Anything But

DUNG!!! 



Anyway.  The contentious issue of dog poo has raised its head at work once more, thanks to Mrs P of Palmers Green, who suggests that we should facilitate the prosecution of such heinous criminals (I think she means the owners, but one can never be completely sure with some people...) by conducting DNA tests on the evidence.

Yeah.  I for one can name half a dozen of our fine Enviro Crime team who would be agog at the chance to spend their afternoons in a pair of rubber gloves, poking through fresh, ripe faeces with the aid of a microscope, looking for stray skin cells.  These will be forwarded to the Metropolitan Police, who'll be able to compare it to their extensive canine DNA database.  When the results are in, I'm sure Special Branch can take time out from hunting down al Qaeda sleeper cells to organise a dawn raid on these vicious offenders.

Yes, I'm back. Yes, if you ask nicely I'll tell you where I got this bloody weird avatar. Anyway.

Authorities in Passau, Germany, have exhumed the body of recently deceased neo-Nazi Friedhelm Busse, 79, after allegations that one of the mourners tossed a swastika flag onto his coffin before the grave was filled in.

The full story may be accessed here: Flag exhumed from neo-Nazi grave

I would like to make it clear that I have about as much sympathy for Nazis, neo- or otherwise, as I do for someone who complains of a sore throat after living on a diet of sandpaper for a month.  That said, I think the point must be made that this exhumation took place in accordance with German law that renders it an offence to display Nazi symbols.

May I take a moment to draw the readers' attention to the word "display"?

I put it to the court that since the flag in question had been buried beneath six feet of earth for two days, by no stretch of the imagination could it have been considered to be in any way "on display".  In fact, I submit that having piled three quarters of a ton of clay on top of the damn thing, it was about as invisible as any flag was ever going to get.  It was certainly not visible enough to justify hauling someone's coffin out of its final resting place, even if that coffin contained the mortal remains of a crusty old racist git. 

Since my department deals with roads and parking amongst other things, one of the most common phrases in the correspondence that crosses my desk blotter every day are variations on the theme of, "I have a right to park outside my own house!!!" (Yes, the multiple exclamation marks are representative of the norm.)

Okay, Mr Shouty.  Why don't you have a nice sit down and a chocolate biscuit and I'll explain things to you in small, monosyllabic words?

You see your front garden?  Yes, it's very nice.  I like the lupins in particular.  Very...what's the word?  Oh, yes.  Very colourful.  Now, do you see the front hedge?  Yes, very nice.  I do like a bit of privet.  Anyway.  Everything on the other side of the hedge from your garden is ours.  Which is to say, it belongs to the Council.  The upshot of this is that if anyone wants to park on it, they can.  The bit that happens to be outside your house isn't yours - it is, as I have just pointed out, ours.

Tell you what, we'll do you a deal.  We'll agree that only you have the right to park outside your house, but in return, that means that you are not allowed to park outside anyone else's house.  Ever.  If you visit friends in Rotherham and you park outside their neighbour's house, we'll nick you.  If you need to park anywhere but outside your own house, find the nearest public car park and cough up a few measly quid.  It won't kill you.

There.  I don't know about you, Mr Shouty, but I certainly feel better.  Thank you for your contribution to the wonderful world of local government planning.

Incidentally, here is a photograph of what I'll do to your car if you bother me again, you irritating little pillock.

 

Always take a second look.

Yesterday, I was in the queue at Tesco when someone pushed in ahead of me.  He was an obvious City type, early middle age, pinstripe suit, briefcase, the works.  Of course, I thought a very rude word at his back but said nothing, because I generally hate making a scene.

Just then he turned around and his face was filled with apology; he said he hadn't seen me standing behind the pillar and he was so sorry to have barged in.  Just before he moved behind me I glanced down at what he was buying...it was a Father's Day card with a blue teddy bear on the front, holding a big bunch of flowers.  What a sweetie.

I immediately retracted the word I'd thought.

I have had the most eerie day.

It started when I was in the middle of checking a pile of paperwork against a folder on the network, to see which had already been scanned in and which hadn't.  I had a pile of forms numbered from 1 to 700.  As it turned out, only one of the forms had been missed from the previous round of scanning; namely, number 666.

Cue mildly discomfited face, which only grew more discomfited still when I remembered that today is, of course, Friday 6th June.  Sixth day of the week, sixth day of the month, sixth month of the year.

I forgot about it until after lunch, when I went upstairs on my round and stopped off to talk to a friend of mine in Housing.  He told me in passing that earlier in the day, he'd dropped his mobile phone and it had landed on the keypad, dialling three digits.  Guess which ones?

Cue extremely discomfited face; and it didn't end there.

I checked the main page of the IMDb today; something I don't normally do, since I have a bookmark straight to the Message Boards.  What I saw there is as follows:



Yeah.  It's from "The Omen" all right.  Okay, I admit that they probably chose this quote because of the date, but it's still bloody spooky considering the events of the working day...

*hides under the desk with a bucket on her head*

I am saddened to have to report that as an update to my earlier post, "An alien culture", Leila Hussein - Rand's mother - has been shot dead while on her way to escape her husband and her homeland in pursuit of safety.

Mother who defied the killers is gunned down 

I cannot find it in my heart to rant and rage about this right now.  It's too much.  I will simply think kind thoughts about Leila and hope that wherever she has gone to, she's at peace with her beloved daughter.

Who'd have thought that a bookmark could make a person cry?

I was readjusting my Discworld book shelves when I picked up a copy of "Monstrous Regiment", which was released in late 2003.  I opened it, and because of the presence of a blue penguin-shaped bookmark, it fell open at Page 61.  This brought it back to me that this was the last Discworld book that my mother ever read; and, in fact, didn't manage to finish.

I know it's irrational, but standing there with the book in my hands, that's what bothered me the most: she didn't get a chance to finish it.  I don't think it would ever have been one of her favourites, but that's not the point.  She should have had the chance to find that out for herself.

In an odd way, this is a slightly selfish feeling.  These days, I have nobody close with whom I can talk about the books I love to read; my mother was the only other person in my personal circle who even read them, let alone could join me in quoting lines back and forth like there was no tomorrow.  I suppose I could find a discussion board, but it wouldn't be the same.  I don't mean to suggest that the people there would be unkind to me, but they'd be strangers.  What was best about the way these books linked my mother and me was the love behind it.

*unhappy*

I put the bookmark back right where I found it, and there it's going to stay.

I'm proud of me.

I am also extremely proud of my beloved Kittywife, without whom I wouldn't have started this tale.  She talked me down from a bad bout of I-suck-itis, and assured me I could do it.

My wife RULES.

*grinning insanely*

Of all the horrors infecting our world in the name of God, I find it hard to think of any more abhorrent than those inflicted on victims who are wholly unable to fight back:

"My daughter deserved to die for falling in love"

It's hard to remember, in the face of stories like this, that these people are even human.  Never mind what may have happened to precipitate this; the man stood on his seventeen year old daughter's neck until she died, and his sons - her brothers - helped him do it.  There is no act on earth that commands this kind of retribution, let alone the "crime" of merely speaking to a Western soldier.

We have been told over and over again that our soldiers were sent to Iraq to fight for freedom.  Whose, exactly?  Freedom from governmental tyranny means very little to women who are now as they have always been: under the barbaric yoke of their husbands and fathers.  When are we going to set about liberating them?

I can't decide whether this is good, or utterly pathetic.

Let's back up a bit and spin out the backstory. Tonight is the 53rd annual Eurovision Song Contest. For passing non-Europeans, this is a competition which was spawned in 1956, and is promoted in order to foster peace and co-operation between all the nations of Europe.

...excuse me one moment, won't you?

*climbs into the wardrobe, laughs hysterically for 25 seconds, comes out again and returns to the keyboard*

That's the idea, anyway. What you actually get is three hours of diabolical songs, dodgy English - and that's from the British entry, mark you - big hair, appalling costumes, far too much make-up (some of it even on the women) and more blatant bitchery and brown-nosing than one could ever wish for. In short, it's tremendous fun.

We have a party every year in my house to celebrate this gigglefest. I'd normally have assistance with the preparations, but this year, due to altered circumstances, I am alone in the house until this evening. Ergo, I'm on my tod with the food-buying, and I have just returned from this errand.

Honestly, I think I did well. Barring a last-minute flap should I find out I've forgotten some stunningly obvious party paraphenalia, I'm covered. I got sweets and savouries, drinks and juice, napkins, cups and paper plates. The house is clean and tidy, and so am I. I seem to have got away with it...

As I said to begin with, I can't decide if I have a right to be proud of this first achievement, or if it's really, really pathetic to feel a sense of personal accomplishment about having successfully negotiated the purchase of cocktail sausages and Pringles. Any comments?

Meanwhile, since I think this post needs some final embellishment, here is a picture of the 2006 Eurovision winners: Lordi, from Finland. Marvellous. 

Broadly speaking, for me, the world is divided into two categories: Things I Get, and Things I Do Not Get.

This considered, let's imagine that concepts are represented by fish, and the human brain by a drift net.  Your average net has a minimum gauge, which catches the adults and lets the young escape.  With me so far?  I do hope so, because I'm not.  Anyway.

My net, however, is of the quantum phase shift variety.  What is this "quantum"? I hear you cry?  Well.  My net catches the little fish, and lets the large ones go, or it catches the blue fish, and lets the green ones go.  Maybe it catches the long fish, and lets the round ones go.  My point is that there is seldom any rhyme or reason, and seldom any way for the casual observer to know in advance whether I will get a given concept or not.  My parameters change regularly, and what I understood in the morning has little to no bearing on what I'll understand by the evening.

What this means in practical terms is that I have a near-perfect understanding of some of the weirdest and most surreal concepts imaginable, whereas I battle to comprehend things that most others find perfectly straightforward.  Wormholes?  μ-dimensional physics?  Wave/particle theory?  Piece of cake.  Home insurance?  Laundry?  Jackie Collins novels? *baffled face*

If I make this sound like a trial, believe me, most of the time it's really not.  I have help with the things that defeat me, and in return, I'm able to blend in perfectly with any crowd of geeks, as well as being ably placed to assist my wife with some extremely odd and slippery plot bunnies.  Comme ci, comme ça.  There are many far worse off.

Okay; LiveJournal needs to step up to the plate on this.  The comments system is wholly unsatisfactory and it's making me unhappy.

All I want is to be able to keep up with the comments and reviews on my dear wife's LJ, but there's a snag: I am losing track of which ones I've already read.  It's true that this wouldn't ordinarily pose a problem with your average Journal, but...my Kitty's very, very talented and correspondingly popular.  This means that on one thread, we're already talking about close on one hundred comments, all of which I must go through again and again every time to find the new ones; because, of course, the new comments may not necessarily be at the bottom...

I'm not asking for much.  Giving each comment its own link, and making that link change colour when it's been clicked (as most other websites on the entire sodding Internet do, by the way!), would be a start.  As it is, it's not even easy to know if there are any new comments on a thread; past a certain point, you find yourself thinking, "Were there 226 comments on this thread yesterday, or 225?  Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself.  Do you feel lucky?  Well, do you, punk?"

*ahem*

Did I mention that getting sidetracked is another of my symptoms?

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

I've recently acquired
unlimited internet access
on my mobile phone. The
upshot of this
development is that this
post is being brought to
you from the graveyard of
St. Andrew's church on a
gorgeous spring
afternoon. Thank you.
We now return you to
your regular programming
:)

Anyone wondering where I found the image of the horrified bunny rabbit that currently adorns my posts need only click here for the answer, as long as they are prepared to wet themselves laughing...
 

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

Apropos of nothing besides me being a bit peculiar, I decided to catalogue my Tuesday at work with the aid of my ever-present sidekick, the glamorous and sexy Motorazr V8.

Now - I never let it be said that I deviated from a routine where there was no apparent need to do so, so my first act each morning is to sidle into the lions' den and find out if they're hungry, which they usually are. They normally feed on recycled 80gsm A4 paper, but they have been known to scavenge on human flesh represented by the occasional unwary finger. Ergo, I tread softly:



Next comes a far more pleasing task: fishing my desk accoutrements out of their hidey-hole. First to see the light of day (okay, the light of fluorescent strips, if you must get picky) is my Doctor Who flip calendar...



*looses happily besotted sigh*

Six months, six months, six months, six months...

Lunch rolls around, and I have another subroutine - walk around the churchyard for a bit, then sit down with an egg mayonnaise sandwich and a bottle of Diet Coke. Yes; the same sandwich and the same drink every day. The world will come to a screeching halt if I deviate from the pattern, or something. Maybe. I dunno. I happen to like egg sandwiches *sticks out tongue defiantly*

I decided to film my daily circuit of the church itself:

Yes, I was holding the camera very nonchalantly. I find that filming random strangers tends to attract attention - usually of the unwanted variety. And no, I don't know any of the people I passed. I wouldn't want to be associated with people who sit and eat their lunch in a graveyard. That's just....eww. Who does that? Weirdoes.

*coughs distractedly*

Anyway. There's not much to be said about the graveyard itself, aside from a) its preponderance of squirrels who are not averse to the odd breadcrust (it's a miracle I get to eat any of my lunch myself), and b) pansies. As evidence:

 

After this, I passed one of my favourite graves in the entire graveyard:



Colonel Sir Alfred Plantagenet Somerset, K.C.B., died 1915 at the jolly respectable old age of 85.  Probably quite unremarkable in and of himself, in spite of the knighthood, but an ever-so-curious trawl through the skirts of the Goddess Google one day turned up some rather more startling facts.  This venerable gentleman was, it seems, descended from a male line featuring no less than six Kings of England: Henry II, John I (yes, he of "Robin Hood" notoriety), Henry III, Edward I, Edward II and Edward III.  And here is their progeny - buried in our rather small and unassuming graveyard.  Kewl.

As always, it's time to go back.  On the way in, I saw one of our porters having a bit of a snooze in the sunshine.  I probably shouldn't have snapped him, but look, he looks so peaceful!  Awwww, schnookums!



Since it's on the route back to my office, I decided to capture the Rogues' Gallery, better (and, in my view, less accurately) known as the portraits of former Council Leaders:

 
I swear that one day, I'm going to turn my head just that little bit faster and catch sight of them before they turn back into human shape.

Somewhat worryingly, several acres of opaque plastic sheeting have sprung up at the end of my office block:



There's a sign up saying that it's because of dust and adhesive fumes from the new carpet tiles being laid, but I don't believe a word of it.  I never did trust those shifty types in Property and Development, and I think MI6 finally has them under quarantine.  I tried to peep through the plastic, and I swear I saw someone with three heads.

Finally, to round off a perfectly splendid day, we had a fire drill just as I was packing up:



Of course, I wasn't quite advanced enough in this process that I could simply grab my jacket and flee; oh, no.  I had to leave it, and head out to the school playground next door with the rest of the lemmings while the usual procedures took place back at the office (usual procedure, in these cases, consisting of finding out which of the Goods In staff didn't stand far enough away from the door while having a ciggie, and thus set off the dratted alarm.  Again.)

Just because....

  

It's that darned cynicism again. I couldn't resist pouncing on this.

Royal Servants Led to Conception of Tony Blair's Fourth Child

Now, it was the fourth paragraph in particular that caught my eye:

She had deliberately not brought along contraception with her. On a visit the previous year, she was horrified to find that royal servants had unpacked "the entire contents of my distinctly ancient toilet bag with its range of unmentionables.''

Now, I have nothing against contraception myself, but I find it intriguing that Cherie Blair - an avowed Roman Catholic since childhood - should not think twice about mentioning this matter in a public arena.