Test of VR+ Lite

https://vr.shapeservices.com/play.php?hash=01871b668bd0cd91876924847bf4700ad2e484c739bdf2e21

This is a test of something which isn't quite as good as AudioBoo.

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Recorded on iPhone and posted with VR+ Lite.
http://vr.shapeservices.com

Westminster's Got Talent

I think the honourable members have missed a trick. They've gone and elected John Bercow MP as their speaker. They should have have got Simon Cowell in to advise them on the process and ignored the House of Commons officials. You know, the ones who said it was all right to have the taxpayer pay for their moat to be dredged or their new duck house or the mortgage they've already paid off. They obviously know nothing.

In order to fit in with the zeitgeist, Simon Cowell would have run a much more interactive process from which he - and they - could have made a pile of cash. Anne Widdecombe could have sung a song in an unexpectedly beautiful voice for a start. Margaret Hodge does a very good impersonation of John Culshaw and John Burcow can juggle ferrets. There's not one of them who wouldn't do something daft to gain the approval of the electorate. We could then pick the winner in telephone vote on a Saturday night.

If we got to pick the Speaker he would see to it that the members of Parliament would actually get on wth the job of representing us rather than finding ever more creative ways to justify claiming for a gazebo on expenses.

The Caravan Club and the Demise of Democracy

Amess Takes Bung from Caravanners

I've always thought that caravanners were bent destroying commerce by dragging their ugly, useless boxes behind their cars. I've also always thought that the self-satisfied bastards had it in for me, but that's just paranoia and the medication is helping with what others insist on calling delusions. Not even I ever thought that they would follow in the footsteps of Big Business everywhere and give money to an MP in an attempt to gain access to the Mother of Parliaments.

Just in case there are legal people reading, I should make it plain that David Amess has declared the payments from the Caravan Club in the Register of Members' Interests and that I'm prepared to believe Mr Amess' claim that his failure to declare an interest was an honest oversight.

I still find it very strange that the Caravan Club, of all people, should find it necessary to pay money to Mr Amess for services rendered. It might be that they've found out about my proposal to have caravans banned from the roads during the hours of daylight and for the RAF to be empowered to use any caravans it finds breaking curfew as target practice. I can see why they would find my plans a threat to their member's interests and feel the need to have their concerns raised by an MP. What I don't understand is why they need to pay an MP for his time when presumably they have a member somewhere in Southend West who could have dropped Mr Amess a line for the price of a second class stamp.

There are a number of explanations for this. The first is that the Caravan Club is daft. This is plausible. After all, they think its a good idea to drag a cheaply furnished box on wheels around the country rather than fork out a few quid for a B&B or hotel room. They may not realise that MPs work for us and have to take our concerns as consitituents seriously. I've been trying to get my MP to take my suggestions about caravans and the RAF on board for some time. Maybe I should stick a couple of used fivers in the next envelope and see if that helps.

The Caravan Club contributes to a environment in which it's normal to pay for access to Parliament. It gives the subscriptions of between 14o and 3oo members to Mr Amess in return for a few lunches on the terrace in the House of Commons and questions to ministers reflecting the interests of its members. Even I will admit that the Caravan Club is not a malign influence. Not really. Except when I'm drunk. Then they are the devil incaravanate.

There are others who will pay MPs whose interests are less benign. They want to influence government ministers and while MPs are acting in their interests, they are not necessarily acting in ours. The Caravan Club story is funny. It tickled me at the end of a week which was otherwise quite depressing but it raises a serious point: who are MPs working for? If it's for us, then why are they taking money from anyone else? If it's not for us, then why are we paying them anything at all?

The Four Pigmen of the Aporkalypse

It's seems we are all going to die and it's the fault of some Mexican pigs. Something like that, anyway. I don't know. I haven't really been paying attention this week. I've been on holiday and done the usual holiday things like sitting around in my pants eating ice cream and waiting for the next meal time. I really should have spent some of my valuable time off worrying about swine flu.

Anyway, if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are War, Famine, Pestilence and Death then the Four Pigmen of the Aporkalypse have to be Rumour, Exaggeration, Baseless Worry and Hospitalisation. I heard yesterday (in an IRC chat, so it must be true) that the Government had bought "literally fuck-loads" of those little masks you see Japanese people wearing in photos of people looking like poorly disguised idiots in heavy traffic. I also heard that (in the same well-informed conversation) that thousands of people were sick in America. Of the flu, obviously. This led one young chap (it had to be a chap, this was an IRC chat after all) to lose his cool somewhat. "ZOMFG!!! WE'RE ALL GOING TO FREAKING DIE OF FREAKING MEXICAN PIG DISEASE!!!!!!!!! IT'S IN MY TOWN!!!!! IT'S IN MY TOWN!!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO DIE.!!!! I'M GOING TO SHOOT ALL THE MEXICAN PIGS!!!!!!!!!!!!" Or something like that. It took us a little while to calm him down, but we did it in the end. We laughed quite a lot, but maybe quite nervously.

The truth is that so far, as long as you're not poor and Mexican, a spell of isolation in hospital and good medical care will see you though if you are unlucky enough to contract this particular flu. You can reduce your chances of contracting the virus by behaving as if you were being visited by a particularly stern aunt. Use a paper hankie when you sneeze and get rid of if quickly. Wash your hands. Keep doorknobs and other hard surfaces clean. Avoid snottery people.

That last measure can be advice for life in general.

Jackie Smith, night club bouncer

I've become irritated (no, really) by one of David Cameron's Tweets. It linked me to this post about how knife crime has increased under the Labour government. Now, between them Gordon Brown, Jackie Smith and Jack Straw are responsible for many things but I don' t think that includes increasing levels of violence on the streets in Britain.

Picture this scene. Exterior. Night. Outside a club.

Jackie Smith (Home Secretary and part-time night-club bouncer, wearing her stab-proof vest): 'Scuse me. I said, 'scuse me.

Clubber 1: Me?

JS: Yeah, you. And your pissed-up friend.

(Clubber 2 staggers slightly while trying to stay upright)

Clubber 1: You not going to let me in?

JS: Just need to ask you a couple of questions.

Clubber 1: Well, all right then.

JS: Got a knife on you?

Clubber 1 (outraged): Who me? No! Course not!

JS (producing evil-looking hunting knife): Best take this. You'll need it. It's as rough as all fuck in there.

(Clubber 1 takes knife gingerly)

JS (producing bag of powdery substance): See if you can flog this while you're in there. You'll need the cash to pay for the drinks. Stay off the voddie. It's watered.

Clubber 1: Thanks. Thanks very much.

JS: On you go. What are you waiting for?

See, I can't see that happening. Politicians don't commit crime. Well, apart from Jeffrey Archer and he's more of a buffoon than a real politician. The crimes politicians commit are either too small and procedural to bother anybody with or so big they can't really be recognised for ages. At least they are in Britain.

Neither can they be held responsible for the crimes that others commit. The cabinet doesn't include "Organising the Stabbing Rota" in its deliberations. Any knife crime arranged by the cabinet would most probably include who gets to put it in the back of the Prime Minister. For the Opposition to say that it's the government's fault that knife crime is rising rather the the fault of the scummy little bags of shite who actually do the stabbing is just scoring points. It achieves nothing.

And it's the same with nearly all the campaigns run by all political parties everywhere, except possibly in Zimbabwe. There I think it's plausible to hold politicians responsible for stabbings, shootings and beatings because it's likely that some of them at least are politically organised. Not in London, though because I don't think anything is organised there.

Who the **** is Peter Kay?

How the sod did Peter Kay become Britain's favourite comic? He's just a fat bloke from the north of England who should be on a diet instead on the telly.

O tempora, o mores. Oh bugger it.

I'm torn, really torn by Damien Green

From the BBC News website

Normally, when I hear about a Tory politician getting arrested I laugh my socks off. When Jonathan Aitken was disarmed of his sword of truth and found it turned back on him, I laughed off not only my socks but my shoes, feet and the lower part of my left leg. When I heard that Damien Green had been arrested, I was sure he'd been involved in some dodgy dungeon party in the company of Max Mosely. I was mistaken.

Instead, Damien Green, the Conservatives' immigration spokesman was arrested so the police could question him about his part in leaks from the Home Office over the past few months. It seems that David Normington, the Permanent Under-Secretary of State at the Home Office was concerned that the leaks from the department were undermining its ability to function. (See the Permanent Secretary's statement here.)

There have long been problems with this department. It's the source of very many extremely unpopular and occasionally illiberal pieces of legislation. As a result, civil servants are occasionally faced with dealing with policies they can't support or come into possession of documents which contradict publicly stated policy. Now, ministers are entitled to a certain discretion from civil servants, and the mandarins who actually run the government depend on the loyalty and discretion of those in their departments in order for government to function. If a civil servant leaked every policy paper or sheaf of statistics which came across their desk, then nothing would ever actually get done.

In this case, Sir Humphrey in the form of David Normington has had a complete sense of humour failure. He said in his statement, "The Home Office has suffered a number of leaks of sensitive information over an extended period. Due to the nature of our business this was clearly a matter of serious concern, in that it risked undermining the effective operation of my department." He went on, "I therefore requested police assistance in trying to identify the sources of these leaks." The police arrested a junior civil servant on 19 November and there the matter really could have rested.

It's all got a bit political though. In arresting Damien Green, the police have assaulted Parliament itself. He wasn't doing anything other than holding the government to account. Mr Speaker Martin must have been involved in allowing the police officers into the Commons to effect their search of Damien Green's office. His position may become untenable. David Normington did not inform his political masters of what was going on. His job is probably at risk too. The Home Secretary really doesn't need these distractions. She'll probably need that stab vest again soon.

What is really at risk are our liberties. Parliament, as ineffective as it has been is still the guardian of our freedom. Our Members of Parliament have to be free to challenge the government and hold them to account for their words and actions. The arrest of Damien Green undermines that and it's not funny at all.

You want a bag for that?

I was in Sainsbury's today and was asked if I'd like a bag for a magazine and a Mars bar. I might have said yes had I been embarrassed by either the magazine or the Mars bar, but Octane is porn only for petrolheads and I'm secure about my need for cheap chocolate. I was asked of I'd like a bag for much the same stuff in WHSmith a couple of days ago. If people need bags, they'll ask for them.

Thank you.

The tyrrany of blank space

And the awful possibility that I can't spell 'tyrrany.' Or possibly 'tyranny.'

I can't. The red, squiggly line appears under two Rs and one N, but one R and two Ns looks wrong even though I know that 'tyrant' is spelled correctly. It's a dreadful social embarrassment in a text-based world. You want to communicate but you can't be sure that what you type is going to be acceptable to the grammar nazis. It's a bit like giving in to a deep need for flatulence-based humour on the first visit to the in-laws.

Anyway, the subject wouldn't have arisen had I not felt the compulsion to write something and then had the first thing I wrote given the red-pen treatment by the Electronic English Teacher of Death.

4/10 - See me later.
The Electronic English Teacher of Death.

So Alistair Darling, a man who looks as if he should be leading Harry Hill's Badger Parade rather than the economy, want to borrow £78 billion this year and £118 billion next year. He's going to pay it back some time and will definitely be heading back to the black in 2015. I think it's possible that some of the people who used to run the banks that were nationalised are now working at HM Treasury and working their unique style of magic there now. God help us all.

We're going to be paying a lower rate of VAT but that won't mean cheaper booze or fags to help us deal with life in Credit Crunched Britain, or cheaper petrol to help us run away. No. Uncle Alistair is going to increase the duty on them to counteract the cuts in VAT on those items. And he's not going to soak the rich. He's not even going to get them slightly damp. He's going to give them a swift wipe down with a lemon-scented towelette while apologising for the inconvenience.

Yvette Cooper wants us all to spend more to do our bit to support the economy. I'd love to support my local Aston Martin dealer. I think I'll go and have a word with my bank manager and tell him I'm not doing it because I want a really nice car, I'm doing it so that the salesman's family won't starve. I intend to pay for it starting in 2015 with my increased earnings once I've had a couple of really big promotions and paid off my mortgage.

So, I hear you've got a blog

Well, yes. I do have a blog. It's a bit like a pet given to an ungrateful child. Nobody pays attention to it until it comes up the child's humph to inspect it after weeks or months of neglect and there is the empty space where the cage used to be.

"Where's the rabbit?" asks the child, who can't remember the poor creature's name.

"The rabbit's dead," says a harrassed parent, with some bluntness.

"When did it die?"

"Months ago and you didn't notice."

"Oh." The bottom lip is quivering at this point. The child's. The parent is too pissed off to bother with quivery-lipped infants.

"It was always me who had to clean it out and see that it was fed," says the parent. "Don't pretend now that you cared for it at all."

This blog is much like that long-forgotten childhood pet. It comes to mind only when the owner is completely bored or is prompted by someone who asks, "I hear you've got a blog." I have indeed got a blog. It's just not very well.

Oh dear

Told you I got obsessed.

Okay, I have a confession to make. I have been busy, but not with real life. I was doing some random surfing and came across an on-line game at www.cybernations.com. It's insane. There are teenagers with nuclear weapons doing tech raids. Really. I'm hooked. I have a small nation called New Gosford and I have taken on the persona of President President. That's what I've been doing for the past two weeks. I haven't read the news, seen my step son, stroked my cat and have barely talked to my wife. Dear gods, what is happening to me?

Bad food

There is a front page story in today's Independent about waste in the food industry. Follow this link for the story http://news.independent.co.uk/environment/article2175016.ece. They are running a campaign to reduce the amount of packaging the food industry uses. It is worthwhile and I urge anyone reading this to join in. I've seen the shrink wrapped turnips myself and it is completely absurd. Turnips are all but indestructable and the shrink wrap is rather difficult to get into. It's completely bizarre. It's also only part of the story when it comes to waste in the food industry.

I think part of the reason for excess packaging is the consumer's deep spiritual need for perfect food. Everything has to look like it's come straight off the front page of a lifestyle cook book. Carrots and courgettes can only be bought if they look fit to nestle in Nigella Lawson's bosom. The big supermarkets have very tight specifications for fruit and vegetables and reject anything which doesn't meet them. It could be that the carrots are slightly mis-shapen, or the apples are too large or too small. It is seldom because the food is spoiled. The rejected consignments are returned to the supplier which is expensive in both cash and food miles terms.

There is also the problem of what we ourselves do with all the food we buy and do not actually consume. Think about what sits in the bottom of your fridge. There's probably at least half a pepper and a bag of washed salad leaves. How long do you keep it before you just chuck it in the bin? And I bet you just go and get some more. Retailers are obliged to dispose of food which has gone past its sell by date. Please follow this link to the Guardian's website for some more on the problem http://environment.guardian.co.uk/waste/story/0,,1985320,00.html.

The article says that Britain disposes of 15 million tons of food every year. 15 million tons. Think about it. It all has to be grown, tended, paid for, transported several times and then it just ends up in landfill. It's immoral.

Typical really

I had a fantastic idea for a post this morning. It was cogent, politically daring and wittily expressed. Unfortunately, I had to race out the door for my first appointment of the day (Waterstone's in Cambridge in case you were interested) so I left it in my head to mature over the course of the day. It hasn't so much matured as mouldered and fallen apart, a bit like one of those bog mummies which haven't been properly curated. I can't for the life of me think what I was supposed to be blogging about. I can't remember what triggered the thoughts in the first place. It may have been something I heard on the radio this morning. Maybe it was last night. Or at the weekend. I could have been something I read at the weekend. That last one is a bit unlikely - I'm reading one of Lindsey Davis' Falco books and it's far too funny to have conjured serious political thoughts.

So, the lesson of the day is to take a note of things as they occur to me.

Having a life style, or having a life

It's not as if I had planned to do anything, so doing nothing should not be a problem. It is though. I feel my weekends should be full of Fun. I spend the week working my arse off (just in case Boss falls across this) so I think my weekends should be spent doing all the things I want to do. Invariably, they are spent farting about, reading a book or two, visiting a cafe on Mill Road with a spot of hunter-gathering at Tesco thrown in for luck.

Why can't I have a life style? I used to. I went the gym and enjoyed it. No, really I did. It wasn't just that there were lots of twenty-something Lycra gym bunnies to watch - although that helped. I liked the whole experience from arriving in the car park, swapping chat with the receptionists, nodding to the guys in the changing rooms and all the effort I put my body through on the equipment. There was a sauna, steam room and a big whirlpool bath where I could chat with the guys afterwards. I used to cycle through woods. I used to visit bars. My time was filled, but my life was empty.

Once I met my Beloved, my life changed. None of that seemed necessary. I was a bit busy with travelling between our homes and even when I had time to sit in one place I didn't feel the need for anything else. I used to have a life style because I didn't have a life.

Now that I have a life, I need things to do. I feel at a bit of a loose end when the Beloved is working on Her book or playing the piano. My saxophone is so much louder and a lot less neighbour-friendly. I don't really go out much in the evenings. My friends all live in Oxford, London or further afield. I need to make some in Cambridge, I suppose. My Beloved mentioned something about that before Christmas.

I don't know. I like coming home, closing the door and sitting with a book, a glass of something and a cat on my lap. I have the love of my Beloved, a roof over my head and full larder. Nothing else seems necessary, except perhaps at about 2:30on a Saturday afternoon.

Laurel and Hardy

The piano arrived a short while ago. I was disappointed that the movers weren't Laurel and Hardy. They did the job swiftly and efficiently and departed before I could get the kettle boiled for a cup of tea. I thought we'd get a bit of the old music hall routine.

"Did you know the piano's on my foot?"

"No, but if you hum it, I'll play along."

My Beloved is crying off Her writer's group tonight to play with Her new toy. This is a source of some angst to me. I normally have some bloke food on these evenings. You know the sort of thing - kebabs, anything deep fried, a very cheap pie and a huge pile of chips or a fat lad's breakfast. This is known as a Heart Attack on a Plate. Instead, we'll have a bit of shepherd's pie which She made yesterday.

I'll go and have the delayed cup of tea and perhaps a sausage sandwich with a a bit of bacon, and a side order of chips and black pudding. Or maybe not.

Pianolessness

Yes, we have no piano. The van delivering it has died. RIP the van. The piano is currently inside the van which is having its last rites at something called the Truck Centre. Not the Van Centre. Oh, no. I don't think that's quite manly enough.

So, I have informed my Beloved but She hasn't yet replied.

I spent most of yesterday evening browsing other blogs. All life is here. I had no idea that Christina Aguillera (sp?) had a blog here. If only I had known earlier.

I've added a photo. It's gruesome I know, but the truth will out. Perhaps I should have chosen that as the title for my blog. Too late. It's probably not even true itself. I mean it's not true that the truth will out. It is true however that it's not really funny.

I'm waiting in today for our piano to arrive. My Beloved wanted an indoor hobby which wasn't writing so She decided that She'd take up the piano again. She used to play a long time ago. We spent some time clearing almost enough space for it in the living room. We'll see later today if we've done enough.

I'll let you know.

New Year's Resolution

Every year for the past few years I've made a resolution to keep a diary and every year I've broken it. Usually it's been because the shops have been closed so I have been unable to buy something suitable. Or I've been too hungover. Or I've sobered up and realised that I couldn't spel.

This year is different. My Beloved has a blog and as soon as I have found out where it is, I'll read it and find out what's on her mind. God forbid that I should ask in case She tells me. She tells me blogs are a bit like diaries but with spellcheckers. I don't really do the tech thing. That's what She does.

So the New Year's Resolution is to keep a blog. I'll try to write something every day. In the past I've tried to give up smoking. That hasn't worked yet. I've tried to think about giving up smoking and I can do that nearly every day, but to not have a fag again ever is probably beyond me. I've tried the keep fit thing. Since I have the lifestyle of a slob on wheels, I think I'm quite fit enough for purpose. One year, I resolved to go on stage and sing before the next New Year and obviously that never happened. I think this one will be much easier to keep.