Have a Shot (Heartland channel now & then)

OMG - Have a Shot (NZ Idol of its day - which looks like late 1940s, but it has to be after TV came here) has me wondering whatever happened to Ron Smith? You may or may not have heard his original song, "Reach for the Sky." I have.

And somebody should track down those two guys with kilts and accordian and hold them to account.

A sign of the times perhaps, though which direction the sign pointed is obscure, but "In An English Country Garden" seemed an odd choice of song for the Maori guy.

Earlier, I caught the much promoed Spartacus. I was expecting a softcore, but pornographically violent, Swords & Sandals romp. And that's exacrtly what the makers delivered, filmed in glorious Bucket-o-fake-bloodovision.

I got confused at one stage, when Craig Parker appeared to be approaching the Gates of Mordor with a Roman Army, but that wasn't important anyway. It's not for the squeamish.

I'll tune in next week.

I set it free, and it feels good.

I've had a nice exchange on Trademe this week.

I'm shifting stuff around - I've lived spread around multiple properties for the last decade or so, I always seem to be shifting stuff around. But this is going to change. I am decluttering.

I didn't think I was a hoarder, but finally, after moving them around from student flats, to first home, then next home, etc, it is time to open up those old boxes at the back of the wardrobe & dispense with stuff that otherwise will stay there until some descendant comes to settle the estate.

This process requires patience, a dust mask, and a lot of city council rubbish bags.

Some stuff I will keep of course, but only that which I really shouldn't toss (say, with family significance) and that which I will dust off and actually use again.

There is the elegant steel butane cigarette lighter that I was given at my 21st (I doubt such a thing is an appropriate gift these days), it's been in a box for probably two decades - it actually lit on the first go, it must have some impressive seals in there. And another - a black Zippo I was given by my cats, the card had their inked pawprints (they also gave me my Swiss Army knife one year, I still use that almost daily). I have no idea what to do I'll do with the lighters yet. But they're tiny, they can keep for now.

I also came across the first watch that I chose for myself. It was a mission at the time, I knew what I wanted broadly (analogue face, day and date, alarm and waterproof), but the local models left me cold. In the days before Google and internet shopping, I somehow located the exact model I wanted in the UK.

Long story short, a relative visiting the UK, armed with exact specifications, and instructions NOT to buy anything else if the specific model wasn't there, picked it up for me. A Seiko Sports 100, gold analogue face, stainless steel body, with a discreet multi function LCD display, and waterproof to 100 metres. I used to tramp a lot, and frequent beaches for days or weeks on end, everything needed to be shock and waterproof. It is also a dress watch, small by today's men's watch standards. The almost indestructable (and waterproof, with day/date - cellphones do everything else I need)  thing I wear now is easily twice its size.

I probably wore that Seiko watch almost constantly for the next 20 years. It never made it 100 metres underwater, but around half that & worked fine; it wasn't allowed in coal mines, because battery powered watches just aren't in case they spark, I had to hand it over; it's travelled around the world. It's pretty much been in a box for the last 15 years although a couple of times I did replace the battery to check it was working fine - batteries last so much longer these days.

I decided to sell it on Trademe.

I got a couple of pretty trainspottery questions about the model numbers and measurements, but years ago pal, I already checked it's not one of the mega-collectibles.

It sold to a woman who says it reminds her of one she lost. Her email showed she has a website.

I'm not particularly sentimental about possessions, but it's occurred to me that that watch was literally attached to me for 40% of my life. It pleases me it'll be back out there.

The Interview

The imposing building in the middle of a football field sized carpark was a real bastard to get to. A wicked southerly was coming in from the beach, and an icy rain was beating in sideways. You'd think these guys would have a tunnel or something.

The reception area was spartan, but comfy. Whites and a few splashes of primary colours, no pretentious or novelty artworks.

A woman came to meet me, she led me through a door that seemed to sweep gracefully open at her approach.  I was sat in a functionally furnished interview room.

Presently, a nurse joined us to hook me up to what I think was a polygraph machine, and to manoeuvre something that looked like a small camera up to within a few inches of my right eye.

With my left eye, I could see my interviewer and the nurse poring closely of the image of something on a laptop.

"We have some questions to ask you, and also some tests to administer."

I saw the nurse check the contents of her bag. I felt a cold sweat coming on, "Hang on, I did the Myers/Briggs for the agency!"

"We have our own testing methodologies here at The Corporation. They've served us well over the centuries."

I was asked my name, my date of birth, and sundry questions about my experience and suitabilty for the job.

I was told I would be asked a series of psychological questions next, and to answer honestly and sincerely.

"Question 1: You’re in a desert walking along in the sand when all of the sudden you look down, and you see a tortoise, it’s crawling toward you. You reach down, you flip the tortoise over on its back. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can’t, not without your help. But you’re not helping. Why is that?"

"Uh... can I ask questions as we go?

"You will just answer the questions. Now, question 2: You are given a calfskin wallet for your birthday..."

How do I sign up to that random phrase thing anyway?

I'd pay extra.

Some years ago, I worked for a branch of a big global corporation. We had this office automation system taking up a tiny portion of a huge mainframe (mini really) whose primary purpose was accounting and inventory management.

Anyway, we had internal email, and we must have been one of the first corporations to hook up to the fledgling internet in order to be able to extend our email capabilities to our HO in London. The implementation was smooth, mostly because the software actually worked. We were gobsmacked. And chuffed.

The point of this, is that we knew we'd also opened email channels to everyone else on the internet. In those days that really only meant your mates who were doing Information Science degrees at Varsity. Yeah. Right. Hackers.

So, to protect ourselves from industrial espionage being carried out from up the hill, we beefed up our password regime with an off the shelf random password generator, which forced a change every 30 days. You could of course, choose your own. This was about the extent of the defenses available to us at the time.

And ohmigod, this package also worked as it said it would. truly, computers were coming of age. Best of all, the "users" loved it, because it spurned gobbldygook impossible to remember things like )F6G7b3d^7(, and presented two words of between 6 and 8 letters long, with a space between them.

FERRARI SCONES

One drawback, was that while these two words were allegedly drawn completely at random from an extensive dictionary, some extremely amusing combinations occured with alarming frequency, and the word SAUSAGE was anecdotally appearing far more often than mere chance would surely allow.

Our users were sharing their passwords, posting the funnier ones in the in house magazine.

Our fearsome and dour IT Manager did put a stop to that promptly. Our password generator remained many years, until operating systems caught up. People enjoyed using it. I should have made a note of who what the programme was called, maybe they're still making useful stuff.

Meanderings

I'm kind of warming to Twitter and Facebook (I'm still not enchanted with Linkedin, it's not enough fun), mostly because I've figured out how to text Twitter, which then posts to Facebook and Linkedin. If I could figure how to get those tweets onto Blogger, I'd be sorted.

At first I thought the 140 character limit was a curse, then I came to embrace the unfinished sentence (much as I really liked that Telecom bug, which apparently appended random sentences onto peoples' texts. That's so funny.

Twitter itself seems to me to be river of trivia, a Tweet flows from the top to the bottom of the screen and you're either there to see it or you're not. Or maybe I just don't know how to drive it properly :)

I loathed Facebook at first, I've always mistrusted it enough so that there is very little actual information on there about me, and I assume that anything I post can be seen by the entire world. Sure, my name, but heh, I'm not even in the phone book. And how do you know that's my real name, and all those "relatives" on there are just my other accounts? Hah. Other than that would be a really stupid and pointless waste of time.

Anyway, I tried to delete my account once, and found I couldn't. Then a few years later, I found that by signing back in, all was reactivated, friends, snowball fights and all.

Incidentally, what happened to all that snowball/vampire/which-kitchen-utensil-are-you shit anyway? Did I somehow turn it off? Or did everyone get bored with it. And don't get me started on "poking" people.

But I can see that it's a great way for friends and family to keep up, and it's as good a way as any to share all your holiday photos. So now I can post and reply with ease, I'm back in. I've had some odd comments from Linkedin contacts, I must say.


Oh say Harve, the copy of Mr Pip that I just read has your, er... mark of ownership in it. So we must catch up for a grand returning ceremony.

What is that anyway? Did you get a stamp made up? 'Cos I'm impressed. Actually maybe I should keep it, in case you become famous, and one day I'll appear on Antiques Roadshow with a Molloy Family stamped copy of Mr Pip. But we should catch up anyway.

I fancy reading some Daphne de Maurier now. I've never read Rebecca, but I do like a good tale of sinister housekeepers.


And I must say that it's a real pleasure to have the broadband to bring up my iGoogle page (The Current Moon Phase is Waning Gibbous, 88% of Full), and the 837 unread blog posts in my RSS feed, are like Twitter, gone. Although they flushed, rather than flowed to be truthful. All while listening to Jimi Hendrix on YouTube. Sweet.

What Now?

The house in town will probably sell this week. Funny, despite it not feeling like home for the last 6 months, its imminent loss makes me extremely sad. I’m not sure why.

Another new page beckons. I am about to be homeless again. It remains to be seen what comes from it, but at the very least I hope to be debt free.

In a few weeks I’ll begin a house-sitting gig for 2 or 3 months. It’s even further in the ‘Burbs than I am now. Still, freeloaders can’t be choosers.

I have a huge amount of furniture and stuff, and nowhere to put it. I suppose some can be sold, the rest stored. Or maybe all sold, except the Rocket coffee machine. It’s only stuff.

I guess these things will work out in time. But today is a sad day, the saddest in months. I don’t quite know why, maybe it’s just time for a blowout.

Tomorrow I’ll be fine. I’m out and about with people all day.


And the Ripliad? In some ways I liked Ripley’s Game best of all, in this one, Ripley plays a game with a neighbour & gets him in over his head in a plot to turn two mafia families against each other. The book really takes off when a contrite Tom appears on a train & whacks a couple of Mafiosi for the neighbour. It gets worse when the mob figure out who Ripley is, and where he lives.

The next book, The Boy Who Followed Ripley, was a little disappointing, mostly because the boy in question is a bland character.

The last, Ripley Underwater, is reminiscent of Ripley Underground: an American couple move into the neighbourhood & begin to harass Ripley about suspected past crimes. As you can imagine, this is not a good lifestyle move.

And Heloise Ripley is in all three. Not quite as complicit in Tom’s escapades as in Ripley Underground, but supportive nonetheless.

Lessee... since then I’ve read what... biographies of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Greta Garbo, and Mr Pip. I need something new to read.


And a new life to live. Anyone know how to go about getting a job in the islands?

Freeview vs Everything Else

I need some advice. I'm thinking of ditching Sky, getting Freeview & augmenting my viewing from the web and with DVDs and box sets.

The only issue I have is how will I watch live rugby matches? Particularly tests and Super 14. Any ideas?

Ripley Underground

I scoured the nearest library for the rest of the Ripley books. They only had the one I’d read, but they could get the rest in a few days if I wanted. I wanted now. I took a long detour home to swing by a second hand book store I recalled. They had only one Highsmith title on the shelf, Ripley Underground ($5). RESULT!!

The man asked was there anything specific I was looking for? I said, “Yes, this, specifically.” He said he’d look out for the others, but he wasn’t familiar with them (which I found odd, for a second hand bookseller), I’ll check the Central Library tomorrow.

So, Ripley Underground, Tom’s certainly more confident now, a few years after Dickie Greanleaf’s disappearance (Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet is in the London cinemas). There are brazen public impersonations of dead artists, fake beards, false passports, and alibis set up left, right and centre. He’s got a possibly equally amoral, hot, French wife now, who basically aids and abets when she’s not off cruising the Mediterranean with friends. Any movie version would have lots of bronzed Euro-hotties-in-swimsuit-scenes in warm, exotic locations. I’m surprised that as far as I know, it hasn’t been filmed. The action spans London, Paris and surrounds, Athens, sundry Greek Isles and Salzburg.

But for all his confidence and scheming, Ripley’s still prone to the highly dramatic predicament. He’s still pants at corpse disposal too, typically just before the police are to visit to investigate the disappearance of the deceased. His attempt to adequately cremate another is a gruesome FAIL. He wonders if he’s doomed to a life digging shallow graves in the woods. He detests murder, unless it’s absolutely necessary, in Ripley’s mind he gives the disgruntled, hapless Murchison all the opportunity in the world to recant his theory (the truth),

“Derwatt is dead. They got someone to impersonate him.” Tom blurted it out, feeling he had nothing any longer to lose, and maybe something to gain. Murchison had his life to gain, but Tom could not quite put that into words, not plain words, as yet.

Perhaps surprisingly, Ripley’s got a sweet and loving relationship with his young wife, she’s an heiress, and absent for half of the book. Her parents disapprove of Tom. But Tom trusts her enough to tell her almost everything, holding back only details he thinks might upset her. And Heloise seems to trust Tom enough not to ask too many questions, even about murder.

While they clearly spend a lot of time apart, and have separate rooms at home, their maid is accustomed to finding both of them sprawled across each other in either bedroom in the mornings, or even afternoons. They have an enthusiastic sex life. Heloise enjoys travelling with Tom under assumed names, joining him with delight if they happen to be in the same city:

“Good evening, Mme Stevens,” Tom said in French. “You are Mme Stevens this evening.” Tom thought of steering her to the desk to register, then decided not to bother, and led Heloise to the lift.

 Three pairs of eyes followed them. Was she really his wife?

Heloise may or may not see right through him – Tom thinks she suspects at least that he arranged Dickie’s disappearance, she knows where Tom’s money came from - but there’s obviously something in him she very much loves. They enjoy each other’s company; they both have independent incomes, so it’s not a money dependent relationship, the only friction between them occurs because of an uninvited and intruding guest, when Heloise wants Tom to herself, and they are both eager to be reconciled. No worries about the forgery, fraud and murder then. She and Tom are like the Anti-Nick and Nora.

Ripley has interesting feelings for the unhinged Bernard. He frets that Bernard isn’t getting the artistic credit he deserves, he’s almost admiring, and certainly not resentful, when Bernard unexpectedly turns the tables and nearly kills him (a gruelling and surreal episode that explains the title). Tom sincerely regrets Bernard’s probable fate. He genuinely cares about his welfare and state of mind even as he hunts him across Europe in order to, one way or another, eliminate the threat he poses. Ever the optimist that there will be a happy conclusion, he seeks to relieve Bernard’s conscience of the burden of his murder, “I’m not a ghost. There wasn’t much earth on top of me and I dug my way out. Funny, isn’t it?” He wants to assure him. Ripley’s not one to harbour a grudge.

There’s a sense of the good sport about Ripley, on several occasions through both books, there are moments he feels exposure is imminent, yet it will be a fair cop, and worth it. And you have to wonder at someone so blasé at being hit over the head with a shovel, buried in a woodland grave meant for someone else, and left for dead. He conceals his own grave, has a refreshing bath, makes a ham sandwich and ponders the merits and practicalities of playing dead for a while. Ripley doesn’t sweat getting even; he’s got his eye on the big picture.

Onwards now, to Ripley’s Game, in which, if memory serves, our anti-hero attempts to turn an innocent to the Dark Side, The Boy Who Followed Ripley and Ripley Under Water, of which I know nothing. I want there to be more. I hope Heloise returns.

How far would you go?

I’ve finally read Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr Ripley. It is magnificent and appalling at the same time. Highsmith is remarkably faithful to the Matt Damon film from a few years ago, she left out the minor subplot involving the pregnant Italian who kills herself over Dickie, a lot of Philip Seymour Hoffman, pretty much the entire Cate Blanchett character and all that stuff at the opera, but those bits add nothing to the story & are so cleverly excised, it’s as if they were never there.

Tom Ripley is by turns, charming manipulator, and pathological David Brent. He strives for control, but has an impulsive opportunism that can easily see him burdened with an inconvenient corpse. How Tom copes with the roller-coaster vicissitudes of his life makes for very high drama. The ease and speed at which murder seems a viable solution to his problems is disconcerting, the moment comes when you realise this guy's not just a recklessly brazen and self absorbed con man, he's an A Grade Homicidal Lunatic, and it’s a bit of a shock, even to Ripley at times. Still, toward the end, on a voyage to Greece, mid promenade with an elderly matron, Ripley idly fantasises about tossing the old lady overboard. Just for the fun of it, presumably. The thought is just thrown in, between the idle chatter about the minutiae of the day. Tom Ripley is an awesome piece of work.

I've seen Ripley's Game, with John Malkovitch essaying an older, more confident, controlling and reptilian Ripley than Damon, I expect that Tom Ripley's development from a seat-of-his-pants kind of opportunist, to Machiavellian psychopath, will be explained as the books progress. For now I will read them all. And I have to admit, I see Damon in my mind’s eye. He did a pretty good job.

I’ve read that the very best filmed version is a French movie starring Alain Delon, the name of which escapes me. I will seek it out.

I borrowed the book from a friend that I was cat-sitting for. He had two cats until recently, a cheeky mongrel with abyssinian in him, and a refined Russian Blue. The abyssinian is sadly no more, and so I consented to look after their place on a weekend they were away & keep the apparently grieving Taser company. They have a lovely view of the Miramar peninsular from their house, a Wega espresso machine, a stocked wine cellar, broadband and all the satellite TV channels you could wish for. It was hard work.

Taser wound happily around me while my friends remained, they were sure she'd be comforted by my presence. After they left, I scarcely saw the beast until the moment they came back. I was tolerated at best.

My friend tells me that Russian Blues were bred so as not to shed blood, they do not make good hunters. So I caused some excitement when I txted to say that vomit & small white feathers adorned the lounge in the morning. In hindsight, I think she probably gorged on biscuits, gagged a furball & scragged a down pillow.

At some stage, and a little oddly I thought, the vet who officiated at the euthenasia of the abyssinian dropped by with some home grown tomatoes for my friends. She was pretty hot, and her tomatoes were delicious, I hoped she might pop back later with even more produce. I suppose I could have fabricated some ailment with the cat, but that would have entailed finding and catching it, and honestly, that thought only just occurred to me.

When I left the cat to her own devices & her prodigal owners, I made a heroic & much further than expected walk into town, for a blood test of all things. The nurse made small talk, and asked me what I did in the weekend, and so I told her... the upshot is she's going to call me when she & her husband go overseas in a short while & I will look after her aging dog.

Heh. I hope they have broadband & satellite TV. Standards have been set.

Beer and Trainspotters

Family from the Old Country came to stay a little while back, a 2nd or 3rd degree cousin and her husband. I think her brother might have been in my class at some stage.

They visited some 17 years ago, when they seemed to be on a world tour of natural breweries. They had The Parrot and Jigger on their list, but my mum persuaded them they visit lots of natural breweries and that a hike along the Eastbourne coast would be more memorable. Heh. This never fails to amuse me.

This time, they were far more ambivalent about beer, and after only 10 or so minutes of being appraised of the world trip so far... it dawned on me that my cousin's husband is a Trainspotter. For real. As an aside, anoraks are out of favour these days, they have been substituted with natty smocks, or hooded ponchos, which cover your backpack as well. Fecking ingenious.

They're both Whovians, and hail from South Wales, close to the Cardiff Rift. Raoul told me that for one week or so, from his office in a town called Newport, the Tardis was parked across the street, while battle for the fate of the Universe took place nearby. How cool is that.

After they left, I came across this. Beer and trains, and more. Raoul might have liked that.

The new Doctor gets the thumbs up. But among my friends, the jury it still out on the new Companion.

Ooh.

Ooh. The new Doctor Who is coming soon. Awesome. I’ve just been through all the David Tennant box sets , and they all rocked. The Blink episode was especially good, I see from the promos they’re bringing back those spooky weeping angels (and hopefully, Carey Mulligan), great too, was the episode with the French aristocrat chick through the fireplace, with the creepy clockwork guys.

I recently watched the very first four episodes ever, with William Hartnell. He was my first Doctor & I do remember watching it the very first day it screened ever. I remember lots about the initial episode, I don’t remember any the subsequent 3 involving the Doctor gifting fire to (remarkably well groomed and articulate) cavemen. But it’s surprising how much fits with the backstory that was later constructed around the character.

While Hartnell was my first, my favourite was Patrick Troughton. And those yetis.

Word from those with friends in the UK is highly favourable for Matt Smith, the new Doctor. I saw him in those Phillip Pullman adaptations that also starred Billie Piper (coincidence?), I wasn’t impressed. I’m hoping first impressions were wrong.

I presume the series’ regulars & spinoffs will continue their rotation through the plotlines: Rose Tyler, Capt Jack, Sarah-Jane, Martha & the one whose name briefly escapes me, the two survivoring members of the Torchwood team (that last miniseries with the abducted kids was brutal)... maybe even Bernard Cribbins.

I still remember him reading Paddington Bear stories on Jackanory. They should totally bring him back.

I’m sure they will. These guys are all on to a good thing. And it occurs to me that what with Torchwood and all, and all the Welsh actors in bit & guest parts throughout, and panoramic shots of metropolitan Cardiff (heh), these things are to Wales what Xena & Hercules were to New Zealand.

Torchwood is much better since they eliminated the creepier members of the team a season or so back, and got over trying to be a bisexual soft porn show on the side. Really guys, we didn’t want to even think about some of those characters having sex, let alone see it.

Fittingly, over in another timeslot, possibly on an alternate channel, either Denise van Outen, or the other one who looks very similar, but has black hair, told Capt Jack he should get back in his Tardis, as they bickered over the performance of one hapless would-be Joseph on something called Any Dream Will Do.

This show has Capt Jack, Graeme Norton, and Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber. It sounds unlikely even before you throw in the wannabee West End stars, some of whom to be charitable, are at the level of good karaoke singers. But this show is gripping, in the same way that Dancing with the Stars was.

Each week, in an act that must be right up there in the Reality TV Ritual Humiliation stakes, the loser who will not be Joseph. Ever. Has his technicolour coat removed by his remaining “brothers”, while they sing a dirgy song. It never fails to make me laugh in an uncharitable fashion. And on that, I haven’t been watching Masterchef regularly, but I caught the end of one & they have really missed an opportunity to do something similarly humiliating to their losers, like ritually stripping them of their aprons. Or something. Possibly involving paring knives.

I have no idea who will be Joseph, and neither do I care, the ride is more important than the destination. I’ve never seen any version of the show, but it strikes me if a couple of guys like Jason Donovan & Philip Schofield can make a smash hit of it, how hard could the role be? No offence to those guys, for all I know they had extensive musical stage experience.

It’s all about the destination with Antiques Roadshow though, but I don’t mean the diverse historical settings. To me, they’re just a bunch of thumb sized farm animals crudely carved from shiny rocks in a sellotape tin, which the owner’s Great-Gran used to get out for her to play with, until the guy says “Faberge”, and estimates an auction value of mortgage eliminating proportion. The money shot.

Conversely, there’s great drama to be had from an expert waxing gleefully on a priceless find, only to turn it over/open a drawer & immediately gasp, “Oh, it’s a fake. How much did you pay for it again?” Apparently they do not examine these pieces until the moment the camera rolls. Mind you, some of these “fakes” have eye-watering values too.

I love that shit. I checked out the similarly themed Cash in the Attic, but it’s drawn out & not enough Faberge farm animals turn up, and they LIE! They do not check out the attic.

And cripes, some of those collectables are heinously ugly.

I’ve dutifully tuned in to The Pacific. It hasn’t been as grisly as I expected. Not from this side of the screen. I’ve yet to see Saving Private Ryan, and I missed all but the last episodes of Band of Brothers, so I have nothing to benchmark this against. I’m real glad I wasn’t there. And where during all this, were the Solomon Islanders? Maybe we’ll find out as the series progresses.

Honourable mention now goes to the documentary about Gerry Anderson & Thunderbirds. Holy hell, Sylvia Anderson was the spitting image of Lady Penelope. Somewhere, in a box, in a cupboard at my mum’s, are highly prized Dinky models of: Lady P’s pink Roller, license plate FAB1, complete with firing missile, Penny herself, and Parker (“You wang, M’lady?”); Thunderbird 2, complete with pod bearing Thunderbird 4. One of the landing legs is broken, and it has a hand painted “Slade” emblazoned in Red Dulux paint on each side; Spectrum SPV and APV vehicles (I only remember that SPV stood for Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle), with firing missiles & Capt Scarlet; and a slightly worse for wear Beatles Yellow Submarine(no missile or torpedoes).

There once was also a James Bond Aston Martin, circa Goldfinger, with the obligatory missile, rear bullet shield, and ejector seat, complete with a little Korean ejectee. I don’t know what became of that one. Oh yeah, and a Diamonds Are Forever Moon Buggy. The memories flood back.

Any of these things would make starring appearances at any Antiques Roadshow if they hadn’t perhaps been played with (and sometimes modified) by children, and if they were still in their original packing, and indeed, still had their missiles, and Ringo Starrs. I urge parents to exercise some psychic forethought & buy two of any toy that might be remotely collectable in future, and keep one pristine and unpacked, possibly in the attic, safe from the Cash in the Attic team.

It was interesting to note that the puppets in Thunderbirds were more animate than the live actors in Anderson’s later ventures; UFO & Space 1999 (guffaw). Although UFO holds a place dear in our hearts for Gabrielle Drake, her metallic purple wig, see through futuristic “military” uniform, and pert profile in her silhouette undressing scenes.

Ooh.

Latest Pics

I'm taking a dump now...

I've succumbed to Twitter.

I'm not convinced about the twitter gadget on the sidebar though.

Right Here, Right Now.

Personally, I have no problem with the promo & song for the Rugby World Cup. But they're going to need to mix up the footage a bit if they expect us to care for more than the next week or so.

On reflection, I don't see it necessary that the song be a kiwi song, and "Loyal", while great, has done its dash in rousing the throng for a sporting event. Even if it was yachting.

How come "Business Time" wasn't a contender?

The birds, the birds...

I'm surprised at how much the local birdlife has burgeoned over the last few decades. I somewhat arrogantly presumed the birdlife preferred the city and Karori to the 'burbs. But I've nearly been floored by low flying kereru twice now, and the river birds are thriving. I've even seen pukekoes.

An interesting gate to somewhere uninteresting.

Golf is a mystery to me. The most I have done is a few buckets at a driving range. I aimed for a guy in an armoured ball collector. Still, golf courses are nice. Actually, I have a cousin who is so good, he gets to be partnered with celebs for charity golf matches in the UK.

Red Letter Day

Take note, that it was on Good Friday 2010, that I completed a Times cryptic crossword.

OK, it was yesterday's one. And there were a number of words which I had to check in a dictionary whether or not they even existed, let alone bore any relevance to the clue.

I now know that "ortulan" is some kind of bunting; an "indiaman" is a ship; "adipose" is fatty; and that a "ram" is a beak of some sort on a boat.

Respectively, the clues were:

• Bunting taken from door to landing
• Vessel a serving girl carried back into pub
• Fatty is a dope, unfortunately
• Beak given the staff required to press charges.

The whole answer to that last one is "ramrod". I tricked myself by having "reason" and then "ration" in there for quite some time.

• Infuriating, like Gray's crowd concealling directions

This took me quite some time and wikipedia to rationalise, the answer is "maddening", I long suspected it was, but who knew that Thomas Hardy was quoting Thomas Gray? Not me.

Oh, and I still have no idea why

• Expand home, adding fifth apartment

is "inflate", neither do I care, it just is.

Anyway, my work here is done.

And Yesterday...

For a change of pace, I attended a memorial service for someone who died far from home, peacefully in his sleep, after enjoying a fantastic evening with friends.

I have known the family since I was 14 or so. I was at college with the deceased's brother, whom I flatted with for years. We were best men at each others' weddings. Their mother was our English teacher, and she took the opportunity to apologise for us having to read the Grapes of Wrath. We reminisced about the class where no-one had read the last chapter, and one chap, with a stated plan of George Costanza-like ingenuity, decided bravado, and having his moment in the spotlight early, was the best strategy to avoid detection, bluffed that he had by volunteering an answer at the earliest opportunity.

Instead of moving quickly onto the next student, our teacher pressed him to expand on his response. The rest of us were breathless with awe at the speed this boy's plan had turned pear shaped.

Good times.

The father has a military bearing. With good reason. Family legend has it that the scar on his ear came from a knife fight with one of the Kray twins. It's a credible story.

There are more brothers, and a sister. They are fine people. And strong.

The deceased can most diplomatically be described as an irrascible rogue. Amongst other things, an accountant, a publican, raconteur, husband, father, grandfather, philanderer, sailor, drinker, and one of the most memorable & likeable fellows you are ever likely to meet. Like most of us, his life experienced its ups and downs, actually a great deal more than most of us. My friend, his brother, tidied his affairs, collected his ashes from a place near a beach on the other side of the world, and brought him home.

Many stories and memories were unspoken. He did for instance, upon being pulled over at a checkpoint in the middle of the night, abandon the car, run across the motorway and up into the bush above Wellington Harbour, to escape identification.  He later reported the car stolen. it was borrowed from a friend anyway.

He also, purportedly, knew how to slow an electricity meter down so that his entire home full of appliances was costing him about the same as running a small fridge. The power company sure knew something was going on, but I don't know if they ever managed to rectify the state of affairs while he lived there.

I walked back from the church along the river bank, straying briefly from the track to investigate something in the river, a head popped up from the long grass. Eww, rutting teenagers. I laughed & determined to stick to the track from now on. Later I realised I should have checked they were practising safe sex.

This dog is keenly waiting for a train. Apparently he goes amusingly nuts when one passes. He was certainly reluctant to continue his walk until one appeared.

It did, about a minute after he gave up.

For Old Time's Sake

I checked on the house this week, it was a nice Wellington Autumn's day, a little too breezy perhaps, but that goes with the territory.

She is beautifully presented, but empty & lonely. I felt a wave of sadness as I recalled good times past in those rooms. But it passed as it dawned on me that this isn't my home now, and the place looks like a fictional representation of somewhere I once knew. Some of the stuff within looks a little like mine, but the master bedroom looks only slightly familiar now. Even the suits and shirts in the wardrobe do not look like things I'd wear. Later, I thought I should have taken the opportunity to pick up my dinner suit, no-one looks out of place in a dinner suit.

Leaving, I actually couldn't bring myself to walk through the Botanical gardens, it just didn't seem right without a dog.

Planespotters

Monday night seems to be model plane night at the local park. There's often something on there, during the weekend there were no less than 5 cricket games taking place concurrently, at least one of them notable enough to warrant the attendance of a DomPost reporter. It had never occurred to me before, just how big that space is.

Meanwhile, model plane enthusiasts seem to meet many of the criteria necessary to be called "anoraks".

No offense to the gentleman whose picture appears here.

Pictures from the Burbs

A couple of lines in atrocious poetry

The answer is “Ballad”. 

There’s a promo on the puzzle page of the Listener that claims that finishing a cryptic crossword in one sitting increases your brain cell count by 100. If that claim is true, the Listener is still good for at least one thing.

I can usually polish off the Dompost cryptic in a couple of sessions.

The holy grail is the Times Cryptic. I once got within two clues of completion. It probably took days. Often, I’m lucky to get two. Checking the solution sometimes leaves me none the wiser. What for instance, is a “Siskin”? The clue was “Bird is spotted, sitting in hide.” I can almost see how it works, “hide” = “skin”, but I’d never have got it. Other times, any relationship between the solution and the clue remains opaque to me.

Family legend has it that my father & my grandmother would race to complete the Times crossword & neither would take more than 10 minutes or so. As clever as I know they both were, I’d have to have seen that to believe it. For starters, I can’t see them having two copies of the newspaper, and photocopiers had yet to be invented.

Cryptics are funny things, sometimes the clue is so elegant – “Men from London, Washington, Paris and Wellington?” The answer is “Capital fellows”.

Clues are exercises in lateral thinking, they can take you down blind alleys until suddenly, a whole different way of attacking the problem occurs to you, revealing a whole raft of new possibilities. Some solutions are head-smackingly obvious after hours of tossing words and meanings around. Some are instantly recognisable – “A willing account?” is “Testament”.

Sometimes you know the answer, but you don’t know why.

Sometimes you think you’ve got it right, but you pox up a whole section making the wrong letters fit. Clues are by nature ambiguous.

If you’re not familiar with them, usually a word or phrase in the clue signifies the definition of the solution . In the clue in the title to this post, “A couple of lines in atrocious poetry” that word is “poetry”. Other words are clues to how the word is constructed – an “a” and two “l”s in another word that means “atrocious”. Ie, “bad”. “In” is the clue to construction in this instance.

Other indicators, including “badly”, “disrupted”, “out” and “reform”, for example, indicate the answer might be an anagram. Eg, “The early reform could be so tough.” The answer is “Leathery.”

Here are some others, if you see these words in a clue, they might represent some specific letters or acronyms, or heh, they might not:

• Church = CH 
• Sailor/Seaman = “RN” or “TAR” or even “SALT” 
• Nurse = “RN” 
• Soldier = "RA" 
• About = an anagram or “RE” 
• Leader = the initial letter of another word in the clue 
• Queen/Her Majesty = “ER” 
• In = could be quoted somewhere else in the clue 
• Firm /Concern = “CO” 
• Direction/Point = Either “N”, “S”, “E” or “W”. 
• The French = “LE” or “LA” 
• The Spanish = “EL” 
• English = “E” 
• English church = “COE” 
• Backwards/Back/Return = reverse the order of the letters 
• Say/Heard = the solution sounds like something else. 

Cryptic crosswords are a matter of practice; you can get to know the style of the crossword compiler too.

Some inscrutable automaton with a vocabulary the size of a planet compiles the Times Cryptic.

WTF, for example, could “Yours truly had failed to score, say, getting the bird” (5 and 4 letters). I figure the last word might be “duck”. But that could be a red herring, (or, a “Likely irrelevant catch for a Soviet trawler.”)

Adventures in talkback

I'm really, really enjoyng the Newstalk ZB reaction to those three hippie looking do-gooders who were found Not Guilty despite their having admitted to the offence.

The concept is taxing some fine minds out there. Although I heard two of the offenders on the news last night, and dagnabbit if they didn't make some kind of sense. Anyone know if they mounted their own defence? I can't be arsed looking it up. Epic "Succeed" if they did.

Meanwhile, another fine mind is complaining about a headline that says "Hunters gunning for Iwi" or something. He thinks they're literally stalking him with firearms & intent. When it was explained that the hunters had said no such thing & it was exuberant journalistic rhetoric, light seemed to dawn, until he realised "Wait a minnit, that's even worse!".  At one stage he was asked to explain his point, he said "I'll explain my point all right, it's, it's... different to his!."

Right oh.

Happy, hap, hap, happy holiday...

Some years ago, an outstandingly pretty young woman who was on the cusp of being heartedly sick of me asked if I'd ever been on a holiday by myself.

I hadn't as it happens, although I'd travelled plenty by myself, on business. I am comfortable eating alone in a hotel or cafe, and so I dismissed her question as that of someone trying to demonstrate that they're getting heartedly sick of me.

But the idea has stuck with me over the years. I don't know where I'd go, or if I would, even. But I have promised myself that I'll at least be open to opportunity.

I suspect that somewhere far away might be in order. Or then again, a week in someplace closer, but unfamiliar might also be interesting. Is there anything to do around Fielding?

Maybe I should throw darts at a globe, or choose a theme, like visit the places all the Wombles are named after.

This idea may be worth developing.

Something strange and possibly untrue

A right handed person draws a circle or an "o" in an anti-clockwise direction. A leftie draws clockwise.

So what do you reckon? Can some leftie confirm or deny according to their experience?

The person who imparted this factoid, also told me that dyslexics think in pictures, and have the most trouble with printed words that do not evoke a picture.

Anyone? Anyone?

Mean Streets

I'm in the 'Burbs at present. It's not as bad as I expected. Except for some freak weather.

These are the mean Streets of my youth:

Here, I'm standing in front of the site of a house I onced lived in. This was my view on April 10, 1968, the day the Wahine sank with loss of life. That day we had the curtains drawn because all manner of things were blowing about - dustbins, roofs, trees, neighbours, pets and man hole covers. The trees in the picture obviously survived, but a row of big trees that were behind them were uprooted & blown across the park.

A more recent storm saw this tree off. People who were outside at the time, described a tornado. My brother-in-law, nephews and dog, were unable to get home because a tree isolated their street and took out the power. They turned up like sodden refugees & we spent the evening watching the Crusaders beat the Chiefs while feasting on sausages, squid rings, hash browns & some dodgy frozen fish pieces - anything we could find in the freezer to feed unexpected guests.

Some of the roads could do with sealing though. This would have looked grand on the day of the storm.

And this enthusiast needs to get one of his satellite dishes repaired.