Goodbye Web, Hello Reality

Like giving up smoking, this move has been a while coming. Earlier this year I dumped Facebook then re-activated it in December as Irish relations requested friending. I've slowly come to realise that the web and it's diverse symptoms, Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Bebo, NetNewsWire, iPhone apps and, yes even this blog, have taken over my spare time with inexorable creeping efficiency. Meanwhile my real life has been taking a back seat as I spend more and more time online reading stuff that enrages and amuses me by turns. While the enraged/amused balance was well in the amused section of the dial all was well but recently I have found more to be enraged at and less to be amused at and, since recent ideas on the physically damaging effects of futile and unfulfilled enragement have intruded in my post-chemotherapy brain, I've realised that something's got to change and change it will. I managed to break a 40-a-day cigarette habit thirty years ago and I see no reason why I can't do this especially since I've discovered this amazing app called Real Life 3.0. This is a multi-platform app running 24/7 and is provided under a free software license. It offers all the functionality of a Wii or an Xbox without the proprietary tie-up. Pretty neat eh? In addition it boasts over-the-air software updates though sadly these seem to reduce the apps efficiency as the hardware ages. Firmware updates take place in the background and the hardware renews itself approximately every seven years. What's more the hardware is also free though only one per individual is allowed. All in all it's an unbeatable system and I'm very excited about it's potential.

So, at midnight tonight I will tweet my last tweet, vacate all social networks and will blog only irregularly if at all. On the plus side I will spare you all the inanities that float to the top of my consciousness, the croutons from the soup of my unquiet mind, the vituperative vomit projected from my seething psyche so that's all good.

This is my second attempt to go cold turkey on the virtual world. I hope it'll be successful and I'll blog about it when it's been progress for six months or so. Oh wait...

Who's Disrespecting Whose Memory

My own views of Gordon Brown and New Labour are far from complimentary but the latest storm of bollocks issuing via the Sun is just too silly to avoid comment. I heard the Sun's editor on Radio 4 saying that it wasn't Sun but the distraught mother who was mud-slinging at GB. Oh puleease! How disingenuous can you get. Rebecca Wade could come up with better justification than that which is probably why she's moved onward and upward. Apart from the obvious comment about the PM taking the time to write personally, Mrs Janes readily admits that she only read the first part of the letter before hurling it from her like a very thin asp. I suspect that this is just the opening salvo of Rupert & James Murdoch's anti-Labour campaign leading up to the next election. I presume they hope that a Conservative government will see the wisdom of taking the flagship BBC and holing it below the waterline so it's less competition for the great competitor Murdoch. Funny how free marketeers are all for the free market until they're getting their arses kicked whereupon they come over all protectionist.

In the end I think that the memory of the poor sod whose life drained away in some god-forsaken desert is not best served by using his death to beat up an incumbent PM. It doesn't bring much glory to anyone. But what do I know?

The Delusion of Action

I was musing the other night, on the verge of sleep, y'know the green bit at the side of the B road of life, well my life anyway, about saving the planet from the idle destruction of the human race. I'm sure you've whiled away time pondering the futility of feeble actions carried out too little, too late and with not much thought. Joined up thinking is not so joined up I'm thinking. Let me give you an example.
Recently we have all been abjured the use of plastic carrier bags from the local hypermarket of your choice lest the planet implode under the combined burden of all that plastic much of it non-biodegradable. Over a similar time frame, local authorities have encouraged dog owners to pick up their pet's newly laid and frequently warm faeces for disposal in...a plastic bag? Now it seems to me that there is a definite lack of joined up thinking here and we have a decision to make on which is more dangerous to the planet, plastic or canine faecal matter. Note only canine faecal matter is to be collected in these little warm parcels not feline, vulpine, equine, bovine or avian all of which can be deposited wherever, whenever and from whatever height the shitter deems appropriate and over what ever area the fancy takes the perpetrator. Apart from the incongruity of controlling the use of placky bags in shops and simultaneously bagging the poohs of our doggy pals there's the aspect of decomposition or lack thereof of the aforementioned crap. How's it supposed to break down into it's component parts and filter back into the ground, there to be converted into further nutrients for the plant life? Or are we saving it for a rainy day when all fertiliser and soil has been converted to dust by our insatiable hunger for cheap food whereupon we can raid the landfill sites for these little semi-permanent bags of rich goodness. I dunno. You tell me.

Rat Rebranding On Course

They said it was a waste of money. They said the reputation had slipped too far down the slope of slime. It would never recover from the Black Death Thing and the living in the sewers thing and the eating anything and everything err..thing. But they were wrong and here's the proof. Cuddly or what. Personally I think this one is slightly fey but hey, it's a PR triumph and Raatchi & Raatchi have done a majestic re-branding job and worth every red cent. Two legged world rulers (current) seem to go all gooey over Pablo here who's had a few extensions, a fluff-up and blow dry, some orthodontics and little Prozac to prevent from biting the bejazus out of the moron who's holding his tail but, all-in-all it's a major coup for Rodentiae.

Look out world the rats are back on the front page. Next stop Vogue.

On the plus side I'm so glad to see that he still retains some of his gutter ways - eating your own dandruff is just so street, man. Way to go!

Mercury Nominations Come and Go Yawn!

Am I the only one not to have noticed the Mercury nominations recently. They came and went with a kind of damp squib effect that, for me at least, sounds the death knell of the ailing music awards and the final hiccup of the old music order. It seems the public in general and the music buying public in particular couldn't care less about the waning music industry's masturbatory propensities. The annual strokefest has become so soporific, self-congratulatory and dull that the only people remotely interested in these festivals of ennui are the industry faces and the over-excitable radio execs with the arrested development who're terrified of missing the 'next big thing'. The rest of us couldn't care less and the whole affair seems to matter only to a very limited audience and the 'next big thing' has already reached a worldwide public through a YouTube stunt video that's captured the imagination of the goldfish generation, the one with the 'short little span of attention' as Mr Simon put it so succinctly all those years ago. Perhaps 2010 will be the year that Big Brother, the Brits, the Mercurys et al. all disappear up their own fundamental orifices leaving just the faint whiff of their former glory behind. Fingers crossed.

The Benefits of a Mercedes Benz

I'm just now, one week on, descending from the euphoric cloud to which I was elevated last Saturday after watching Leonard Cohen and a bunch of musical virtuosi entertain a packed venue at Mercedes Benz World at Brooklands in Surrey. I was the brief owner of a MB, not I hasten to add in my inverse snobbery, one of their oh-so competent cars, but a van-like vehicle more mobile PortaCabin than sex-on-a-stick like their saloon or sports car output. Because of this minor aberration I was offered the opportunity of an early crack at the tickets for this concert and jumped at the chance to see one of the sounds of my early years made manifest.

Now, my introduction to Mr Cohen was from the early CBS samplers, possibly The Rock Machine Turns You On, and consisted of either Suzanne Takes You Down or Bird On A Wire I forget which. I'm at that sort of age. It was, I thought then, music to slit your wrists to. Dirge like, undoubtedly poetic but not my main musical staple diet. Many years later I clocked First We Take Manhattan and Dance Me To The End of Love and woke up to the fact that I had missed out on years of a major musical talent. So when MB made this offer I jumped at it. After all he's not getting any younger and neither am I. There might not be another chance.

So I, my better half and two friends braved the light drizzle and headed for the outdoors and what a night it was. To say we were blown away by his enthusiasm, joie de vivre, charisma and pure unadulterated talent is an understatement. A week later I'm still stoked by the experience and I would recommend it unhesitatingly to anyone even a non-Cohen addict. Apart from Cohen himself, his musicians were brilliant in their own right and the performance was a tight-knit one with some spectacular soloing. Watching this 74-year old skipping on and off stage between encores and the obvious joy and pleasure he showed in the music was one of the most exhilarating experiences I ever had at a gig. Although he was the centre of the show, he was more of a pivot round which his band revolved and he introduced them twice during the performance much to the audience's approval. By the end of the evening the light drizzle had developed to a steady downpour but it couldn't have mattered less and the whole crowd went away more than satisfied, me included.

Opening the show was Susan Vega who was good but seemed two-dimensional compared to the richness of the words and music that followed.

Two Tons, Five Days - How Long?

Whilst on the aforementioned Irish sojourn, we happened, one glorious evening, to fetch up on the small harbour near Dunfnaghy, Co Donegal to spend a picturesque night and morning on the harbour wall. Whilst there, a large articulated vehicle hove into view and much frantic activity ensued in and on the harbour while the local fishermen loaded crab onto said artic. In conversation with one of the locals it appeared that the lorry was bound, with its two-ton load of crabs, for France and was expected to arrive there in a couple of days loaded with Irish crab for the French market. It was also revealed that the two tons being loaded that night was the result of five days fishing and that the same scenario would be repeated in another five days. At this point I wondered for how long this can continue before the seas are stripped of crabs and anything else that can be consumed by an eager population. You can't blame the local fishermen. It's hard enough to find a way to make a living in this part of the northwestern British Isles and, by all accounts, the boat owners are only just breaking even at this level of catch. But you just have to wonder for how much longer the seas can sustain the ever-burgeoning world population's appetite for anything that moves.