waited until the operator was about to reach for a bag, I waved my hand and said "oh, it's ok, I have one here." and patted my pocket (a blatant lie!) and stacked the items for a quick pick up and getaway, I paid for the food, I made sure she wasn't looking and I picked it all up and - away out the door dropping things around me as I went.

The thing was, when I got to my car and looked at my receipt - No green points! She was on to me. What a player! She even smiled at me when I told the lie about having a bag, and all the time she knew. Next time I'll bring my own bag - either that or think even more crafty - they will not beat me.

why i hate photocopiers

I have just had the mother of all photocopier related accidents. The tiny room I call my classroom has an even tinier storeroom. In it are all kinds of things I never use and a photocopier. You cannot imagine how good it is to have my very own personal photocopier. Gone are the days when I'd rush down the stairs along the corridor, bumping into language teachers and knocking down year eight pupils, through the foyer, bounce into the bizarre tree trunk thing, run into the reprographic room and beg the technician to run me off thirty copies of something for a class about to start any second. Now I just run into my store. It's bliss. Of course I miss the inane banter I have with the photocopy guy as he pretends he has three thousand copies of something to do first. And my photocopier doesn't do all the cool things his does - double sided printing, stapling, booklet making, basic origami, fortune telling - but I love it none the less.

I should have said loved it none the less. The thing can take a running jump past the bizarre tree trunk thing in the foyer for all I care now. I was in the middle of copying 40 sheets for exam concessions when it ran out of toner. It won't do anything until it had toner. I found the instructions and set about replacing the toner.

1: Remove the cover from the new toner bottle... removed

2: Slide the cover below the toner bottle in the machine... hmm, doesn't really slide very well

3: Edge the toner from the machine whilst sliding the cover over... not working

4: Slide the new toner bottle in and remove the seal...

It is at this point that I realised my mistake. I had removed the plastic seal from the new bottle, not the cover. Not a problem, I'll take the cover off now. I took out the old toner and went to tip the new one upside down to push it into place. Except with neither cover nor seal there was nothing to stop the toner being affected by gravity and coming out of the bottle - which it duly did.

Evil black clouds of toner billowing through my tiny room. Black dust covering everything including me. The clouds were so thick I literally couldn't see my way to the door and tripped up three times trying to make my escape. As the dust settled the full horror appeared. Everything in that room was encased in black powder - and not easily removed powder. I could have cried. Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror - I did cry. My face - covered. My shirt - covered. My tongue - covered (how did that happen?)

I face the humiliation of walking through a school full of cruel children covered in black soot for the rest of the afternoon. Its enough to make me curse Chester Carlson and his demonic copying invention. Will it prevent me from stopping for a coffee on my way home? Not a chance.

So if you see someone doing a very good impression of a shirt and tie wearing chimney sweep in Coleraine this afternoon - give them a sympathetic smile.

you went out with a what?

I went out with a free Presbyterian last night – I’m shocked at myself – I didn’t think I had it in me – on so many levels.

I have to admit that I would never have pictured myself going out with an FP, and it’s not something I set out to do; it just happened. I mean, you don’t plan these things, do you? Oh I’ve considered diversifying in the past, dabbled with the idea of hanging out with the RPs or the Eps, the Baptists, the Methodists, various forms of Brethren, various forms of Anglican, Pentecostal, Catholic, Unitarian, Amish… but not Free Presbyterians.

Why not? Because I have a tendency to stereotype religions in a wholly unfair way (for stereotype read judge) and my perception of Free Ps has not always been the best – no, that’s not right, more my perception of Free Ps is that they and I have little in common – other than the basics of our faith, the roots of our denomination, the society in which we live, the air which we breathe… ok, we have a lot in common! I just see them as being a lot less flexible and a lot more hard line than I see myself.

This got me thinking about how I view a lot of other religions. I totally stereotype them all. Say the word Methodist and I already have an image in my head, Pentecostal – arm waving, eyes closed; Baptist – happy clappy hat wearing bappies; Catholic… hmm, better not mention them in a blog about FPs – You see there I go again! Totally stereotyping an entire denomination with the catholic hating image. And it’s simply not true.

Free Presbyterians do a huge amount of work in society and their unwavering reliance on the Gospel and their insistence that we keep ramming it home until we get it right is admirable. Some of the new churches they’re building suggest they’re growing rapidly – and the new building they’ve built in Ballymoney is very impressive.

Anyway, back to last night, because that is where the date began - at the opening of Ballymoney's new Free Presbyterian Church building - Hebron FP Church. It was an interesting experience - I got to hear the Rev Dr Big Ian preach first hand for the first time ever and it shattered some of my illusions. After that we went on for coffee and we got a chance to get to know each other better. I looked very carefully, she didn’t have two heads, she wasn’t wearing a rangers shirt, she didn’t have a photo of Ian Paisley in her purse, she didn’t complain that the music we were listening to was Romanist propaganda; she was perfectly normal. Soon into a second soya latte the conversation turned to what church I attended (In America on a date you talk about TV, in Australia you talk about sports, in England you talk about the weather, in Scotland you talk about England, in Northern Ireland you talk about religion) I told her I was Presbyterian, she seemed happy enough, I then lowered my eyes and admitted that I was a woolly liberal Presbyterian. She looked at me and said, “That’s okay, I’m a woolly liberal Free Presbyterian.”

I doubt if I’ll be seeing her again. I refuse to believe that woolly liberal Free Presbyterian’s exist and I can’t possibly date someone in whose existence I don’t believe.

Cushendun - possibily where my forefathers arrived in Ireland

This Sunday is an important date in the history of Cushendun – sort of. In years to come they may remember this date fondly as the day the people of Britain decided (at £1 a phone call) to save their wee Church of Ireland building. Yes, yet another TV show requiring viewer participation (at £1 a phone call) comes to a crescendic conclusion. Restoration village has reached the Final stage with buildings and communities around the country staring each other down and launching leaflet campaigns to encourage people to vote for them.

I feel a little regret to say that I missed the local heat where they described what they were going to do with the building if it was chosen to be restored but I was talking to my mother earlier today and she assures me its for a good reason – some kind of community arts thing. She also made some comment about how it showed that Church of Ireland churches couldn’t get enough people through their doors to survive so they had to close up and become arts centres for both sides of the community – but I think she had her tongue in her cheek. After that she started onto a conversation about football and I was so shocked I forgot how to speak for a while. The grade B listed building was consecrated in 1840 and deconsecrated in 2003. It is beautiful and it would be a shame to see it rot away.

In the heats I was rooting for Cushendun because I’ve always had an affection for the wee place. I remember the School field trip there where we had to count the number of pubs/shops/houses ratio. I remember hiding from my parents in an old fishing boat there while eating a quarter of strawberry bonbons. I remember driving through it as part of my first road trip after passing my driving test. I remember taking a crowd of Canadian tourist through it and pretending to be a tour guide pointing out sights, despite the fact that the fog was so thick we could hardly see the outside of the glass in the car windows. I like Cushendun. I like it so much that I rooted for them in the heats despite the fact that I have several friends who live in Gracehill who were competing against us. I had fellow teachers explaining why I should shun my North Antrim allegiances and phone the number for Gracehill Primary School. But I didn’t. I didn’t actually vote for Cushendun either but that was only because I forgot. It’s the thought that counts.

Sometimes I wonder what happens to the properties that don’t make it, that fall at the first hurdle. Or even at the final hurdle. I know that the money raised by the voting will, mostly go toward the restoration of the winning building, and any surplus to the runners up – but what about the rest that don’t get any money? According to their websites they all need the cash to survive. So no money no building? Or, and this would make the programme much more interesting, do the losers get knocked down on live TV? I’m sure that would push viewing figures through the roof… although maybe not particularly ethical.

And so it comes to the final. I urge you, nay, implore you to pick up the phone and help a little coastal village that many of you will have driven through as you travel the coast road (voted number 6 in a list of all time great tourist roads – even beating route 66.) You don’t even have to watch the programme – I’ll probably forget again, or be at a youth rally in Macosquin. But I’ll be rooting on Cushendun and this time, maybe, I’ll even make the effort to vote, I wouldn’t want to see it get knocked down.

For more information visit the bbc restoration village website

the french, the brandywell and some rotten chips

I was in a Ballymena chip shop last night (no surprise there then) watching Derry City playing football against Paris Saint Germain [now, for the uninitiated and for the purposes of this story, it is important that you know that Ballymena is a largely unionist town (Ian Paisley is their MP - nough said) and that Derry City are perceived to be a nationalist football club (they are a northern irish team playing in the southern irish league - nough said)

You could say I was surprised, then, by the level of support Derry were getting from the shaven head, UDA tattooed, rangers shirt wearing locals. There we all were, eyes glued to the screen, all willing our food to take 90 odd minutes to cook, and all, to a man, supporting the men in red and white.

There was even a highly amusing moment when a PSG player barged into Kevin McHugh in the penalty area. As the referee waved away pleas for a spot kick one rather large monobrowed customer gave off "Get to **** you fenian ******! That was a penalty!" It was a moment that, could I get away with it, I would use as an example of irony in my lessons for years to come.

Despite the fact that the match was being played at fortress Brandywell and that PSG fielded a weakened team, the 0-0 result was a fantastic reward for the Candy men and we cheered and hollered and waved our arms in the air as the final whistle was blown. The chips were awful though.

boats, cell phones and smooisunderstandings.

Does it make me really sad that the text messages I received mistakenly made my day today? Yeah, I thought so:

Hey baby, how you doing? An in airport. Wasn't too bad but i'm knackered! I miss you and love you so much baby. Will let you know when we get there. Big hug! Xx

They obviously weren't too concerned that their 'baby' couldn't even respond to a simple text message:

Hey baby. Finally got to the boat and unpacked everything! We're now trying to find somewhere to moore up for the night, but it's been very busy! The weather is beautiful. I really wish you were here to see this place, it's amazing! I miss you baby! Just gonna have a little snooze, them will write more. I love you baby! Your smoo x x x x x

This time they must have become suspicious - no response even after 5 xs. I sent a reply pointing out that I wasn't 'baby' but that I was pleased the boat trip was going well and I wished them a pleasant holiday:

Awfully sorry about that. Rather embarrassing! Have found the right number so you won't be getting any more strange texts from strangers :-)

It was with twinges of regret that I read that - I was getting quite used to the strange text messages from strangers. Still I can always do the honorable thing and delete the messages without embarrassing the poor man/woman further. Or I can post them on the internet - toughie.

when did the 90s hit again?

A bunch of 6th Years are sitting in the library comparing ringtones - but gone are the days of the annoying frog thing. Gone even are the manufactured bands and X factor finalists. In their place are artists from the 80s and 90s. Queen, Hansen, Tracy Chapman, Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi, Toploader, Rusted Root. I can hear all of them and picture the tragic clothes I was wearing at the school discos where I first heard them. It both disturbs and impresses me. The fact that I know all of these songs from the first time round seems to raise my credibility levels. For a change.

I wonder would Freddy Mercury smile at the fact that on what would have been around his sixtieth he is still the artist of choice for the discerning A-level student.

I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche, scaramouche will you do the fandango-Thunderbolt and lightning-very very frightening

That'll be stuck in my head for the rest of the week - thanks a lot!

are you feeling lucky punk?

I am one of nature’s unlucky creatures. Well, I would be if I believed in luck per se. I know I am one of the unlucky ones because I am one of the 62% of the population who don’t get what they want when they hit the ‘I’m feeling lucky’ button in google. In fact often I’m one of the 11% of people who don’t even get what they’re looking for in the second listing. Generally speaking I eventually give up around page three of the listings and make the statistics up instead.

Chances are you, as an internet user, are familiar with the minimalist interface that greets you when you type in google.com or co.uk or .hk or whatever your suffix of choice is. It is the ubiquitous search engine of the masses. Techies and geeks of various hues pass over it on to the lesser-known engines and indexes; but this is more snobbery than anything else – google does what it’s supposed to and, in most cases, it does it well. Back when google was launched the likes of Yahoo and AltaVista ruled the roost. Late generation Xs like myself remember those days well; no myspace or bebo or friends reunited; hotmail was an independent email client offering enough space to save three emails; advertising was limited and most content was truly free. Search engines tended to do more than search – they offered webspace, news portals and mousemats; they were good but often fell prey to spammers and irrelevant selections – they never gave you what you were looking for without putting up a fight first. Google usually took you past all the rubbish and delivered you where you wanted to be with the minium of fuss.

And of course we have that button. ‘I’m feeling lucky.’ Except I never do. In all likelihood, if you were to type in something, say for instance ‘common misquoted lines,’ and hit that sinister little button it would take you straight to a page devoted to Bogie and Eastwoodisms. You could play it again like a lucky punk and time again it would give you something useful. Me? If I hit that button it’ll take me to a page of amateur dramatists angling horror stories. That button is possessed. And, worse still, it doesn’t like me.

What would the world be like...

Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if we could erase the events of September 11th 2001. I sometimes wonder if the religious tension all around us would exist anyway. I sometimes wish we could hit some kind of undo button like I do when i've made a major mistake in photoshop or word (every couple of minutes.) But I guess its times like that when faith is hardest, yet most necessary.

HE SHOOTS... he wakes up

I have a reoccurring dream - In it I am the world's greatest sportsman. Whatever sport I try i am the greatest. It usually becomes complicated when my various teams start complaining that I'm not playing enough for them - but when I'm playing hockey for Toronto Maple Leafs at 7pm on a Friday, football for Newcastle United at 3pm on a Saturday, winning the Wimbledon Final on Sunday and back to the states to play Basketball for the Raptors it all starts to weigh on a person. Still its only a dream.

I admire sports people greatly, despite, or maybe because I lack even an ounce of skill or fitness myself. I used to be quite a good goal keeper when I was playing football (aged12) and a brief love of ice hockey rekindled my fortunes between the posts. But I know I will never be the next Jacques Plante.

We live in a special moment of history - not because of politics and wars on terror - we live in a special time because, for a short time, we can watch true sporting greats. Tiger Woods, the greatest ever golfer; Roger Federer, soon to be the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen; Michael Schumacher, a true champion, if a little unloved at times. Yesterday I saw three of them in person, well, on TV (next best thing.) Schumacher was announcing his retirement after storming to victory in yet another Italian Grand Prix; Woods was hugging his wife and cheering on Roger Federer as he won yet another US Open at Flushing Meadows. This is the third time he's won the US open. He's is the only person to have done that along with winning three Wimbledons. He's won a grand total of nine grand slams... and he's only twenty five! It seems a safe assumption that Pete Sampras' record total of 14 grand slams will soon be under threat. Britain's great hope, Andy Murray, must be so glad he's come along at a time when Federer is not only dominant but could continue this dominance for a decade.

Yep, I love that dream, its the one place I can meet Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, Michael Schumacher, Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, George Best, Lance Armstrong... and beat them all. I wonder does Murray have a similar dream.

me? A wesleyan?

I did a quick test to see my theological leanings - I've been worried that my love of statues and dancing in the moonlight was somewhat against my Presbyterian roots. I duly answered a few dozen questions as honestly as I could and came up with a result.

82% leaning towards Wesleyan Evangelicalism. Odd.

Even more odd is that Fundamentalist came in a not too distant second. I must point this out to the fellow members of the choir (who all think I'm a bleeding heart liberal) this morning.

A Wesleyan - hmm - Is that why I was drawn to carrying out the year 8 cognitive abilities tests in the Methodist hall opposite the school rather than the Presbyterian hall next door. Actually I see now why I've been named a closet Methodist - 'Liberal Presbyterian with Baptist tendancies and the odd urge to raise a hand while singing' isn't one of the options.

You scored as Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan. You are an evangelical in the Wesleyan tradition. You believe that God's grace enables you to choose to believe in him, even though you yourself are totally depraved. The gift of the Holy Spirit gives you assurance of your salvation, and he also enables you to live the life of obedience to which God has called us. You are influenced heavly by John Wesley and the Methodists.

Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan 82%
Fundamentalist 71%
Neo orthodox 61%
Emergent/Postmodern 54%
Reformed Evangelical 54%
Charismatic/Pentecostal 50%
Classical Liberal 46%
Modern Liberal 43%
Roman Catholic 39%

You can find out how you rate by clicking this link

two short planks

Two Short Planks

They sat me in the classroom

And said I had to wait.

They gave me sheets of paper

And said, ‘Now write the date.’

And when I said I couldn’t,

‘I’ve got a special need.’

They sat me in the corner

And gave me books to read.

And when I said I couldn’t,

They laughed and took the mick,

The teacher sighed and shook his head.

A kid said I was thick.

So then they said, ‘Fill in this form,

We have to know your name.’

I said, ‘Well, I can TELL you that.’

They said it wasn’t quite the same.

They sharpened me a pencil

To write out my address

And then I said I couldn’t

When the page became a mess.

I don’t know what my problem is,

I’m lost and all at sea.

A book’s a bolted, padlocked door

I just can’t find the key.

The words don’t click, the letters fuse,

The flash cards never speak.

‘Break it up and sound it out!’

They tell me twice a week.

And when I say I cannot,

‘It doesn’t seem to work,

’The head of Special Needs gets cross,

And screams and goes berserk.

I can’t think what the answer is,

Believe you me, I’ve tried

To learn that blasted alphabet

Most nights I’ve sat and cried.

But still they give me spelling lists,

Stuff paper in my hand.

And still I’ll feel the utter shame

Till the day they’ll understand.

Unknown

look into their eyes - what can you see?

Do you see joy at the prospect of a goal bonus? Do you see excitement at the thought of moving to a bigger club? Maybe you see relief at the fact that the tabloid press will be positive rather than slating you? Or perhaps you see nothing more than unadulterated ecstasy at scoring a goal for your country against all odds.

Healy, Gillespie and the rest of Lawrie Sanchez's Green and White Army - We salut you.

fish pi

Eating fish makes you clever. I know this because I was told it often by school dinner ladies who obviously knew my insecurities well. The thing is I hate fish. I even hate the fish that comes with chips. And that is why when two (obviously fish loving) intellectuals start a conversation about the meaning of life I tend to start day dreaming about what life would be like if I was an expert sportsman.

Unlike most wives tales this fish one has more than a grain of truth in it apparently. Awhile back the BBC did a bit of research and followed some kid called Elliot who was struggling with his school work. He lacked motivation and spent most of his time watching TV:

But over the past year, a dramatic change has taken place in Elliot. He has soared through the Harry Potter books and now heads to the library after the school bell has sounded.

Impressive

“His reading jumped 18 months [over the trial period].

He’s just a lot more interested in everything. He’s even developed an interest in classical music,” says Sheila, Elliot’s mother.

Amazing

His handwriting became better and his teachers said he was joining in more in
class discussions

Astonishing

And what brought about this, nothing short of miraculous, change? Omega 3 fatty acids. Elliot, along with 100 other Durham school kids, was given capsules of the stuff (usually found in fish) every day. And apparently they do more than make you brainy - they make you happy too.

The science behind it all is complicated for non-fish eater like me, but ,as far as I can gather, it involves brain signals having to pass through channels in cell membranes to get to their neurons - these walls are made of, you guessed it, fatty acids. So it seems Omega 3 fatty acids make these walls more flexible and allow the signals to pass through more quickly and efficiently.

So basically its like trying to get your head out from between the park fence rails - its easier once you've rubbed a bit of grease around.

And now Durham Education authorities have decided to take advantage. GCSE pupils in the county will be encouraged to take the pills from now until they sit their exams. In fairness, and not offending anyone from Durham, they could do with all the help they can get. Durham's schools are well below the national average when it comes to GCSE results. I hope this exercise makes the difference - and sure if it doesn't at least it'll help sales of classical music in the area.

we're not Brazil, we're Norn Iron

Congratulations to Northern Ireland - I'm typing this with 4 minutes left of a game against Spain - We're leading 3-2 but even if [Oh! great save Taylor!!!] they lose 4-3 it'll be the result of the year.

England only managed 1-0 against Macedonia? Scotland 2-1 against Lithuania - If this stays the same for a few more minutes I think we can claim to be champions of Britain - for a few days anyway. Crouch could only manage one, Healy has scored a hat trick - three goals against one of the best teams in the world - I think that makes him Britains best striker - for a few days anyway...

...until he returns, with the rest of his countrymen to the lower leagues and Crouch and Terry etc resume collecting wages in the premiership.

This is what makes this game so great. I'm so proud I could burst. Spain are in the top 7 in the world. If I was a betting man I could have got 11-1 on a Northern Irish victory [Another great save!!!]

30 seconds - and I know I'm not being very lucid. The 90 minutes are up. Into injury time.

three minutes of injury time - this is torture!

Spain are throwing everything at us.

1 minute left! It has to be... please let it be. I haven't felt like this since we beat England...

thirty seconds... it's a corner! no, a goal kick,

surely that's the end...

We won! WE WON!!! We won!

We're not Brazil we're Northern Ireland

We're not Brazil we're Northern Ireland

We're not Brazil we're Northern Ireland

But It's all the same to me!

I'll make more sense tomorrow - I promise.

the future's bright

I've literally just heard the woman from UTV say that Terrorism is Northern Ireland's fastest growing industry. Doesn't she know how comments like that could inflame situations? We're trying to move forward to a glorious future of comradeship and mutual love - not back to the bad old days of the 'troubles.' How can programme makers gamble with our nation's... oh, 'tourism' - sorry.

welcome to the english language

Well done to whoever it was who first coined the termed ‘Blog.’ At long last it has finally been added to the latest edition of the Chambers Dictionary. It’s been included along with other new entries such as Happy-slapping, Asbo and Sex-up. You must be so proud.

castles in the sky

Another song from Ivana Hill - This one called Castles in the Sky (not the Ian Van Dahl version though - I'm not a big Ian Van Dahl fan in all honesty) This time the said castles are seen in a slightly more positive light.

I asked Ivana if she wrote the music and lyrics for all her songs - She said that she didn't write them, she received them. Wouldn't that be a great way to be, rather than being closed off by all the things we surround ourselves with, being open to receive. Maybe take a moment out of whatever it is you're doing (I'm guessing surfing the internet) and listen, and receive. It's better to receive...

In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.
John 14:2

Castles in the Sky

by Ivana Hill

Standin' round the corner singin' whatever comes into my head

and wondering just where it is you might be from kid.

Have you seen the world far and near or did you grow up just round the corner here?

Did you ever dream of castles in the sky?

Wander picking daisies by and by?

Did you dream of anywhere - but here?

Well I've never been in this town before and I'm not quite sure

if it's me your smile is for; or if I came to your window later tell me

would you open up your door so we could talk of castles in the sky.

Writing lyrics beneath the moonlight. We could talk of anywhere - but here.

Cause you've got a look in your eye like you know what it's like to be free;

and you've got a light in your smile; how I love when you're smiling at me.

I know that somewhere in your heart is the truth that sets my spirit free.

We could build our castle in the sky.

Chillin' with the angels way up high.

We could travel anywhere - and here.

Come and build your castle in the sky.

Chillin' with my Jesus way up high.

We could travel anywhere - and here.

© Ivana Hill, music & lyrics

crikey - this one's a beaut!

He was a cliché, a stereotype that some of his fellow australians found a touch embarrassing. And yet I woke up in shock when I heard that he had died this morning.He was as passionate as he was popular around the world. He loved nature and made sure you knew it. His enthusiasm for conservation and wildlife was reminiscent of a child seeing something amazing for the first time.

Steve Irwin was an inspiration - We laughed at him but we were jealous of him - he had found a job that he found as amazing and interesting as the day he started. His web site sums it up better than I can:

At 11am today, the 4th September 2006, Steve Irwin was fatally wounded by a stingray barb to his heart whilst filming a sequence on Batt Reef off Port Douglas for his daughter’s new TV series... medical staff pronounced Steve dead at approx. 12 noon.

His producer and closest friend, John Stainton said on Croc One today,“The world has lost a great wildlife icon, a passionate conservationist and one of the proudest Dads on the planet. He died doing what he loves best and left this world in a happy and peaceful state of mind. Crocs Rule!”- http://www.crocodilehunter.com/

park rangers are go

No, not Power Rangers. An even less likely sight in the centre of Belfast – a New York Park Ranger. I didn’t even know New York had Park Rangers. I know, I’m ignorant. I just always imagined a Park Ranger as seen in Yogi Bear cartoons. The idea of Yogi and Bobo strolling through Central Park doesn’t fit somehow. Park Rangers go along with geysers, forest fires, and man-eating ant movies. Somehow I can't picture Park Rangers in the city, Urban Rangers who don't play Ice hockey - I wouldn't have believed they exist. And yet obviously they do – because they’re over here. I saw them. New York Park Rangers in Belfast.

I can only imagine that they are over advising our parks people on how to dress well. I have to say that I like the uniform – as did the group of middle aged women who were practically stalking them through Botanic Gardens. Although, at the end of the day, it won’t compare to mine when I finally become a mountie.

funeral porn

A friend once asked me to witness a list of requests for her funeral. This included lots of bright colours, a rendition of ‘Tainted Love’, and a selection of Tennessee Williams scenes to be performed by me and my, then, love interest. There were other outlandish inclusions and I still have a copy of them somewhere. At twenty-seven I imagine she may have time to change her mind and opt for something more traditional. However times are changing. Funeral ceremonies are bound to follow in the way of the wedding ceremony which is evolving at an ever more rapid pace. However I don’t think even my extrovert of a friend would consider some of the activities found at funerals in certain areas of China.

A new funeral tradition of employing exotic dancers to perform a strip tease for the mourners started in Taiwan and the province of Fujian in the late 70s, becoming quite popular by the mid 80s. Understandably the conservative mainland authorities are none too amused and have started clamping down on this unorthodox practice. They can’t ban the custom, as technically it is already illegal. But who’s going to arrest a recently bereaved relative for vice crimes? Well the Chinese are.

Recently CCTV (the state broadcaster) ran a report about strippers at a funeral. Within hours police had arrested organisers and some of the dancers for “obscene performances." Guidelines are now in place requiring organisers to submit plans for funerals within hours of the deceased passing.

Funerals in China have always been a jolly affair compared to western standards. Mourners wear white and there is much music and fireworks. But to have strippers perform in front of families of mourners? Why?

Academics seem as confused as the rest of us according to the quick search of bulletin boards and publications I carried out. I have read at least eight conflicting views from professors of Asian Studies in Harvard, Magill, Virginia, Cornell, Otago, Stockholm and Edinburgh. They concur that this is a relatively recent phenomenon but that is as far as they agree. Some of the reasons suggested:

Performing arts have always been a part of East Asian funerals – as strip tease becomes a more popular part of the performing arts it has moved in on the funeral scene. – Seems unlikely to me. Exotic dancing is illegal in the Chinese arts scene.

The erotic dance represents the virility of the male deceased. – Doesn’t work as some of these strippers perform at the funerals of women.

The dances are performed to scare away demons. – Unlikely on two levels, Demons are traditionally attracted to eroticism and it seems too recent to be used for superstitious reasons.

The deceased was into porn in his life so requested it. The children of the deceased book the strippers to honour their father. Filial piety – There is one example I could find for this but it doesn’t explain the ones who don’t request it, or the women. Surely they can’t all have been hooked on porn?

It is simply one way that the population of Taiwan can thumb their noses at the Mainland authorities. – I quite like this one but it doesn’t explain the custom happening in Fujian. Also Taiwanese authorities seem no less opposed than the mainland ones.

Personally I am inclined to believe there is a less controversial reason. Now I am no academic, and this is based on a very short study of Buddhism and East Asian Customs so it may be completely left field. But. I’m led to believe that many of the customs involved in a traditional Chinese funeral ceremony are there to ease the passage of the deceased into their rebirth – their journey into the next life. One thing that the gods are impressed by is popularity and power. What better way of displaying your popularity than having hundreds of people at your funeral. Families often put on feasts and entertainment for this very reason – The shock value of having girls dancing about in the nude is bound to draw in the crowds.

Somebody may provide reasons to rubbish this theory but in the meantime it’s the best I can do. Asian cultures are fascinating in so many ways. Neighbouring cultures contradict each other totally. I don’t think I could understand them fully if I studied them for decades so instead I’m off to Spearmint Rhino to book it for my wake.