The Quizzical Observer

Scottish independence – the way forward

2012-01-24T21:07:00.004Z

As we're nearly at Burns Night, some thoughts on Scottish independence. Having read a good deal of argument on either side, part of the interest for me has been seeing the panic among some Scots at the notion of not being part of the UK, and another part has been the amount of enthusiasm for the idea among the English. Cynics might say that the latter is partly out of jealousy – sod off with your better healthcare, your free university places, and so on – and partly due to the perception that money is currently flowing from England to Scotland, and it would help England to stop this transfer.

I don't think Alex Salmond is thinking big enough.

Here's what he – and Scotland – should be arguing for: not just independence for Scotland as it currently stands, but an independent and enlarged Scotland. Here's the map as I would suggest it.

Note that the new border runs roughly from the Mersey to the Wash, such that the new most southerly Scottish cities would be Stoke, Derby and Nottingham. To the existing Scottish economy would be added a good number of people and the great cities mentioned above along with Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle... and of course Carlisle and Berwick-upon-Tweed would return once more to the motherland.

The character and temperament of these parts of England would fit much better with Scotland than with the Shires and the Home Counties. All of the areas going to Scotland under my modest proposal are marked by their citizens being stroppy, argumentative, up for a drink and a ruck (or either), and distrustful of politicians, especially Oxbridge toffs who've never been north of Watford Gap. The blood flowing in the veins of the 'English' above the new border is a heady mix of the ancient British, the Anglo-Saxons and the Scandinavian invaders; by contrast the Southron Londoners (and they're all Londoners up as far as Leicester, let's face it) are mostly French types and therefore only fit for sitting around in poncey winebars talking bolleaux.

Clearly there would be some adjustments to make for we 'New Scottish', but I already like whisky, so I'm not too concerned. I haven't been in the habit of drinking it much before lunch, I must admit, but this would be a small price to pay for the benefits of belonging to a new, forward-looking and dynamic Greater Scotland.

So, Mr Salmond, there you have it. Think big. Be bold. Dream of a new Hadrian's Wall along the Trent. You know it makes sense.

Merry and bright

2011-12-24T23:48:00.003Z

Since Mrs QO and I don't have children, and since we're fortunate enough to be close enough to walk to my sister's tomorrow to spend the day with the family, we haven't had too much to do today. Which is nice. There has been time to take the Aggravatingly Fit Elder Parent out for a beery lunch, to fit in an afternoon sleep, and to watch a soppy film tonight. And drink a little brandy.

And in a few days' time we will be heading into the north country to spend a week with Super-disreputable Friend and his appalling wife, with whom we've spent the last 25 New Years. And I fear that once again there will be far too much merriment and alcohol. An awful prospect, I'm sure you'll agree.

And so at two minutes till midnight (here on good old-fashioned Greeenwich Mean Time), I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, be blessed and peaceful, and all good things in the year to come.

Who really runs the world?

2011-12-13T20:40:00.009Z

This is a question that many are asking in the light of the financial crisis. The 'Comment is Free' part of the Guardian website is particularly rich in speculation at the moment, with what seems to this Observer to be a preponderance of opinion in favour of a cartel of international financiers determined to bleed the ordinary working peasant dry so as to keep the financiers in private jets and yachts and other cool stuff.

My brain works at such a pace that I have to give it a couple of hours cooling-off time after lunch, and while preparing myself today for this inconvenient but necessary hiatus, settling into the old armchair in the study and pulling up the blanket, I dedicated the last 30 seconds or so of mental processing time to considering the question of who really runs the world. I hereby present the results.

In no particular order, let's ponder the chief candidates and award scores for likelihood.

1. God (singular, albeit in various flavours) – the obvious choice for many, but a moment's reflection questions the notion. A Creator capable of bringing into existence the Universe we see around us could not possibly do so bad a job of running just one tiny bit of it. For example, we know from various books written, translated and edited by men a long time ago that the Judeo-Christian God is perfect and omnipotent. However, a brief look at, say, Wolverhampton, suggests powerfully that there's no such divinity on the job. There is, though, an argument (also in the books written, translated and edited by men) that God is testing us through hardship to see what will happen. Wolverhampton is what has happened, so the theory is just barely tenable, and we will therefore, with a certain reluctance, put a positive score on this option: 3/10.

2. Gods (plural, various flavours, sizes and colour schemes) – Greek and Roman myths in particular offer a whole shedload of gods, mostly quarrelsome, arbitrary, illogical and downright unpredictable. They were known to favour some humans, pick on others, have fights with their sibling deities, sometimes even coming down to earth for a bit of trans-species naughty fun. In other words, just like us only more so (even the trans-species bit, but let's not drag the Welsh into it right now). This is indeed a tempting notion, but Occam's Razor says that if something like humans is running the world, the most likely candidate is humans. So despite having a rather rusty and blunt Occam's Razor, to diverse deities we award: 1/10.

3. A secret world organisation – well, as I said above, plenty of these are being suggested as candidates at the moment. Opus Dei, the Illuminati, Freemasons, the Bilderberg Group, SMERSH – take your pick. In every case, the secret organisation in question ('it is said... it is rumoured... some believe that...') meets from time to time, usually in a mountainous, remote region, and the members sit around smoking cigars, sipping expensive liquor, and making their fiendish plans to control all the world's money and keep everyone else working for a pittance to fund their insane plans for world domination. (Some of them are even said to stroke white long-haired cats while doing so, the evil bastards.) Now this idea really has some serious legs, though we do have to ask ourselves: 'If this bunch is running the world to make money which they want for themselves, how come they're doing such a crap job of it?' Presumably such a group would have to include top bankers, as they're the ones with their hands on the money at one point or another; if the world really is run by people like Sir Fred Goodwin, we might as bend over and kiss our arses goodbye, because we're seriously fucked. So I think we can discard this notion... excuse me a moment...

'Waiter! Another glass of the Hennessy Paradis Extra Rare Cognac, a hand-rolled Romeo y Julieta and a dish of caviare for Tiddles here. Oh, and pass the word... Goodwin is to be disposed of quietly by next Thursday. Off you go.'

So, as I was saying, we can put this ridiculous idea right out of our heads, not even worth considering. 0/10.

4. Aliens – well, David Icke thinks so, which is a very strong argument against. Still, it's a big universe, there may be another species out there coveting Wolverhampton and its lovely womenfolk. And I was brought up on Captain Scarlet fighting the Mysterons, and I'm not entirely convinced they've gone away, so let's give this one: 4/10.

5. Our elected representatives – ha ha ha ha! Yes, I know, quite unthinkable, but I wanted an excuse to post that pic, to be honest: 0/10.

6. Happenstance and natural selection – by far my favourite option. Every time we consider a candidate for an agency actually running the world, we bump into the problem of 'well, why is it so crap and random, then?' I suspect what we take for organisation is no more than an emergent property of chaos (much like me trying to tidy my desk every January), and that all our attempts to ascribe purposed direction of the world are no more than a comforting rationalisation in the face of something entirely out of our control (much like my desk for eleven months of the year). We are no more in charge of the world than the prawns are in charge of the Atlantic. We are not rational, logical beings, we do what we do out of ancient instincts, and what seems to work, mostly, at the time, for most people, is what tends to be carried forward. Okay, this doesn't really explain Wolverhampton, and I'm minded to leave that to David Icke, but it's got the rest of it sewn up: 9/10.

So there you have it. No big conspiracy, but no comforting 'well, at least someone's in charge even if I know it's not me' either. Frightening, or liberating? You choose. It won't matter what you choose, but go ahead anyway.

Workplace parking levy

2011-11-21T21:43:00.011Z

For those who don't live in Nottingham — or those who do live in Nottingham but haven't been paying attention — the good folk at Nottingham City Council are bringing in a 'workplace parking levy'. All businesses within the City administrative boundary must register all the parking places they provide; those providing more than 10 (excluding those for Blue Badge holders) have to cough up an estimated £279 per place as of April Fools Day, 2012. I say 'estimated', as the council don't seem quite sure yet, but they do seem sure that it will rise fairly sharply thereafter. (No surprises there, then.) The proceeds from the levy, say the council, "...must be invested into improving local transport for Nottingham. The WPL will provide funding for NET Phase Two, the extensions to the existing tram system, as well the redevelopment of Nottingham Railway Station (the Hub project) and is also intended to support the popular Link bus network. "

The employer is the one who has to cough up, and there will — of course — be council monitoring and enforcement. The employer also has to decide whether or not to pass the levy on to the employees, in full or in part. That's going to be a tricky decision.

Commuters approaching Trent Bridge from south of the city, followed by a Nottm City Council parking levy enforcement officer

I'm fascinated by how this is going to play out. As I don't live or work within the City boundary, it's not going to cost me diddly-squat, but I'm very far from disinterested. I've blogged before about cities being for people, not cars, and being all for public transport. And we're going to have to face it some time soon — most of us won't be able to afford to run cars for any distance on a regular basis, so we might do well to start rebalancing our economy towards a model in which people tend to live closer to work than they do at the moment, and ensuring that good public transport is available for them. And we know from experience that people won't give up their car unless they're hit in the pocket. So as far as all that goes, the WPL looks like A Good Thing. And, moreover, the plan was clearly laid out before the last council elections, so there's a democratic mandate for it.

And yet... and yet... unemployment in Nottingham is severe, and the last thing the city needs is for businesses to decide to move elsewhere, or for potential new employers to decide not to come after all. A Nottingham business with 50 employees for whom parking is provided is looking at a new tax of £15,000 a year unless they pass it on to the employees; many depressed areas are offering significant financial incentives to employers to move into their areas, and perhaps in some cases the WPL will prove the last straw and provoke a move out of the city. That would not be A Good Thing at all.

I suspect that whether or not the WPL is seen as a success or a failure will depend on two factors. Firstly, the ability of local employers to pass on the levy to their employees. If they can do this in full, or substantially, then it becomes something of an administrative headache, but no more, and probably won't result in many decamping. In these times of high unemployment, with people fearful for their jobs, employers are probably well placed to pass on the levy. If so, all might be well from a business point of view, albeit a pain in the arse for the employees concerned.

The other big factor is what will other local authorities do? If everyone followed Nottingham's lead promptly, there evidently wouldn't be any incentive for employers to move out to escape the levy here. But I bet everyone else is waiting to see what happens with great interest, but will let Nottingham take the initial brunt of complaints, bad publicity, challenges in domestic and European courts, etc.

So to summarise: Nottingham City Council's move is certainly brave. Whether it's wise remains to be seen. Meanwhile, here's a few predictions.

• Businesses currently providing 10 parking spaces, and wanting to employ more people, will be paying far more attention to the 'address' bit on job applications. "Well, Ms Smith hasn't got quite the qualifications, but obviously she could get here on the bus..."

• There will be job opportunities at the Council for those who would enjoy spending their day waving their badges at people and taking photographs of who's parking where.

• The market in forged Blue Badges (which I happen to know is already healthy) is going to explode. It would be nice to think that the job market for genuine Blue Badge holders would improve, but let's not be silly.

Gloomy thoughts on a dark evening

2011-11-18T21:53:00.005Z

Friday evening isn't the best time to do any sort of analysis of the state of the country. Too tired, one too many glasses of wine. But then this isn't the best blog in the world, so I'm just going to go for it, but don't you be expecting any sharp insights, OK?

It used to be the case that parents would cajole their children into staying with education, and more or less behaving themselves, by way of the promise of a good job if you stayed the course through school, and ideally go on to get your A-levels and perhaps even a degree. Hang on in there, they would say, and the good times will follow. You can get a car, a house, enough income to enjoy a good standard of living and money quietly going away into a pension fund that would grow substantially. A long-term deal which was demonstrably paying off for those parents, who'd followed exactly that course.

I have no idea of the average age of the three regular readers of this blog, but let's all imagine that we're in our teens or early 20s. What prospects do we see? That's right - sod all. While the Observer generation is now hitting a wall of unemployment, at least in most cases the deal paid off pretty well for 30 years, and early retirement is at least partially successful for many. But for the young?

You can, if you wish, take on a debt amounting to several tens of thousands of pounds to get a degree. When you finish, there will be enormous competition for a job, and graduates - complete with huge debt - may get work stacking shelves or training to serve burgers. Even the 'better' jobs will be in sectors very vulnerable to economic ups and downs, and difficult to build into a life-long career. Buying a house will be out of the question. Pension contributions will be terribly difficult to make, and will buy very little even over the long term.

And whose fault is all this? Mum & Dad, that's who. Or your Uncle Observer, or whatever other twat repeatedly voted for the politicians that allowed - encouraged - this country to rack up such enormous debts payable by the next generation.

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do."

I've no idea how this will play out. At the moment we see young people protesting against the establishment by way of pitching tents in public spaces and being touchingly earnest and well behaved. This is of course going to have zero effect on the establishment, other than a few meaningless resignations among the clergy, who don't, let's face it, have much impact on the running of the economy.

I suspect it may be that our young people eventually read up on how young French people did it in 1968, and then things will get a bit sweaty.

A modest proposal

2011-10-31T21:50:00.005Z

For some time now, I've been looking at the lunacies of the world and thinking about how we might mitigate them somewhat.

You may have heard of the 17th century Witchfinder General? If not, have a quick refresher here.

I propose that we institute a new office of Bollocks-Finder General. A carefully selected body of men and women will be employed by we, the people, to wander round the country investigating anything that catches their eye. I have in mind the sort of people who you'd find as senior NCOs, old-style hospital matrons, experienced construction engineers, passenger liner captains and the like - the sort of people accustomed to taking on huge responsibilities, getting big things done and making life-and-death decisions. (But not, please note, so high in any corporate structure that they get too far up their own arse.) Where appropriate - and it will surely be often - they will cry: "Hang on, this is bollocks!"

Our Bollocks-Finders General will have rather extensive powers, much as you might expect senior military types to have in wartime. (Let's face it, the War against Terror is never going to be won, but we might make headway in the War against Bollocks.) They will be able to issue summary commands to all and sundry, backed up by civil and military authorities where required. They will have administrative and judicial powers, and may well be armed. There will be no appeal, other than by way of an outraged populace stringing them up if they get it wrong too often. I suspect that, on the contrary, they will be well loved by ordinary people, though hated by bureaucrats, corporate bandits, politicians and other lowlives.

Here are some examples of where the Bollocks-Finder General might usefully step in, along with the actions that might well be taken.

Imagine if we'd had a B-FG way back in 2002 when the Government announced the National Programme for IT for the NHS. This was, in theory, going to make patient records centrally available. There would, shortly after the announcement, have been an interview along these lines:

B-FG: "So exactly which doctors and hospitals have asked for this?"
Bureaucrat: "Ah... well, it's more of a government initiative."
B-FG: "So nobody who's looking after patients actually wants it?"
Bureaucrat: "Well, we're sure it will be jolly useful, and it won't cost more than £6.2 billion to have all the patient records in one place, accessible to all doctors and nurses everywhere."
B-FG: "So how often, exactly, would that be better than just picking up the telephone or sending an email? And how will it speed up patient care or save money?"
Bureaucrat: "Oh, well, we haven't looked into that in great detail... but it will be jolly good, we're quite sure..."
B-FG: "No. This is complete bollocks. You're fired. And so is whoever employed you."

See? That would have saved over £11 billion in the end.

Another example - the Millennium Dome.

Tony Blair: "So, we'll have this huge big tent and we'll fill it with all sorts of interesting stuff."
B-FG: "Like what?"
Tony Blair: "Erm... well, really interesting stuff. It'll be iconic."
B-FG: "So in other words you have no idea?"
Tony Blair: "Well, look, I think we should focus on the real point here..."
B-FG: "Bollocks. Not going to happen. Try and focus on not getting us into any more wars, eh?"

If only we'd had B-FGs here in Nottingham in the '60s. Imagine one of them wandering into the town planning meetings:

Town planners: "So, we're agreed. Get rid of the cobbled streets and Georgian buildings, and have a six-lane highway and lots of concrete high-rise buildings. That's what we'll do."
B-FG: "Will you bollocks. You're all fired."
Outraged Councillor: "You can't fire me - I was democratically elected!"
B-FG: "Good point. I'll just have to shoot you, then."

Think of the crass stupidity we could avoid. The Bollocks-Finders General would have plenty to say (and would probably use up a fair bit of ammunition) about such things as The X-Factor, Tescos in everybody's back garden, councils banning conker fights, CCTV on every streetlamp, Harriet Harman, alcopops, PCSOs, merchant bankers, travellers who don't, the European Agricultural Policy (and much else from Brussels), Graham Norton, the railways, wind turbines... the list is long.

You're probably thinking that I'd like to be a Bollocks-Finder General myself. Well, yes, I have to admit, I would, but I lack the self-control required. I'd shoot everyone instead of just firing them. A sense of perspective is required, after all.

Down on Dale Farm

2011-10-19T23:19:00.000+01:00

I hesitate to comment on this, as I don't think I can add anything to the debate. But I need practice with this new Blogger system...

I will never take much satisfaction at the sight of riot police forcing people out of their homes. And I have a good deal of sympathy with the lot of the Roma. However, in the case of Dale Farm there has been, frankly, an awful lot of bollocks about "ethnic cleansing" and the like.

Fundamentally, it's quite simple. Even if you own a piece of land, you can't necessarily build on it. In the case of many of the Dale Farm plots now facing action, the land is owned by fairly wealthy absentee landlords from the Irish Travelling community. But it's Green Belt, and no planning permission has been granted for permanent buildings. Basildon Council are therefore entitled - in fact, obliged - to take action to clear illegal structures from the area. Those residents affected have been offered alternative accommodation, with some advantage over many already on the council housing waiting list, but have instead gambled on their media and legal campaign to see them through. That gamble has failed, and it was inevitable that the bailiffs and police would go in. And in my view it was right.

The whole point about a 'common law' is that it treats all people the same: without fear or favour, prejudice or ill-will. As soon as any minority is given special exemptions - because of their own chosen lifestyles - things break down very quickly.I could go on to discuss the distinction that might usefully be made between the Roma and the Irish Travellers, but that's a whole other can of worms which I feel too tired to open.To close, here's something that may reinforce some prejudices, or may cause some reappraisal. Either way, it's one of Ewan MacColl's finest songs, quite beautifully performed.

The challenge of change

2011-10-10T20:45:00.000+01:00

Well, looky here. I take a little while out from blogging and come back to find lots of changes. Can't possibly work out what's going on after the red wine with supper, so the blog may look a little strange for a while. It may also look different from one minute to the next as I experiment with the new range of templates. When I say 'experiment' I do of course mean 'click on them at random and see what happens'. I'm sure we'll all settle down before long.In the meantime, here's just a few snapshots of what Mrs QO and I have been doing over the last few weeks.

Time deficit

2011-09-07T21:22:00.002+01:00

Life has been very full over the last two or three weeks, and although there have been plenty of Observations, there has been too little time to write them up. Mrs QO and I are currently girding our loins and folding our tents to head to Bromyard Folk Festival - the last of the year for us - and so tonight I will have to content both myself and you with this link and a story about a strong contender for the QO's F***wit of the Year. Do feel free to suggest other candidates.

For contemplation

2011-08-31T21:29:00.000+01:00

Lifting the veil

2011-08-25T20:53:00.009+01:00

Three stories have caught my eye the last few days, prompting some musing around the theme of privacy, secrecy and freedom of information.

The Guvmint - or perhaps more accurately the Civil Service - are probably already regretting setting up this e-petition thing. The BBC made a Freedom of Information request to the Government asking for Cabinet papers relating to the Hillsborough disaster 20 years ago. Was our Guvmint happy and eager to release these papers? You guessed it. The FoI Commissioner had to step in and rule in the BBC's favour, and the Guvmint were minded to appeal - until the e-petition on the subject soared above the 100,000 signature mark, thus potentially earning the matter a Parliamentary debate, not to mention getting it well onto the media/blogger/Twitter radar.

It seems the resistance to releasing the papers was from the Cabinet Office rather than our elected ~~tools~~ members. Sir Humphrey clearly doesn't like the punters knowing any more than is good for them, which is virtually nothing.

The second story in this little collection was the report of the website on which people post pictures of men they fancy that they've spotted on the London Tube and have surreptitiously photographed. Turns out that there's nothing illegal about this, since the Tube is deemed a public place, and only a tiny number of men have asked to have their pix removed.

The question arises: are we now fairly relaxed about the idea that our picture might be taken and posted without our knowledge or permission on the intertubes, for the whole world to see? Evidently quite a few British men are, and the idea has crossed the big pond and is taking off in the US of A too.

Linked to the BBC story hotlinked above was an older story in which an academic made this interesting comment: "If you look at privacy in law, one important concept is a reasonable expectation of privacy. As more private lives are exported online, reasonable expectations are diminishing."

If he's right, as many of us put more and more information about ourselves online - or permit it to be put there by others - the old norms of an expected degree of privacy and the legal rights to it will diminish.

Thirdly, Sally Bercow, wife of the Speaker of the House of Commons, entered the Big Brother house, prompting a fair old storm of comment. Critics accuse her of being a media junky, demeaning the office that her husband holds and generally making an undignifed prat of herself. Supporters point out that she's giving a large proportion of her fee to charity, and repeat her own comment that she may be the Speaker's wife but she isn't the Speaker and is thus free to do whatever she wants. You will doubtless make up your own mind on this point.

Point of order...

Big Brother is by design and definition an almost total loss of privacy and secrecy, willingly accepted by the participants. While this was once shocking, and made the show a runaway hit, it's lost much of its impact as that loss of privacy doesn't carry the same weight any more.

So what do we Observers weave from these threads?

It seems to me that loss of privacy for the individual is inevitable given the increasing link between life and the internet. What will be interesting is to what extent society will demand a concomitant loss of State secrecy. My generation grew up behind lace curtains and D-notices, in the shadow of the Cold War with memories of the Second World War very much alive. Although automatic deference to authority was waning rapidly, there was still a fairly wide acceptance of the need for authority to have secrets. Times have changed. Young people today seem to be comfortable with less personal security, far more ready to put information about themselves out there online. But with that comes far less ingrained, unthinking respect for 'national security' and a 'need to know' attitude from authority. Given that our political parties are now so closely aligned in much of their thinking, I suspect that a party's willingness to really live and work under 'open government', rather than lip-service to that concept, could make a real difference to their electoral chances. Their biggest challenge may be taking the Civil Service along with them. "Knowledge is power" goes the old adage, so perhaps it's time for mature democracies to share a bit more of it.

I still like to draw the curtains, and I run this blog anonymously, but it could well be that we're moving in a healthy direction. Much of the above could of course apply equally to most of the West, and the Arab Spring suggests that the same could be true over much more of the world. If we hide less from each other, and our governments hide less from us, it might be that we all find we have more in common than we think; and where there are differences, they're better understood. I like to believe so, anyway.

And on that optimistic if alcohol-fuelled note, I bid you goodnight.

Everybody off the outrage bus, please

2011-08-16T22:07:00.004+01:00

I wish to register a complaint.

Given the riots, the phone-tapping and the economic crisis, you'd think that our tabloids would have better things to report on than the case of Moira Pearce and her request for charitable donations to help her look after her ten children.

The Sun, the Mirror and the Daily Mail have all, with tedious predictability, made much of the fact that Ms Pearce (34) lives entirely on benefits. Her State-provided income amounts - if the reports can be trusted - to somewhat over £30,000 a year, and her housing is provided free too. They poke fun at the fact that her ten children have been procreated by four different fathers, none of whom appears to be helping financially (or indeed in any other way). They make mockery, too, of the children's names: Kayleigh, Jamie, Chloe, Tyler, Shania, Blade, Shonna, Candice, Chardonnaie and Maxy-Jane (sic). The heartless reporters also point out that Ms Pearce's latest boyfriend is 18.

This all makes me tired. We should be celebrating this fine example of British fecundity, tirelessly turning out new citizens for Gillingham. Only four of them were planned, she said, which makes her achievement even more admirable, and let's give her credit for her modesty. So what if she's called one of her girls 'Chloe'? The lass can always change her name to something more suitable when she's of an age, for heaven's sake.

As for her living entirely on benefits, I can set the record straight by pointing out that she does live entirely on benefits, but that includes her job-seeker's allowance. So she's evidently seeking a job, and if only employers were a little more imaginative they could see how having to look after 10 children and do a day's work wouldn't be that much of a problem.

And what of it, if she has a boyfriend about half her age and only a year older than her eldest child? Many women would like one like that, even if he doesn't have a job. Anyway, I think we can trust Ms Pearce's judgement of men, since she's evidently known a few. The real tragedy is that on medical advice Ms Pearce has had to be sterilised. I think the other women of Gillingham - and indeed the rest of this country - need to step up to the mark now. Ms Pearce has surely done her bit.

Switch off politicians during riots, say social networkers

2011-08-13T23:00:00.003+01:00

Facebook, Twitter and BlackBerry Messenger users were united today in calling for politicians to be switched off during periods of civil unrest.

"These politicians just hamper efforts to restore order on the streets, innit" said Twitter user MizzeeFab17, adding "lol #braindead".

A Facebook poll which promptly went viral asked users to vote on what had been most effective in bringing the London riots to an end, with the following results:

1. David Cameron saying "Let us be absolutely clear on this" = 0.001%
2. 16,000 pissed-off police officers with batons = 99.999%

Media executives backed the call, saying that politicians were of little use during the riots. "Obviously when we're looking for sex and sleaze stories, we need Members of Parliament, as there are only so many professional footballers around. But let's face it, when it comes to a choice between burning buildings and Hazel Blears, it's a no-brainer."

Meanwhile senior police officers complained that politicians consumed valuable oxygen that was badly needed by exhausted officers running after thieving scrotes.

The Big Society

2011-08-10T22:43:00.005+01:00

Intending to lighten the doom and gloom, I chose this quintessentially cheerful, hopeful, nay damn it, British picture to introduce the post. In the midst of our broken shop windows and burning buildings, there are some good things...

Ooops. Sorry. Wrong pic.

That's better. As I was saying, there are some good things coming out of the whole riot mess.

Last night here in Nottingham, police stations had petrol bombs thrown at them. Cars were set alight, windows broken, Clarendon College badly damaged. Against that, let's consider the Forest-County match I mentioned yesterday. Before the kick-off, a statement was read to the crowd asking them to go home safely and keep away from any trouble. The crowd stood and applauded. The official police report reads:

"One of the positive highlights of the evening was the impeccably behaved crowd of 23,000 spectators at the Carling Cup football match between Nottingham Forest and Notts County. Not a single incident occurred before, during or after the game off the pitch."

Nottinghamshire police managed the night's incidents extremely well. This, despite the low morale caused by the Government's plans to cut their numbers and reduce their pay and pensions.

Twitter & Facebook campaigns urged people to go out on the streets to clear up this morning. They had little to do: the City Council's teams were out there at 4am, clearing up before dawn. Respect to both groups, and indeed to the similar community clear-up campaigns in all the affected areas. They are being tagged the 'Riot Wombles', which I think we'd all agree is splendid.

All over the blogosphere, Facebook and Twitter, unfiltered by the media, there is huge support for the police and sympathy for those whose homes, businesses and neighbourhoods have been damaged.

And today, something from Nottingham City Council leader Jon Collins (with whom I've had distinct differences of opinion via email) that all here at the Observatory wholeheartedly applaud:

"Nottingham City Council Leader, Jon Collins, and Nottingham City Homes Chief Executive, Chris Langstaff, today announce that they will seek to evict anyone who is directly involved, or whose sons or daughters have been involved in disturbances.

"Cllr Collins added: 'Parents have a responsibility to control the young people living in their home. If young people living in your home have been involved in the violence over the past few days, they are putting your tenancy at risk.

'The perpetrators of these crimes are not only causing a great deal of disturbance and criminal damage, they are also inciting fear into our local communities, and that is totally unacceptable.

'If you or your children are involved, you are putting your family home at risk - don't let that happen.'

Yes. This. Get responsibility back where it belongs.

So, good stuff coming out as the flames die down. And, let us notice, from the grassroots. The Government have done sod-all, frankly, hastily unpacking from holiday and making a few empty speeches. I note that Parliament has been recalled, and that the taxpayer will have to pick up the bill for that. You know what, Members of Parliament? Between the police and ordinary people and local government, we're coping and getting on top of it. Sod off back to Tuscany.

Low expectations

2011-08-10T14:20:00.006+01:00

Deirdre Clunge, lecturer in social studies at the University of Watford Gap Services, today said that there was a tragic lack of aspiration among some looters.

"There has clearly been an institutional failure on the part of Government to grasp the fact that there is today a culturally deprived generation of looters whose aspirations rise no further than packets of crisps from Poundland. Their lack of guidance in their formative years means that they don't even have the sense to wear hoodies so that they can't be identified from CCTV. Meanwhile, an unfairly privileged sector of more appropriately dressed and ambitious looters are able to benefit from JD Sports and Richer Sounds. A lavishly funded study is clearly necessary for me and my colleagues to identify the root causes of this terrible disconnect in our society and blame everyone except thieving scrotes out for a quick snack."

Who'd be a Notts police officer tonight?

2011-08-09T18:03:00.003+01:00

Informed rumour reaches the Observatory that the city authorities are ready for tonight. The Forest-County derby would make it a big night for the police in any event, so let's hope that anything that kicks off other than from the centre-spot at the City Ground is jumped on from a great height.

Meanwhile, by way of update to the previous post, Mr Cameron might just as well have stayed on holiday, as far as I can see. His announcement was full of the usual waffle, and Theresa May's been covering waffle pretty thoroughly already. I don't think I'll change the picture immediately above the mention of COBRA below to something more inspiring.

Riot control

2011-08-09T09:24:00.004+01:00

The Government emergency planning committee - COBRA - meets this morning, with David Cameron and Theresa May hurriedly back from their holidays. We will have to wait and see what they do before judging whether or not the Government is in control of the country.

You would have thought, having watched the news coverage of wholesale arson, burglary and criminal damage in London and elsewhere, that something more robust than supportive speeches was needed. I mean, when buildings are going up in flames and windows going in and police getting out of their vans to find bullet holes in them, then yet another sentence beginning "Let there be no doubt..." or "Let us be absolutely clear about this..." is only so much use. That is, bugger all use.

The only kind of language that will help now would be a phone call from COBRA to Tim Godwin (acting Commissioner of the Met) along the lines of: "The water cannon, baton rounds and tear gas are on their way. Use them. We take full responsibility and will announce that. If you haven't got the balls to make that order, stand down and put your next in command on the line. Tell the officers on the ground that if they go hands on with their batons, they will have our full support and immunity from prosecution. We will announce that too. We are also telling the CPS to use the highest charges they can to prosecute anyone you arrest. We will announce that too. Now go and take back the streets."

If only...

2011-08-07T22:35:00.006+01:00

... just for once, the post-riot interviews sounded like this:

Community Leader: "I'm shocked and disgusted. I haven't got time to talk to the media as I'm leading the community in telling the lads to put down the petrol-bombs, organising a collection to pay for the broken glass and burned-out homes and businesses, making sure the thieving scrotes round here return every one of the items they stole from local stores, and going round to the law-abiding residents to apologise for the fear and disruption they've been put through. I blame the parents."

If you're going to loot a shop, you really ought to get the iMac...

Police Commander: "We are the police. We are not social services, teachers, parents or therapists. If you want peace and order on the streets, we can achieve that in 30 minutes with water cannon, tear-gas and baton rounds. Politicians don't like that on British streets, and the media moan like buggery if we go in hands-on with our little batons and someone gets hurt. So all we can do is stand here in flammable hi-viz vests, watch the buildings and cars burn and hope that not too many of our men and women burn with them. I blame the parents."

Oh yeah?

2011-08-03T22:32:00.004+01:00

From the Guardian yesterday: "Greek austerity plan will work, says OECD ... A leading economic thinktank has backed the embattled Greek government by predicting that the country's hugely unpopular austerity measures will work."

From Private Eye yesterday: "The financial affairs of Greece seem to be in a state of hopeless bankruptcy ... The expenses of the court and government, the carelessness of officials, and the non-receipt of the taxes, have added to the embarassment of the exchequer... "

Their quote is taken from Chambers Encyclopedia, Vol 5, 1868.

George Santayana, who famously wrote: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it", would have enjoyed that.

Well, that didn't take long...

2011-07-22T21:38:00.001+01:00

How the hell do they do that?

Louise Mensch is Prime Minister

2011-07-22T21:06:00.006+01:00

Yes, after several hours listening carefully on the phone, the QO can exclusively reveal that as part of a complicated backroom deal involving the 1922 Committee, Angela Merkel, Piers Morgan and several shadowy figures from private equity firms, Louise Mensch has agreed to take over as Prime Minister of Greece.

Outgoing Greek Premier George Papandreou said in a packed press conference: "I believe it's time to stand down in favour of someone who is well aware of the downside of fractional reserve banking and, by the way, is something of a χαριτωμένο κορίτσι, as we say in Greek. Cute, I think is your term."

Mrs Mensch dimpled prettily before launching into an incisive commentary on the limitations of fractional reserve banking, and why Piers Morgan was a waste of skin. She said that she was committed to ensuring that every Greek citizen was able to retire at 48, as she intended to, and further pledged herself to stabilising the Greek economy while continuing to press Rupert Murdoch and News International on their disgraceful behaviour, seeing that Chris Huhne was dealt with according to law, restoring the British armed forces to their former glory, and helping her good friend the Quizzical Observer to bang out the most cynical, half-baked blog post of the week.

The QO was understood to be in hiding, but through his newly appointed media consultant, Andy Coulson, denied that he was just seeing how many Google hits he could work into four paragraphs and a photo ripped off from the Guardian.

Use it or lose it

2011-07-15T22:32:00.010+01:00

A recent study by American scientists - and since they're American we can't call them "boffins", much as we'd like to - suggests that the instant availability of facts via Google and other search engines is causing us to remember where to look for facts rather than remembering the facts themselves.

Well, duh. This process has been going on since the Babylonians invented tax 5,000 years ago with their cuneiform records of who owed the priests money (I'm nearly sure that's right, but I haven't checked with Google yet). In my own lifetime, the knowledge of the 'times table' and how to use a slide rule - both thrashed into me as if my life depended on it - became largely irrelevant with the advent of the pocket calculator. I was allowed to have both slide rule and pocket calculator on the desk during my maths O-level, and you won't be surprised to hear which I chose to use.

For the younger readers, I should perhaps say that the slide rule was a strange object consisting of various sliding sections with strange markings on them, with a cursor block that slid up and down as well. By careful and informed manipulation of the various slidy bits, you could perform your calculations and get a very accurate answer. But it didn't tell you the order of magnitude - or in other words, where to put the decimal point - so you had to be able to approximate the calculation by other means. I bet you can see where we took to the pocket calculator like a tabloid to a PIN number. Plus you could do real cool stuff on your calculator like nearly spell 'HELLO' upside down, with a bit of work.

There are in my opinion two great secrets to a successful, productive and happy life. Humans are good at both of them, if they put a little effort in.

First: be adaptable.
Second: minimise your therbligs - that is to say, be efficient.

So, embrace technology. Don't clutter your mind with imperfectly remembered data. Learn to search for it effectively, and leave your mind free for creative thought. Instead of relying for the whole of your life on the one slanted view that your teacher served up as 'facts' during those lessons all those years ago, learn to keep learning as new facts and new interpretations emerge.

And yet... and yet...

That's all very well in theory, but I worry that my generation - that had basic literacy and numeracy hammered in at all costs - has the advantage over those following on, in that if all the electricity fails I can still work out the change I should get at the shop. (Although these days, if the electronic tills stop working, they won't sell you anything, so maybe this is a moot point.) I could still use a slide rule with a bit of squinting. I don't need to use a spell-checker. I don't need Word underlining dubious grammar for me.

I don't know whether we've got the right balance yet. I do know I love the instant gratification of momentary curiosity that Google offers. And I can do far more work in a given day than I could when research involved physical travel to a good library or an awful lot of time on the phone and sending off for hard copy publications. But it's good to know that a lot of basic stuff is up there in the memory and not reliant on Google.

By the way, I know that the phrase "PIN number" contains a redundancy. But it's common usage, and I'm as common as they come.

Latest in the phone-hacking scandal...

2011-07-11T22:19:00.006+01:00

At a packed press conference this morning, Max Clifford announced that Ms Katie Price had commenced legal action against News International because her name had not so far been mentioned in the phone-hacking media coverage.

Said Mr Clifford: "It's outrageous in this day and age that the press can just fail to hack somebody as famous as Katie. She's a lovely girl, whom I've known since she was a 34-A, and she's distraught and distressed and will be pressing for punitive damages."

An ex-News of the World editor and current chief executive of News International, who didn't want to give her name, remarked off the official record that of course Katie Price's phone had been hacked, but there were only so many times you could print "yeah, like, right, cool babe", especially when there were dead teenagers, soldiers and terrorist bomb victims available.

Meanwhile a spokesman for the Sunday Times said that the whole notion of hacking a celebrity like Katie Price was deeply offensive. The Sunday Times had standards, and only hacked Prime Ministers and royalty.

The case is ongoing.

Rethinking Rebekah

2011-07-07T22:23:00.004+01:00

Rebekah Brooks was awarded an honorary degree last year by the University of the Arts, London, for being inspirational and in recognition of her outstanding contribution to the arts and creative industry.

At the time that must have seemed a good decision. Rebekah's rise at News International has been genuinely remarkable - from being a secretary at the News of the World to its editor in 11 years; and to chief executive of NI nine years later. And this despite her inability to spell her own name. Truly a woman marked by destiny.

Monday's chip wrappers

2011-07-07T17:09:00.002+01:00

It's just been announced that the News of the World is to close; Sunday's edition will be the last one. James Murdoch has said that any revenues will be donated to charity.

The media frenzy continues and Twitter, FB and the blogosphere are going into meltdown. Interesting times.

Made of wrong

2011-07-06T20:38:00.005+01:00

As a journalist and a cynic, to hear that the News of the World hacked Milly Dowler's voicemail did not leave me as surprised as it should perhaps have done.

The phone-hacking story has been rumbling away for some years, and Private Eye and the Guardian in particular have been following it. It's a dispiriting saga, encapsulating much of what is wrong with our society. Pour yourself a stiff drink and wade through as much of it as you can stomach on the Guardian's round-up page here.

So much about this story is depressing. The press have always been pretty hard-nosed when chasing a story, but this really does stink. What also stinks is the fact that investigations by the Press Complaints Commission, the House of Commons media select committee and the Metropolitan Police have all rather conveniently not gripped this and dealt with it adequately.

It is starting to look very much as if the News of the World have some helpful contacts within the Met. How was Millie's phone number acquired? How come the police investigation turned up so little of what evidently went on?

Isn't it also convenient that successive Governments have acceded to News International's wishes? It's been going on for years. Maggie Thatcher cleared the way for Rupert Murdoch to get into broadcasting as well as the print media just before she left office, and in the last few days Jeremy Hunt trembles on giving the OK for Murdoch to take full charge of BSkyB. David Cameron seems to be on very good terms with Rebekah Brooks, the editor now in the spotlight at the News of the World. That said, he's announced another enquiry today, for all the good that will do. About the only thing that might just seem reassuring would be to task a police force other than the Met to come in afresh and start digging, but don't hold your breath.

On a wider point, it's also depressing that the overall quality of the British press has fallen so low. Let's not pretend that there was ever a 'golden age' when press standards were above reproach; it wasn't really until after World War II that the old habits of rather servile and uncritical respect for the establishment wore off, but sadly it was only a decade or three later that the focus of the tabloids switched away from even a pretence at serious reporting towards celebrity gossip, tits and the lowest common denominator. Unfortunately, the newspaper-buying public have encouraged them in this. Murdoch wants to make money, and he knows that sleaze and sport will sell.

If anything good were to come out of this whole mess, it would be if there were a serious mass boycott, much as Liverpool has shunned The Sun since its coverage under Kelvin Mackenzie's editorship of the Hillsborough disaster. There are plenty of campaigns underway online to try and rouse enthusiasm for this, or to put pressure on News International's advertisers. I don't know what effect it will have, but it's worth a try. Since Murdoch doesn't take notice of any moral or qualitative factor, only money, that's likely to be the only way of attracting his attention.

That was the QO's serious post for the month. We return you now to our usual programme of inanity and inattention.

An update: I see that O2 and Mitsubishi have announced they're pulling their advertising from NotW. Well, that's a start.

On second thoughts...

2011-06-30T21:41:00.004+01:00

Despite my earlier meanderings over the public-sector pension protests, I decided this morning that in a spirit of solidarity I would withdraw my labour for the day in protest at how poor my own pension will be.

Being self-employed, the first step was to picket myself from my own home office. Well, actually, the first step was to have the usual cup of coffee and a smoke in the sunshine outside. But straight away after that, I picketed my office and brandished a banner at myself every time I even contemplated going in to do some work.

I've never crossed a picket line in my life, but all the computers in the house were in the office, so I couldn't even get onto Facebook to see how my fellow strikers were spending the day on Facebook. I remonstrated with myself at this outrageous restriction on my own freedom of movement. After heated dialectical debate, I and I took the protest onto the street, where at least I could smoke while shouting slogans at myself. The mood got ugly, and the neighbours became alarmed. It seems the noise I was creating during my entirely legitimate protest was disturbing them from their day off. Thank heavens for community policing, as officers were able to mount a fully proportionate response and calm me down before I nutted myself.

During the afternoon, I'm glad to report that I was able to persuade myself that the sensible, adult way forward was to get round a table with myself to thrash out the issues in a civilised manner. Obviously I and I couldn't agree on a suitable table in my own workplace, so we settled on a table on neutral ground owned by a third party. I believe Greene King own the pub, and I and I thank them for hosting the negotiations at the very reasonable price of £2.30 a pint.

The talks continue, and may do so for some time.

The last rose of someone

2011-06-23T21:18:00.005+01:00

Mrs QO and I moved into this Victorian/Edwardian semi 20 years ago - almost to the day. We found out that the next-door house was empty, as the elderly Polish gentleman who'd lived there had recently died.

The gardens in this row of houses are all pretty small, so options are limited, but our Polish not-quite-neighbour evidently loved roses, as there were quite a few running wild as we could see from our side of the boundary. The house was fairly soon bought by an investor and let to students, and the garden is just kept clear and clean by her contracted gardener. But one rose is left.

We never knew the man who lived next door, but the last of his roses is giving us much pleasure two decades on.

Addendum to the previous post

2011-06-22T21:37:00.002+01:00

On re-reading my masterly analysis, I do have a little concern that I might be seen as sneering in some way at Greece. Far from it. My Observations suggest that the UK economy is heading in exactly the same direction, and we don't even have the benefit of lots of goats, which can be eaten when famine strikes.

The one thing in our favour, of course, is that Rupert Murdoch is already buying up the country, so we may just escape.

For further and more detailed coverage, see Sky News.

Olympian fail

2011-06-22T20:36:00.008+01:00

The financial crisis in Greece has been absorbing me for some time. I blogged about it last year and have been following it in the news since.

For those who haven't been following the drama in depth, we present the QO's 'Dinner party expert' guide to what's gone wrong, Hellenically speaking. Should your fellow diners look at you with admiration, seek your opinion on many other topics you have no real idea about, and propose that you sleep with them forthwith, please mention this blog. Should you find that your fellow diners' considered opinion is that you're a tedious, economically illiterate tit, well, you're on your own. Repeat after me: 'Believe Nothing You Read on the Internet'.

All that said, here are some notions that should at least provoke interesting debate.

The root cause of the Greek economic crisis is twofold: Europe - or more precisely, the Euro - and the Greeks. Joining the eurozone should not have been possible for Greece under EU economic criteria, but of course the EU leaders were gagging for another country's worth of taxpayers to join. Little did they know that the Greeks are notoriously bad at paying tax. Greek companies are also very bad at paying tax. The black economy is rampant in Greece at all levels.

Having put the Greek economy (officially largely based around the public sector, tourism and things to do with goats) into the eurozone, the Greeks can no longer let their own currency float... sink... to an appropriately low level, but must perforce stay where the euro stays for the good of Germany. This sucks, economically.

Governments have virtually no sources of income other than tax revenues and borrowing. Since annual Greek tax revenues amount to around 57 euros and a handful of olives, this means that huge borrowings are required. This money has indeed been forthcoming, in large part from avaricious private banks across Europe and the rest of the world, plus monies from other European states.

The private banks, now realising that the Greek sovereign debt they hold is increasingly worthless (as nobody really wants that many goats or olives), are getting very edgy and don't want to lend any more money. Since huge numbers of Greeks are employed by the Greek state, which doesn't have any money of its own, the monthly salary cheques might be a bit of a problem. More importantly on a global basis, they won't be able to meet the next round of sovereign debt repayments. This is the dreaded sovereign default, which everybody says can never happen and often does. (See Iceland and Argentina for recent examples.)

And so our EU leaders, those wise men of Brussels, are also rather troubled. They have a sneaking suspicion that the private banks not only hold huge amounts of near-worthless Greek debt, but all sorts of other toxic "assets" and are in reality worth no more than your average doner-kebab stall. Should Greece default, some of those banks will come unravelled big-stylee and doubtless come running to national governments to be propped up. With humungous wads of taxpayers' moolah, which is in somewhat short supply at the moment following similar cock-ups over recent years.

Other members of the Euro might join in the game of fiscal dominoes. Ireland and Portugal are looking increasingly bollixed, and Spain's not too good either.

More importantly still, for the evangelical believers in the European project, this scenario could lead to an economic state of affairs known to city traders as "tits-up for the Euro". This would not look good on the CV of the Brussels Gnomes, nor would it help the wider European project, i.e. the United States of Europe, complete with European Government, common currency, common laws, same rules on doner-kebab stalls, care of goats, the lot. This is not going to seem an appealing prospect to member states if they can't even get the dosh sorted.

Most money traders and independent economists say that Greece will default. There's no way it can be avoided. The EU is desperately trying to find a way of pumping enough money in to stop a default, despite the fact that lending more money, at high interest, only makes things worse. The very best that might be achieved will be to postpone the inevitable for a bit, and hope that in the meantime all those banks magically find themselves with so much real money that they don't mind losing a bit on the Greek debt. Frankly, even this will take some doing.

So there you have it. The QO's guide to the Greek crisis. Oh, and I have a solution, too, and it's really quite simple. Sell Greece - lock, stock, barrel and goats - to Rupert Murdoch. He can make money out of any old tat, as his TV stations and newspapers prove. I have every confidence in his ability to make millions out of goats. Sorted.

So, farewell then...

2011-06-19T20:51:00.003+01:00

Brian Haw has died. He set up his tent in Parliament Square ten years ago to protest at Britain's treatment of Iraq and his camp became a focal point for wider protest at the invasion and, more generally, at the erosion of civil liberties in this country. His occupation of Parliament Square survived quite a few legal challenges, though eventually Mayor Boris managed to get him off the grass, so he camped on the pavement instead.

His form of protest rather polarised opinion, and many thought that the peace camp outside Parliament was just an eyesore created by noisy nutters with not enough to do. His supporters point to the fact that his presence in that place meant that the protest stayed alive and in the media far longer than any one march or petition could have done.

I admired his persistence, and take some comfort from the fact that despite enormous effort by The Powers That Be, the justice system in this country allowed him to stay there and continue his protest. Illness, not the law, brought it to an end. My sympathy goes to his family and friends.

Pensive over pensions

2011-06-17T23:38:00.002+01:00

While understanding the feelings of public sector workers over the proposed worsening of their pension entitlements, my sympathy is somewhat limited. I'm more than content to pay tax that goes towards employing people to provide services that benefit society, and I'd certainly argue that they should be decently paid for what is often undervalued work. I also accept the argument that taxpayers should fund pensions for public sector workers. In the private sector, employee pensions are funded out of profit, and employers provide them to attract and retain good staff. If we as a country want to attract and retain good people for public services, which don't make a profit as such but benefit society generally, then we'll have to put up the money. But it's far less clear to me why my taxes should pay for pension schemes that are generally accepted to be far better than a private sector worker on similar pay could expect.

I exclude from this the armed services and the emergency services; the hazardous and unsocial nature of their work amply deserves special treatment. But I do often think many in the public sector have no real idea what it's like in the private sector. Virtually nobody in the private sector has a defined benefit pension any more; it's all defined contribution. In other words, no promises what you'll get, you take the risk of how the investments go. And for self-employed people like me, my entire pension contribution is literally cash out of my own pocket. I saw figures from PwC that said that the average private sector worker would have to put nearly a third of their salary away to get a pension of the same level as an equivalent public sector worker with the same years of service.

The public sector also has the advantage that their pension scheme is underwritten by the state, and the management charges are tiny when spread across the number of participants. I bear all the charges on my modest plans. And I don't get paid holidays nor do I get paid to be off sick, nor do I get any kind of pay-off if I lose a contract. That's all part of the territory of being self-employed, of course, and I knew all that before going for it. But I pay tax and NI at the same rate as everyone else, and I look at my pension statements and the news that much of the public sector is threatening to strike over the pensions that even after reduction will be far more generous (partly at my expense) than I can manage for myself, and you'll excuse me if I don't come on the march...

Our daily bread

2011-06-07T20:50:00.004+01:00

The BBC news website has an interesting story marking the 50th anniversary of the 'Chorleywood' breadmaking process. By all means read the full text, but here are some of the salient points:

Soft, springy, white bread - that did not go stale quickly - was what the public wanted. The research bakers at Chorleywood discovered that by adding hard fats, extra yeast and a number of chemicals and then mixing at high speed you got a dough that was ready to bake in a fraction of the time it normally took. It allowed bread to be made easily and economically with low protein British wheat.
But with industrial bakers quickly adopting the process, rather than helping small bakeries, the research at Chorleywood helped put thousands of them out of business.

Evidently 80% of British bread is now made this way. The process requires some ingredients that traditional bakers didn't use: enzymes and oxidants are added.

I think most of us know that the only use for this kind of bread is the bacon butty, in which the bread is only a kind of edible tray and brown sauce dispenser. I use the word 'edible' in a strict sense.

For well over a year, my talented Mrs QO has produced real bread - the sort that's labelled 'artisan' these days. Here are the last two loaves:

Most of her bread is sourdough. This is old-style baking at its best, and involves leaving organic flour mixed with a little water around the place until it's colonised by naturally occurring wild yeasts. These little guys get some of their lactobacillus friends round to party and before long you're getting carbon dioxide and lactic acid into the mix. Add more flour to keep the party going and you're off.

Now I shall have to leave Mrs QO to outline the fine detail of the production process from there, but the end result is a loaf with texture and flavour that is simply startling if all you've ever had is Chorleywood. (I hazard a guess that if you live in Chorleywood you're missing texture and flavour in all sorts of things, but that's by the by.) And because of the slightly acidic nature of the bread it lasts very well indeed. And it's cheap. It means having to do some work at home, of course.

I wouldn't be the first to draw parallels between the kind of bread we like to eat and the kind of lives we lead. I'm sure you can fill that in for yourselves. One last comment from the BBC story:

Almost a third of the bread bought in Britain - 680,000 tonnes a year - is thrown away.

A third is thrown away? Well, I guess that's a start.

In the north country

2011-05-31T22:34:00.007+01:00

One of the reasons I've been absent from the blog of late is that I've taken on another voluntary role in helping to manage a local nature reserve. You'd think this is mostly a case of being out there doing physical stuff like planting trees, cutting back scrub and so on - and there is a good deal of that to do - but there's a surprising amount of background work to do as well in organising and publicising fund-raising events, staying in touch with the council and the Wildlife Trust, liaising with other organisations using the site for events, communicating with the wider community at meetings and through newsletters... it all adds up. But it's very satisfying and gives a genuine sense of belonging to the neighbourhood.

Dearie me, that was almost emetically worthy, wasn't it? Let me be honest and admit that the main reason I've been absent from the blog of late is sheer laziness.

All that said, it was great to spend the weekend in the far north, a part of the country Mrs QO and I have loved as long as we've been together, which is quite some time now. Many parts of Nottinghamshire are beautiful, many parts are peaceful and unspoiled, but we don't have any landscape like the Cumbrian fells.

Photographs never do justice to the high northern skies, nor can they capture the tumbling music of the curlews crying overhead as I took this shot.

I love my home county, and my roots are here. But from time to time it's good to go to those less tamed places.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
Gerard Manley Hopkins

Voting dust settles

2011-05-09T22:43:00.004+01:00

I was very pleased that in the Rushcliffe Borough Council elections, the voters in my ward returned our two Green Party candidates. The People's Verdant Republic of Lady Bay is the only Green ward in the Borough - one very visible sign of what a delightfully individual place it is. The rest of the Borough is predominantly Conservative, of course, though I think it fair to say that Rushcliffe Borough Council (RBC) has never come across as so offensively 'Foaming Nutter Tory' as the Big County Council Brother across the way at County Hall. RBC has quietly got on with being a very well run local council with very little in the way of scandal or fuss over inefficiency. Not much to laugh at all, really.

Turning to the AV vote. Well, the blogosphere was fairly heated over this one, but the country has decisively rejected the offered change. I voted 'No' in the end, despite wavering until the day itself. In the end I came down to the position that change is needed, but this single option wasn't the right change. As David Pannick QC pointed out in The Times on the day of the referendum, a better approach would be to do as Australia did. First, have a referendum on whether we want change at all. If the electorate says 'yes, we do', then have a further referendum on a range of options. Constitutional reform is a serious business, and not one to be entered into via a bodged political compromise. Many of the LibDem supporters of AV were pushing it not because it was the solution they really wanted, but because it would have been a demonstration that they could get something out of the coalition. That's perfectly understandable, but just because something might have been politically advantageous for the LibDem party doesn't mean it's a good thing to do for the country in the long term.

I don't at all go along with the view that no electoral reform will now be possible for a generation. I think there's actually quite an appetite for it, but the electorate is more sophisticated than the political circus at Westminster seems to believe, and will be looking for a properly presented set of proposals - not a back of the envelope quick fix.

Great British Engineering

2011-04-30T23:15:00.006+01:00

Whether or not you're a royalist, an ardent republican or a 'couldn't give a toss'-ist, surely you'd have to admit there were some good things about yesterday's marital malarkey.

There's something deeply appealing about a huge crowd of people just having fun, for example, even if part of your brain is a bit appalled that that's their definition of fun. The service itself was beautiful, I thought; lovely music and nice to see trees lining the nave. And I must admit I do get a kick from the precision and pomp with which the military can do their stuff on such ceremonial occasions.

But let's not lose sight of the real triumph of the day - British engineering. Three examples in particular left me breathless and emotional. I think the images will speak for themselves.

Alternatively...

2011-04-21T22:40:00.003+01:00

OK, so I said 'sod politics' in the last post, but the forthcoming referendum for AV has been making me think. A painful and unusual sensation.

Nearly a year ago I was able to share with you a startling vision of how the prospect of electoral change formed part of the birth of the Conservative/LibDem coalition. Having moved on, the LibDems are getting the chance of a popular vote for electoral reform, one of their main demands before forming the coalition. They're getting the chance of a fairly minor reform, and one which Nick Clegg is reported to have described as a 'miserable little compromise. A bit like the coalition, yes. But a stepping-stone towards a more profound reform, they hope.

I haven't yet decided which way to vote. On the one hand, I believe that if someone's proposing any significant constitutional reform, it's down to them to make the case, and the default position if you're undecided, or find the case unconvincing, is that you vote that things should stay as they are. And I find the pro-AV case unconvincing. On the other hand, I believe that our current system is unfit for purpose, and perhaps any change is preferable to leaving things as they are, even if we have no clear idea of the consequences of the change.

The real trouble to my mind is that however we elect our politicians, the kind of people who are politicians, and the political system itself, aren't what we need. The main parties are so closely aligned along the middle ground that there isn't a great deal of clear water between them anymore. If you're old enough you can remember a youngish Maggie Thatcher facing off an elderly Michael Foot, with people like Norman Tebbitt and Arthur Scargill chipping in from the sidelines. Plenty of clear water there. Nowadays they're all Euro-Pols, from the same three or four bloody schools and the same two universities... professional politicians from their teens, doing it for a living rather than from conviction. They don't seem to argue about what they'd do so much as how quickly they'd do it. And in any case, it's increasingly clear to me that the politicians make very few decisions, and set very little policy. That stuff's all a bit confusing, so they leave it to the policy advisers in the Ministries. These advisers are of course not elected, and can do their planning of policy without having to worry about popular approval. For example, when Ken Clarke talks about prison versus community punishment, you can bet half a dollar that most of it has come via a nice lady called Julie Taylor, who is Director of Offender Management, Strategy Directorate, Ministry of Justice. I will apologise if wrong but as far as I can find out, she hasn't risen to her current extremely well paid level by being a lawyer, or a prison governor, or a probation worker. Apparently she's a former hospital administrator. I'm sure she's a very able woman. But I'm sure you'll take my point: who is actually in charge? How fitted to the task are they? And on whose authority do they act?

A plague on all their houses, then, say I. (Bet they're worried now, eh?)

The last word on the forthcoming referendum goes to one of my neighbours, overheard outside the pub earlier on:

"Tell you what I'm going to do... I'm going to put a tick in the box marked 'yes', then write underneath 'but alternatively, no'. That's an alternative vote, innit?"

I needed to get out more

2011-04-10T20:54:00.004+01:00

It's been a very fallow spell here on the QO blog. My life is so very ordinary that I've never thought of the blog as an online diary: why disturb all those electrons for something so deeply, deeply tedious from the point of view of the rest of the online world? And often pretty tedious from my point of view, too.

And yet, maybe we can add value in some small way by the recounting of a weekend well spent. If it doesn't add value, well, I don't really mind, and you can always register your protest in the comments. So here we go: the sort of weekend the QO really enjoys.

Friday: finish working mid-afternoon and head into town to RV with Mrs QO at the Canalhouse. Move on with some reluctance to the Trip to Jerusalem to meet other friends. Drink at least one pint too many before returning home for pizza with way too much Tabasco on.

Saturday: spring nimbly out of bed... OK, crawl reluctantly out of bed... and prepare to go out with Father of QO into the urban fringe countryside. Walk some six miles in glorious sunshine, spotting a hare and hearing the first skylark of the year. Arrive with enormous thirst at a real gem of a pub. Connoisseurs of Nottinghamshire pubs may be able to ID the place from this pic. Hint: to the west of the city, and sadly no longer the brewery tap.

Consume excellent beer and steak & ale pie with chips. Return home for a little restorative period of inactivity, then head out onto the local nature reserve for an evening stroll, enjoying some fine dusk music from the song thrushes and blackbirds.

Sunday: up at 05.30, out on another local nature reserve by 06.15 to hear the dawn chorus at full chat. Magnificent. Spend some time stalking a lovely fluid singer and eventually put the binoculars on a blackcap. Home to thaw out with freshly brewed coffee. Brunch of scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. In the afternoon, two hours of volunteer work on the reserve, pulling Himalayan Balsam seedlings out before they can get started, the little buggers. Enjoy not-too-stressful work in the sunshine, then repair to local for well-earned beers.

So, some physical exercise, some nature conservation, enjoyment of the local wildlife, plenty of beer and time with friends and relations. And sunshine. Sod politics, I'm intellectually downsizing, me.

Simple or simplistic?

2011-03-24T21:28:00.007Z

I'm often droning on to Mrs QO (the only person who has to stay in the house and listen) and anyone else within earshot that one of the biggest problems facing our society is that too few people keep on top of current events and think about them. Vast numbers of our citizens (here we go, sit back and share the rant) sit in hideous sloth every night in front of some braindead nonsense on TV, read only one newspaper, if they can read at all, with no regard to why its content will be slanted and exercising no critical analysis or independent judgement... they will turn out to vote (if they can get off their lardy arses) and painstakingly pencil in a cross against the party they've always voted for, having read neither that party's manifesto nor any other... given a choice between long-term planning and cheap goodies now, they'll always take and consume with no thought for the next generation...

Why do so many people not think? Why do they not read something that might challenge their prejudices? Why don't they ever ponder whether their old tribal allegiance might be out-dated and harmful? Why cannot they get over 'gut instinct' and use their heads, just for a change?

I think I know why. And I may be feeling a little ashamed of myself for the holier-than-thou diatribe. (Not very ashamed, you understand, just a healthy amount.)

The world is a big place, and lots goes on in it. (Yes, the QO brings you the big insights. You heard it here first.) Only a generation ago, it was a real effort to find out any significant amount about what was going on and what other people thought about it. Nowadays, if you're the sort of person that tries to keep abreast of events and informed thinking about them, there's so much input that you can't possibly process it.

Take, as an obvious example, what's going on in Libya. Part of me is right behind the rebels and therefore applauds the multinational action in supporting them. But equally there's a despondent feeling of 'here we go again... post-imperialism... it's all about the oil... nobody has thought about what happens next'.

Another example: the big march in London on Saturday. I'm torn all sorts of ways here. If I went, which group would I join? I believe the State has got way too big, intervenes far too much in the citizen's private life, has eroded our civil liberties to a truly dangerous extent over the last 20 years and has bought votes with borrowed money that our great-great-grandchildren will be struggling to pay off. Offered and forced dependence on the State has brought about a weakness of character in our people, an inability to stand on our own two feet, an inability to admit that sometimes life isn't fair, but nobody owes you a living, you just plain get on with it. So I'd be happy on one level to be with the Census Rebellion in Trafalgar Square.

Against that, I'm desperately sorry for those thousands upon thousands of public-sector workers who are being thrown out of employment with little prospect of alternative work, I think the economic sins of the past are being addressed too quickly and with too little thought for the consequences, and - to be blunt - the collection of pigs now in power don't seem much different from the bunch of pigs that were snouts-down in the troughs of Whitehall before last May.

Om.

Om.

Beer.

It's difficult, isn't it? Too many for me, as Huck Finn would say. What is far easier to process is the warmer, brighter weather, the birdsong, the changing of the year. Those things our evolution has prepared us for and we react instinctively. This is where we can trust gut-instinct, and don't have to worry about being rational. Of course these things are good.

Perhaps our society has got so complex that we can't make any useful choices any more and will always lurch from one crisis to another, driven by the tiny few who are sure they know better than we do how we should all live. I give up.

What I think I do know is that I love the sight of spring blossom. That's going to have to do for the time being.

Perspective

2011-03-17T21:08:00.003Z

One of my recent resolutions was to spend less time on the computer and more time reading. You know, good old-fashioned books, preferably from the public library, so as to help establish the demand for keeping them open. And I have indeed been reading. Some of it has been the literary equivalent of a Pot Noodle (trashy but momentarily satisfying) but I have also read some very thought-provoking stuff about American and UK politics, English culture (or lack of), the assault of the Blair administration on civil liberties and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, an old friend I've shamefully neglected for many years.

The net result of all that was so many threads for blog posts that I haven't known where to start, even assuming I wasn't reading books rather than at the computer. I suppose a very brief summary would be that, frankly, we can't trust any of our politicians; the country is on a downward spiral of unemployment, social division, and reduced public services; George Bush and Tony Blair should be done for war crimes; our children will inherit a lack of opportunity, a lack of belief in the future, ecological and economic collapse and drastically reduced standards of living; and people sure spoke funny in Mississippi way back in the day.

All this could make even the sunniest Observer feel that things weren't entirely great.

And so it was good to have a quiet evening out in town after work with Mrs QO, doing nothing more extravagant than having a couple of pints then supper at Wagamamas, where we had the added bonus of sitting in the window and watching the peregrine falcons up on the Newton Building. And then walking through the Square on the way for some liquid afters before a bus home. The Town House clock, the big wheel and the moon were all helping illuminate our city centre, and all seemed pretty much OK for the time being.

Getting a grip

2011-03-10T20:37:00.007Z

The last month has been a very busy time, though not so busy that I couldn't have posted once or twice, I must admit. There's been a surplus of material and a lack of impetus... Mrs QO has had a significant birthday and the arrangements for the celebrations (and the clear-up operations) have been quite time-consuming. Work has also been available, and one has to do it when it is. My contributions to the 'Big Society' - which have been going on for 10 years or more before the bloody stupid label was dreamt up - have required some attention. Over and above all that, I've been getting interested and/or worked up about so many things going on that I've spent the spare time available at the end of the working day reading round various issues without making any comment here. I have managed one or two grumpy posts on some of my fellow bloggers' pages, laying down the law like a bad-tempered old git, but have neglected those few benighted souls who check in here regularly.

Sorry, guys.

By way of recompense, while I gather my thoughts, here are some gratuitous images. If you don't find any of these attractive, you don't belong in the human race.

Just saying.

Busy times

2011-02-17T21:49:00.002Z

Various ongoing projects have left little time for blogging recently, and on the odd occasions I've started a post, writer's block has struck. As we all know, this is the Universe's way of telling you to shut up...

Until I get some thoughts lined up for something worthwhile, here's a very interesting read that I spotted on Captain Ranty's blog. Our current government likes to talk about 'what works', so it might be worth their while examining what New Zealand did to tackle its financial crisis and budget deficit.

Muddled thinking

2011-02-04T22:37:00.003Z

Unison wanted to hold a march to protest against County Council cuts on 24 February. The police require them to have a gathering point that doesn't cause too much disruption, so the union applied to Rushcliffe Borough Council for permission to use the field by Bridgford Road, near to West Bridgford library.

Rushcliffe BC refused permission, and are reported by the BBC as saying: "... we do not want to be drawn into a political dispute - and as this would be a political demonstration, it is not considered appropriate to allow the park to be used for that purpose."

Somebody - and the Post attributes the comment above to Colin Bullett, deputy chief exec at RBC - might usefully have thought this through a bit.

Firstly, the protest against the cuts might be viewed as political, but only in the sense that any view about how the country works and is run is a political view. Feelings about the scale and speed of the cuts do not fit neatly into tribal party political thinking.

Secondly, on what basis is it appropriate for a publicly-funded body to forbid the use of publicly-owned space for members of the public to gather before a demonstration? No argument has been made by RBC that the gathering would have been dangerous, or would have caused significant disruption. It's hard to avoid the conclusion that the refusal to grant permission is itself a political one, not a practical one.

Thirdly, if RBC was serious about not wanting to be drawn into a political dispute... well, that didn't go too well, did it? If permission had quietly been granted to use the field and the demonstration had gone ahead, just how much press coverage would have pointed out that RBC owned a piece of open ground that the demonstrators met on before moving off? Even the most desperate journo or blogger, casting about for half a story, wouldn't have been able to make anything of it, for heaven's sake.

But now even this desperate blogger has something to go at. Excellent. One has to wonder whether someone at the Big House with the green roof across the road had a quiet word with the good people at RBC...

Catching up

2011-02-02T20:21:00.004Z

Well, hasn't January been busy. The combination of a three-week Christmas holiday and a perilously delayed tax return left me with no option but to burn midnight oil at a rate that must have had the good people of OPEC feeling well chuffed. But things are returning to what passes for normality in the Observatory, so I thought I'd give my regular human reader and dear old Googlebot a quick update on various items in the 'pending' tray.

Superintendent Helen Chamberlain of Nottinghamshire Police was, you may recall, caught giving it some serious miles per hour on the Epperstone bypass. I'd missed the story, but at her trial date in December she changed her plea to guilty and was duly sentenced: six points on her licence and over £1,500 in fine and costs. The district judge made some rather pointed remarks about the original decision by the police officer who stopped her but sent her on her way instead of reporting her for prosecution. I feel rather sorry for him, to be honest, even if it was a poor decision. I feel no sympathy whatsoever for the Superintendent; if she'd pleaded guilty from the outset (and I maintain she must have known she was well out of order) instead of trying to run a defence based on her own Force's radar guns being inaccurate, she'd have paid a third less on her fine and would have avoided the full trial preparation costs. And a deal of embarrassment. Two careers blighted, probably, and avoidably so if she'd had the cojones to wind her window down and say: "yes, I was well over the limit, and I believe it's your duty to issue a fixed penalty or a report for prosecution".

Moving on. The Salutation - oh, for heaven's sake, I don't need to hotlink this, it's right below this one - appears to have a chance of survival. Fingers crossed the plan can be made to work, though as I feared the future of The Royal Children seems very uncertain.

My schtick on Lord Mandelmort and Ed Balls (two down) was proved inaccurate very quickly. The word on Whitehall is that it was one of Ed Balls's 'special advisors' who fitted up Mrs Johnson and her close protection officer (f'nar) to the media. There are also rumours about Mr Johnson, but they are so scurrilous I couldn't possibly comment. At any event, it seems Ed Balls doesn't need Lord Mandelmort's help... cue Star Wars music and a thin voice rasping "you have learned well, my young apprentice..."

And now a few words about tax returns. Her Maj's Revenue & Customs (a fine body of computers and a couple of rather fetching terriers, if what I hear about staff cutbacks is right) are so obliging as to allow some ten months for one's tax return to be submitted. I naturally, therefore, left it until the very last week of that window to begin work on my sales figures and expenses for the tax year.

The word 'procrastination' derives from Latin, thusly:

'Pro' = for, until
'cras' = tomorrow
'tination' = oh, FFS, get on with it, you lazy sod

I may say, though, that I put great effort into keeping my tax affairs squeaky clean. I believe we should pay our due taxes if we believe in the provision of public services and public support for those who are out of luck and need help. On a pragmatic level, I can't be doing with being found out trying to fiddle a few quid and living the rest of my life on the HMRC shitlist. OK, the computers find it inconvenient to make house calls, and the terriers can only do much (particularly with the number of lampposts around the city), but they are rightly tenacious with known offenders. Such a pity, then, that at the highest level HMRC appear to be not so much terriers as poodles when it comes to Big Bizness.

If the ConDems are serious about getting the public to accept the private sector getting even more involved with the provision of services that we used to expect from the state, they'd better grip this one. I'm all for a liberal and straightforward tax regime that allows the economy to flourish, but one law for the ordinary citizen and another for Big Bizness is no way to run a country.

Well, that's me up to date.

Last orders?

2011-01-22T22:22:00.006Z

Reports come to the Observatory that two fine old pubs in Nottingham face an uncertain future.

I have been drinking in these pubs on and off for over 30 years, and I would hate the thought of them closing and becoming yet more offices or retail space. The Salutation in particular is such a part of the city's history that it would be a terrible loss if some way cannot be found to keep it going as a pub.

I have fond memories from the late 70s when there were two big youth tribes out there - the heavies/hairies and the punks. I remember some lairy Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in and around Slab Square when there would be a goodly number of each lot on either side of the square, with Tug Wilson standing majestically in the middle, keeping the Queen's Peace. Thursdays, I hear you say? Oh yes, in the old days Thursday was payday, and there'd be plenty out in town. It was in those days, and into the 80s, that the Salutation top room had a reverse dress code: if you didn't look grungy enough (for which read: long hair, denim, leather, patchouli) you'd be strongly advised not to bother. (Mrs QO and I didn't have any trouble gaining admission.)

The Sally of late has still been a welcome home to those who like rock, blues and good beer, though it's a little gentler all round to my mind. No bad thing, let us say, and the building itself is one of the appallingly few authentic old ones left after our city fathers wrecked most of the rich architectural heritage of this old town. I hope that both these pubs can be saved, though in today's climate I fear it will be difficult. It may be a harsh choice: sacrifice the Royal Children for redevelopment, to save the Salutation. I would hope that it doesn't come to that.

Another vision

2011-01-21T21:14:00.012Z

Sit back, relax, and share with me another out-of-body experience. We Observe silently and unseen, immaterial yet alert... the scene is the study in a house in Stoke Newington. (Sorry about dragging you to Stoke Newington, but it's necessary for the plot.)

A house in Stoke Newington. Ed Balls is sitting at his desk mulling over the papers in his newly-delivered Shadow Chancellor's red box. A dread burst of music comes from a desk drawer. He starts... his face becomes ashen... he opens the drawer and picks up the blackest Blackberry ever...

EB: "My Lord Mandelmort... I had not thought to hear from you yet."
LM: "Balls. But moving on. Edward... you recall our last conversation?"
EB: "Of course, my lord."
LM: "I thought I would call to congratulate myself on your appointment as Shadow Chancellor, Edward. And to let you know that... it begins."
EB: "What begins, sir?"

A moment's silence... then a dry, scaly noise like a dead rattlesnake being dragged over a corrugated tin roof.

LM: "Oh, Edward. You disappoint me... again. I had thought that by now, under my patient tutelage, you would have acquired some instinct for politics... some acute nose for the breeze of change. Do you not see? Have you learned nothing? The tide is afoot. The scales of power are ripening. It is time. TIME!"

Mr Balls breathes deeply.

EB: "Well, my lord, I must admit I was pleasantly surprised to be called by the Party Leader and asked to take over from Alan Johnson. One has to feel sorry for him."
LM: "No, Edward, one doesn't. Such is political life. He chooses to put his private life first. A mistake I never made, and one which I trust you will never make. Not, I might add, if you wish to continue as my Chosen One in the Great Path of Destiny."
EB: "Er... the 'Great Path', my lord?"

There is a moment's silence on the BLACKberry... the silence of a newly-dug grave at midnight, the silence of a dead kitten, the silence of something really nasty and silent, in fact.

LM: "Edward. Attend and concentrate. Unless like me you are prepared to make... certain sacrifices... you will not have the lifespan to fully comprehend the Master Strategy, but let me give you the salient points, in the hope that you may yet see the dark. The Great Enemies have joined forces in a doomed coalition. In preparation for this, we engineered a financial disaster that is still not fully understood by the electorate, but suffice to say that all the headline economic and social indicator figures will be against those who so laughably think themselves in charge of the country. Unemployment and inflation: up. Public sector investment: down. Sterling against any currency you like to mention: down. Mortgage rates: up. Repossesions: up. Size of Katie Price's breasts: well, who can say? But none of this will look good in the media. Apart from the latter, conceivably. However, the Tories and the Little Friends will soon be fighting among themselves like two ferrets in a sock. All you have to do is be ready for the inevitable collapse. You cannot fail."
EB: "But... surely, my lord... if we come to power again, we will be inheriting a train-wreck, surely? What will we be able to do?"
LM: "Ah, you begin to see. Of course Britain will be worthless. That has been coming for years. As an independent power, Britain's day is long past. We will be classed along with Borneo, Kazakhstan or even France. No, Edward, forget that out-dated model. Within a mere two decades there will be only two powers in the world, and you can be at the forefront of one of them."
EB: "Er... I assume you mean the United States... and China?"

There is a slow, crackling laugh.

LM: "The United States? Oh, dear me no, young Balls. Once President Palin takes power - as she will, for the American voter will never ultimately be able to resist someone cute who likes guns - it will take only months for civil war to break out. The Mexicans will reclaim what was once theirs, the few remaining Americans with any sense will flee to Canada, and the cities will burn. No, the two real powers in the world will be China... and The Greater European Union. Yes, the real destiny of Europe is to be one great power. That is my master-work, Edward, that is the goal for which I have worked these seven centuries. And it can be your destiny too."
EB: "But... I don't understand, my lord..."
LM: "You, Edward, if you follow the Path I lay out for your unworthy feet, will one day be President of the Greater European Union. The one which will encompass all of the European continent, Scandinavia, the former USSR, even the bits nobody really wants, like Wales. It will be the only power great enough to stand against the Asian Tiger. The Yin against their Yang. The Fork against the Chopstick. The Poppadum against the Prawn Cracker."
EB: "Um... I thought poppadums were Indian?"
LM: "India too will be part of Europe, Edward, as it might just as well have been under British rule. They will be able to see which side of their chapati the ghee is on, trust me."

Mr Balls puts a hand to his furrowed brow.

EB: "But how... how would I be able to win an election to be President of such a great power, my lord?"

The silence from the BLACKberry is this time even more nasty and silent (if that were possible).

LM: "Who mentioned an election, Balls? Did I get elected to the House of Lords? I despair of you. I must warn you... there is another candidate in my mind."
EB: "But who... who else could there be, my lord?"

Another telling pause.

LM: "Edward. I refer you to the Shadow Home Secretary. And such an appropriate title, is it not? In the shadows... in your home.... be careful, Edward. Be very careful..."

A chilling laugh echoes down the line before the buzz of disconnection becomes all that Mr Balls can hear... he stares towards the door of his study... who is it that moves in the hallway?

And the winner...

2011-01-17T23:31:00.002Z

... of the "No shit, Sherlock" prize for 2011, although the year has barely started, is Sir Philip Hampton:

"Sir Philip Hampton told the BBC that too many average investment bankers were getting above average pay."

Further comment from me would be supererogatory.

Vive la difference

2011-01-16T20:39:00.014Z

The people I'm furious with are the women's liberationists. They keep getting up on soapboxes and proclaiming women are brighter than men. That's true, but it should be kept quiet or it ruins the whole racket. Anita Loos

Not long after Mrs QO and I were married, I said to her that I was thinking of sitting the Mensa application test. "Well, why not? I might too," she said. So one evening we both presented ourselves at a room in People's College and sat the test. Naturally, the first thing we did thereafter was to repair to the Trip to Jerusalem to compare notes on how we'd answered the questions. We'd got into that habit at college, since we were both reading for English degrees. With pints in front of us, we started the analysis.

"So what did you put for question 2 - Ecuador or Butterfly?"
"Um... I thought if you rotated it 180 degrees you'd get an aardvaark."
"Oh... never thought of that. OK, so what about question 5? The one where if you put a 20 kilo weight on the scales, would the other end go up or down? I thought down."
"Wha'? No, no, the answer had to be the triangle, cos everything else on the diagram had three sides."

I have never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back. Zsa Zsa Gabor

And so on. It became evident we'd approached things in quite different ways. The one thing we were agreed on was that the young lady who'd acted as Mensa host and invigilator was an arrogant twat, and also that we'd have another pint before going home. OK, yeh, that's two things. Whatever. (Mrs QO would have said 'snowflake', obviously.)

A week or so later the results arrived. In a rather tense silence each of us opened our envelope and had a look. Our eyes met and we swapped letters. There was a moment of some disbelief, and swapping back of letters for a second look. We'd got exactly the same IQ score, though we knew damn well we'd put quite different answers down for a fair number of the questions. We found this outcome particularly satisfying... we were different, we were individuals, but we were of equal worth. Almost as satisfying was the fact that we qualified for Mensa but didn't join, partly following the Groucho Marx line: 'I wouldn't join any club that would have me as a member,' and partly because of the arrogant twat who'd represented the organisation at our test. I'm sure they're not all like that, of course (he said hurriedly in case of legal action).

I have an idea that the phrase "weaker sex" was coined by some woman to disarm some man she was preparing to overwhelm. Ogden Nash

I like to think we've never fretted much about gender roles in our marriage (except where it's blindingly obvious we should, and we'll skate by that, if that's all the same). We seem to have settled into various roles in the household dictated more by personal inclination than any sexual stereotype. Mrs QO does electrics; I do electronics. She does plastering; I do plumbing. If a power tool is used in the house, it's by her; I do more of the run of the mill cleaning and tidying. I know more about our insurances and pensions, while she administers the Christmas card list and mail-merges the address labels with a nonchalant ease of which I'm in awe.

So far, so very much 'us, us, us' but then it is my blog, so suck it up. No, seriously, there was a wider point when I started this post, though I must admit I've kind of forgotten what it was. Something to do with gender stereotyping being fatuous and futile, I think.

Tell you what, let's all go and have a drink. And I'll drop a picture in here while I try and remember all the brilliant socio-sexual analysis I was going to do. OK, this is a cheap gag, but I want all the men reading this not to be too upset at the thought of being far less complex, adaptable and subtle than women. Grow a pair and deal.

I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know that I'm not dumb ... and I also know that I'm not blonde. Dolly Parton

Folkwaves and BBC dorks... an update

2011-01-06T22:34:00.003Z

Despite spirited protest, the BBC in the East Midlands has dropped its specialist music programmes on weekday evenings. Mrs QO and I listened to the first edition of the replacement programme hosted by Richard Spurr. Well, I say 'listened': we managed about seven minutes, of which three and a half were Flowers in the Rain by The Move. I daresay I shouldn't judge the programme on the three and a half other minutes, but you know what? It's my blog, and I will. I will rely on the comments made by others who did listen to a fair chunk of it.

It became apparent that the new three-hour show was to be a mix of bland oldies, inane talk, phone-ins (I gather nobody did, or if they did, they weren't allowed on air, probably because they were complaining) and interviews with such important people as somebody who didn't win The Apprentice. Our brains started running out of our ears; not a pleasant sensation.

Way to go, Auntie Beeb. Cutting-edge public service broadcasting at its bluntest. Piss off thousands of loyal local listeners to serve up exactly the same dross that commercial local radio used to do until it failed because advertisers realised nobody was listening.

And we might usefully define 'listening' here. The BBC maintain that the RAJAR figures for the specialist music programmes were low. I haven't seen the figures, so won't comment directly on that point. (Well, it's early in the year, I get back to my normal unreasonableness about March.) But we all know how often the radio is just squeaking away in the background, a kind of comforting white noise but not something you really tune into mentally. The specialist music programmes were listened to pretty intently, not just because of the music that was played, but for the local information and comment offered. Audience satisfaction would be very high, I'd argue, whereas the new programme is just tediously more of the same stuff we get all day, and I suspect would get much lower listener ratings, even if the total number of radios tuned in turns out to be higher. That in itself remains to be seen. Certainly nobody in the QO household will be listening to local radio in the evening any more, though we did on three or four nights a week before.

The reason the BBC doesn't have to mix it in the commercial world is so it can do stuff that the commercial broadcasters can't. It seems terribly sad to me that after more than 20 years of these excellent specialist shows, we now have a bland, 'one size fails to fit all' programme of ineffable tedium.

Getting going with 2011

2011-01-06T21:12:00.006Z

I always find the first week after New Year a bit of a trial. It's particularly bad this year, since Christmas on Malta proved so enjoyable. Suffice to say that we left Liverpool John Lennon International at 7am with the temperature around -10, and the next morning we were gazing from the fortifications of Mdina in bright sun and a rather less challenging 20 degrees. Here's what it looked like.

I love England, but must say that having left the country and flown south for Christmas for the first time, I have a better appreciation of why so many birds migrate.

Howsomever, here we are, back in dear old Blighty, faced with the challenges of a new year, and indeed a new decade. I have made the usual New Year resolutions - mostly to do with self-indulgence - and will be getting down to them next weekend. I can never face getting back to work after Christmas as well as bodily self-denial. Yes, I'm worthless and weak. Deal with it.

An Englishman abroad

2010-12-17T22:07:00.004Z

Mrs QO & I leave tomorrow to spend Christmas on Malta with a select band on her side of the family. This will be our third trip to this fascinating Mediterranean island. Everyone who was anyone in the 'invade and colonise' line has been through the place, leaving something behind; it's a fascinating mix of cultures. The Maltese language has Semitic roots, overlaid with much Arabic and Italian influence. The Maltese driver has lunatic roots, overlaid with much Italian influence. The island having been a British Protectorate, the theory is that one drives on the left, but this is honoured more in the breach than th'observance, frankly. Local wisdom is that one drives in the shade wherever possible, and if that disconcerts the oncoming Brit visitor, well, it's nothing personal. Road signs are misleading on the rare occasions they're there at all, roundabouts are just a way of using up concrete, and traffic lights can be out of action for years before repair. Nobody takes much notice of them, you see, so why bother rushing to do something about them?

The Maltese people are friendly and courteous, although two locals can exchange comments about the weather and sound as if a major ruck is about to kick off. The local brewery turns out worthy products, the sea is startlingly blue, the old buildings unearthly beautiful and Grand Harbour by night one of the most breathtaking views anywhere. I fell in love with the whole deal on our first visit, and am very glad to be going back.

Oh, and not to rub your noses in it, but the weather report from Malta this morning was 19 degrees and sunny. If you're feeling a tad jealous, it may help to know that we have to fly from Liverpool at Stupid o'clock on Sunday morning, so will be staying at a Travelodge in Widnes tomorrow night. Trust me, there are no grounds to feel jealous of us on that score...

Packing still remains to be done, so I shall sign off and wish everyone a very happy and peaceful Christmas.

Ooops...

2010-12-15T20:15:00.002Z

It's Happy Blogiversary to me. Yes, one whole year of drivel smeared across this corner of t'internet. Only I must confess the actual date was yesterday, and I got distracted, faffing about elsewhere online. Oh well. That kind of suits the entire lack of discipline here at the Observatory.

To all those who have visited regularly - thank you very much, and please seek professional help without delay.

To all those who have found themselves here accidentally - hey, guys, that's Google for you. Don't blame me.

To the couple of visitors from the BBC domain who have appeared in the log over the last couple of days - I'm kind of sorry about the dorks reference, but not so sorry as to take it down. But I will if you change up your minds, how's that for a deal?

'Folkwaves' and why the BBC is managed by dorks

2010-12-13T21:24:00.007Z

A slightly provocative title, yes. But I'm not happy.

For 25 years or so Folkwaves has been broadcast on East Midlands local radio. Its settled spot has been between 7-9pm on Monday nights, and although broadcast from BBC Radio Derby, the local BBC stations in Leicester, Lincoln and Nottingham carry it as well, thus reaching about a fifth of the country in geographic terms. It's also listened to by good numbers over t'internet. Mick Peat and Lester Simpson (above) are well known in this country and abroad as performers and promoters of folk music and are very effective communicators. The show doesn't just play music, it runs a gig guide that helps promote live events, club meetings and festivals.

Other 'specialist music' programmes appear in that slot throughout the week and go out to the whole region: country & western, Celtic, jazz. They too provide local event information, and all these shows are deeply rooted in the Midlands music communities, presented by people who really know what they're talking about.

The news that these shows are to be cancelled at the end of the year has gone down like a pint of milk offered to a Morris dancer. A Facebook page set up to protest the decision has been joined by over 800 in four days and the word is spreading. Many of us have e-mailed or phoned the BBC and some responses have been forthcoming.

The BBC have decided that 'specialist music' is "super-serving fans of a particular genre of music," to quote Simon Cornes, editor at BBC Radio Derby. "We feel it is part of our public service remit to now broadcast more accessible local radio into the evening."

Mr Cornes is, it seems, right on message. His regional boss, Stuart Thomas, had this to say:

"Although specialist music programmes like Folkwaves have been very popular with a loyal core of listeners, we feel that we now need to provide a programme that appeals to a wider number of licence fee payers in the East Midlands, especially as there are no longer any local or regional programmes available on commercial radio in the evenings."

Foxtrot Foxtrot Sierra.

Let's have a look at some of this. Is two hours a week 'super-serving' fans of a particular genre? Of course it bloody well isn't, even before we consider the fact that many of us listen to more than one of these 'specialist' programmes.

'More accessible local radio'. For the life of me, I have no idea what this means. In what way are these shows inaccessible? Do they pose problems for wheelchair users? Are they tricky to listen to if you live more than a mile from the bus-stop? Do they need a warning that people over 6' 5" may bang their heads? Sadly, I suppose we know fine well what the BBC means when it says 'accessible': football or bland playlist-approved muzak hosted by someone who looks up to Alan Partridge.

Moving on: 'we now need to provide a programme that appeals to a wider number of licence fee payers...' Why? You don't have to buy a licence to listen to BBC radio.

'... especially as there are no longer any local or regional programmes available on commercial radio in the evenings'

Yes, and you know why? Because local commercial radio in the evenings was crap. It was bloody awful. It's not too hot during the day, frankly, but the fact that it's died out in the evenings is a blessing and a mercy and a damn good argument for a free market. For the BBC to try and fill this gap with more of the same is analogous to the police getting worried that there are no fatal accidents any more at a particular road junction and going out to grease the tarmac.

I'm going to stop before I write myself into a real tantrum and say something regrettable. However, whether or not you're a folk music fan in the East Midlands, or a jazz fan, or a country & western fan, you may believe in the BBC's role to provide diversity, to strive for quality rather than mediocrity and to serve communities that may not necessarily be defined geographically. If you'd like to contact Stuart Thomas with your thoughts, I'm sure he'd be glad to hear from you:

Stuart Thomas
Head of Regional and Local Programmes
BBC, London Road, Nottingham, NG2 4UU

stuart.thomas@bbc.co.uk

http://twitter.com/#!/stuartthomas

He'll be hearing from me.

How not to do it

2010-12-09T22:16:00.003Z

Arse.

I have a deal of sympathy with those protesting over student fees. But this doesn't help.

The Countryside Alliance put 450,000-odd in the streets of London; they made their point effectively and marched silently past the Cenotaph. I should declare a disinterest at this point: I wasn't on that march, nor am I a CA supporter. But they evidently believed that if you're going to protest about something affecting your country, it's a good thing to observe a little respect for the memory of those who died to preserve for you the freedom to make your protest.

There are some things you don't have to go to university to learn.

Snow balls

2010-12-07T21:11:00.002Z

There really has been a lot of nonsense talked about this refreshingly cool period we've been enjoying for the last 10 days or so. Some inadequates have complained about not being able to get to work merely because their car is buried in three feet of snow, there's no public transport and they have 20 miles to walk. Pffft, say I. This species would not now exist if we'd been so soft in earlier generations. The backbone has gone from us.

When the weather is like this, Mrs QO and I like nothing better than to turn off the central heating, throw open the windows, and remind ourselves how our ancestors lived. (I haven't specifically conferred with Mrs QO on this point, but I'm sure she would agree.) We relish an opportunity to huddle together for warmth, cooking a simple supper over a candle in a wine bottle, and chipping the frost from each other's eyebrows before going up to break the ice in the bath. This is the life, we say, peering at the computer screen through the freezing fog swirling around the house. We're honing our survival skills and toughening ourselves up to face whatever global warming can throw at us. Who cares about the Gulf Stream? Nasty foreign thing, we're fine by ourselves, thanks.

Yes indeed. Well, as I say, we like nothing better than all that, but tragically we have not been able to make such good advantage of the current climate. It seems that Mrs QO's bread will not rise, nor will my homebrew ferment, unless we keep the windows firmly closed and the heating on all day.

Ah well. We can't always have what we want.

The green belt doesn't go Red

2010-12-03T00:00:00.003Z

Mixed feelings here at the Observatory about the failed World Cup bid. I'd have liked to see some of the matches take place in Nottingham, given the economic boost that would have resulted. But I will declare myself a NIMBY and say that I'm relieved that plans for a new stadium at Gamston now seem to be completely nixed.

Yes, I know, Gamston is a pretty tedious upper middle-class dormitory suburb that was Green Belt, and I remember it when it was green rather than BMW and Mercedes chic. The sins of the fathers... The remaining countryside between West Bridgford and Radcliffe isn't, perhaps, particularly beautiful, but it is a valuable wildlife haven and I walk the old footpaths around there several times a year. If a stadium were to be built there, the inevitable 'in fill' would take place and it wouldn't be long before there was no open land between the city and Radcliffe. I could accept that, provided that we'd made the most of the city itself, but there's an awful lot to do before we could say that we had. The Broadmarsh development seems to be stalled; the bold plans for the Eastside, for the north bank of the river between Trent Bridge and Colwick and for the old Boots site are all yet to make progress. It seems madness to me to take the easy option of developing greenfield sites outside the city while leaving scruffy, semi-derelict sites inside the town untouched.

Of course those inner-city sites have all sorts of problems attached, particularly the contamination at the old Boots site. That's why, after all the buildings were taken down several years ago, it's remained an open space, notable only for weeds. We will literally have to grasp the nettle, though, if this city is to be really proud of itself. It will take much longer, granted, but meaningful achievements do take time. Building a new stadium at Gamston as things stand would have been much like putting a daisy near a cowpat and saying everything was lovely.

Last comment. I'm sure the proposed stadium would have looked impressive if built. But if this was what was presented to FIFA (without a suitably large 'honorarium'), I'm not at all surprised the bid sank without trace. Crass or what?

Social networking

2010-11-23T22:17:00.002Z

I've neglected the blog lately, yes. My second ever blog post dealt with my hesitation to get involved with online interaction again, but a few weeks ago - while under the influence, I freely admit - I found myself signing up on Facebook in my 'real' name. I'm here to admit to its addictive aspect.

My working life started in an old-fashioned printing factory. When I say, 'old-fashioned', I mean that we cast lead type there. Fresh from college, I was tasked with dragging the place over to photo-lithography. Not many years later, we were dragging the place over to fully electronic systems and buying Macs as if they were going out of fashion. But even with the most modern methods of putting ink on paper, there's a real lag between composition of text and pictures, and seeing the end result in its published form.

Not so with the internet and digital photography. Seconds after your first draft, there's your material up there, visible to a bazillion people. How cool is that? And it fits so well with our age of instant gratification - something for which I'm an unashamed advocate. Life is so pitifully short, let's have our fun quickly, while it's warm.

Blogging has been great fun, and I have no intention of stopping. (That may or may not be good news for some readers. Howsomever.) Facebook, though, has the extra appeal of remaking links with old friends. I know some will say - as I have myself - that real friends are the ones you stay in touch with in real life, and you don't need to be arsing about on Facebook or MySpace or whatever. I wouldn't argue. But there's a range of people that are, let's say, more than just casual acquaintances, if not so close that you meet regularly. The sort of people you'd enjoy bumping into at the local, even if you seldom if ever take back for dinner and to stay the night. (For any reason.) Most of us have friends in that category, I think, and Facebook can have something of the 'virtual pub' about it at its best - casual comments and brief touches of contact which leave you feeling part of a community of sorts even if you're separated by many miles.

Now, I will say straight away that I'd rather be down the local getting this sort of social interaction, but my liver won't take it.

I've also decoded the real appeal of Facebook. It's like inviting all these old friends and acquaintances round to your house, and while they're having a chat amongst themselves, you excuse yourself, saying you're going out for a fag or something, and you nip round to one of your friends' house and surreptitiously look through their address book and their photo album. "Ooo-er, he's put on weight... blimey, she used to be blonde... that's never their child, surely?"

And once you've had that pleasure, you look up one of their friends - someone you don't know from Adam - and trot off to their house, and do the same there. Now really, is this not enormous fun?

Mind you, at some point, it will occur to you that the friends you invited round are busy going through your address book and your photo album, and making equally rude comments.

Fair enough. Facebook makes voyeurs of us all. Which takes us back to the 'On watching and being watched' post a couple down, in a way.

And now, if you'll excuse me, someone's just commented on a photo I posted to my album. I must go and see who they're friends with at the moment.

The price of freedom

2010-11-16T18:35:00.012Z

My business in London concluded, I stepped into a pub near Euston for a drop of lunch before getting a train. Spotting a handpump offering Thwaites 'Liberation', a beer I'm fond of, I thought that would be the perfect choice to celebrate the long-awaited release of Aung San Suu Kyi.

"Three thirty-two," said the pretty child behind the bar.

"Why, thank you for the reminder," said I, "but my train is actually at three fifteen."

"No, ze drink, iz three thirty-two."

I believe I lost consciousness for a moment, but a steely inner core kept me upright, albeit not exactly perpendicular.

"Young lady. I require one pint, not a lifetime supply."

She shrugged. "Iz three thirty-two."

See, this is where being English is such a pain in the arse. A Frenchman would start shouting and waving his arms... would probably still be shouting and waving his arms... while a Scot would simply turn round and walk out. But Mr English can't abide being thought of as poor, provincial, or just plain stingy. Most of the English are all three, of course, and I certainly am myself, but one hates to make it obvious.

Now, I do have quite a lot of Welsh in me, and I dare say that if an impi of Zulu warriors had appeared I might have managed a chorus of Men of Harlech, but I was brought up in Lincoln. Enough said.

And I suppose the waif behind the bar wasn't directly responsible for the grasping avarice of her employer. She was trying to better her life through hard work, and who can fault her there; I couldn't quite place her accent, but she was clearly from one of those benighted outposts of humanity like Tirana or Rotherham. Enough misery for one lifetime, I thought, so I let her live and contented myself with the usual petty revenges: handing over the disgustingly tatty and greasy five-pound note kept in the quarantine section of the wallet for just such purposes. And, naturally, pointedly not taking the empty glass back to the bar.

While drinking I got on the Blackberry and e-mailed the Burmese Embassy to say that I was delighted they'd let her go, but if they do bang her up again, could they keep her in this time, as I couldn't afford this twice in a lifetime.

I'm only joking. I could afford it again, but it would still hurt, even though Liberation is a quite splendid ale, and good to see it so far from its Blackburn home.
Going back some years, Thwaites was one of those brewers whose beers didn't travel over well and on the odd occasions you saw it out of its own territory, it was probably not worth trying. Theakstons out of Yorkshire and Castle Eden out of County Durham were the same. But I can report, happily, that the Liberation was drinking well in London this afternoon.

Oh, and for the avoidance of doubt, Aung San Suu Kyi is a hero of mine and I'm delighted to see her at liberty.

2010-11-11T12:32:00.000Z

On watching and being watched

2010-11-08T21:28:00.004Z

There I was, just sitting having a quiet pint at a city pub, when I realised I was being watched. Now they're being watched, potentially by the bazillions of people who visit this blog daily. Well, I say 'bazillions', in terms of regulars it's actually two or three, but they're very welcome and much valued.

That said, my traffic has recently much increased. It would seem that since I rather innocently used a picture of Jean-Luc Picard looking pained in this post, our friends at Google have stuck it up at about number five in the images list if you Google for 'Picard'. Well, who'd have thought, eh? I can only apologise to my visitors from Russia, the USA, Australia, Germany and... er... Wales... who were suddenly transported here under false pretences. That's what comes, though, of Google watching everything. And, of course, you watching Google and asking it questions.

Note from the above that I'm watching who's watching me. Check out the 'sitemeter' button at the bottom of the page. Some hide it; I prefer to leave it visible, so people can see, if they wish, what sort of trace they leave behind when they visit.

On the news this afternoon was an item about the Guvmint quietly going ahead with trying to get ISPs to record all sorts of communications, including blog visits and posts, who you contact on Facebook, all that kind of thing. Despite their fine words about wanting to reduce the power and presence of the State, they are now being housetrained by their officials in the Civil Service and various other state agencies. As we knew fine well they would once they'd been sat down and talked at by the men in grey suits for a while. Here's a prediction: it won't be very long before some new legislation tries to enforce this, with our Glorious Leaders banging on about 'The first duty of a Guvmint is to protect its citizens, and we can only do that by knowing every last fucking thing about you, who you talk to, whose pictures you look at, and where you drink beer. Oh, and by the way, we noticed you having that extra pint.' Or words to that effect...

Some say you have nothing to worry about if you have nothing to hide. To which my invariable answer is: 'Well, give me all the curtains and blinds in your house for a month, then talk to me again'.

That's it, rant over, and I hope you notice I didn't even mention Eric Blair. Who, you say? Google him. If you dare.

Fuel economy

2010-11-01T14:28:00.002Z

Having spent much of the weekend blamelessly clocking up pedestrian miles and less blamelessly dropping into licensed premises for beer, I thought I'd see what sort of economy I'm getting. A moment with the calculator reveals a figure of 10.9 miles per gallon.

Now that's not great. Even my old Jag XJS, with its 5.3 litres of V12 thirst, managed better than that.

And let's not even mention my emissions. Suffice to say Mrs QO has views and I fear a thorough service may be in order before long.

Travel broadens the mind

2010-10-31T20:23:00.014Z

The getting of wisdom often involves a journey. Consider Paul of Tarsus, for example. There he was, just rockin' down to Damascus and woah... Mr Toad, to cite a more amphibious instance, realised after his epic voyage across the byways of Old England that when it comes to choosing your friends, mustelids aren't the way to go. Apart from badgers, obviously. After bimbling down the Yellow Brick Road, Dorothy realised she wasn't in Kansas any more, and serendipitously set up a lucrative future for Elton John. On the Road was the novel of its time, and the fact that nobody you've ever met can remember Jack about it tells you something about its time. (See what I did there? Heh.) Finally, and surely most tellingly, in one of the most profoundly moving ouevres of our times, it was after this road trip:

that Boon finally realised he loved Katy. Ah, bless. So young, so fair.... Anyway, I'm sure you have your own examples, and mayhap you too have had a change of state associated with a journey of some kind. I thought I'd share with you my latest revelation. The day being fine, and the Aged But Aggravatingly Fit Parent having suggested a walk, I set out in his company to tread the canal towpath to the fair realm of Beestonia. A pleasant seven miles of manic cyclists and shy moorhens brought us to our destination, where two important truths were - by whatever agency best suits your belief-structure - vouchsafed unto me.

Firstly, the Crown is a pub well worth visiting. Crawl there on bleeding stumps if you have to, but go.

Secondly, and on a less worldly plane, I realised that just for once I was prepared to make a leap of faith, demanding no evidence and casting aside petty empiricism.

Yes. I saw his face. Now I'm a believer.

He shoots, he scores... every so often

2010-10-26T21:21:00.009+01:00

I'm not a big football fan. I keep tabs on how County & Forest are doing, if only to help predict whether there's a chance of getting a quiet pint in any pub within a mile of the grounds on a Saturday during the season. But it's not something I'm passionate about. The football, that is. I'm quite passionate about the pint.

But moving on. The lunacy of the economics of football can be quite interesting for a dispassionate Observer. I read today that the young Wayne Rooney has had a terribly hard time negotiating his new contract and has had to go on holiday to Dubai to recover. Poor lad.

I've seen his new weekly pay quoted between £150,000 and £200,000. I do hope Wayne knows which. I mean, at the lower rate you've only got a bit over £21,000 odd a day coming in, and if you were counting on £28,500 plus, you could easily buy a couple of extra pork pies and find yourself short. Or, as Wayne and Coleen are allegedly doing in Dubai, going a bit over-budget by spending £25 on a portion of chicken nuggets and chips or £300 for a Chinese meal.

I'm not having a go at Wayne & Coleen here. I might quietly regret that with that much money they can't find anything more imaginative to do than go to one of the most expensive hotels in the world to do no more than lounge in warm water and eat Chinese. You know what? I can do that at home for a shedload less than £300 - unless I go really overboard on the warm water - and I don't have to pay two grand a night for accommodation on top. I grant you I don't get as much sunshine or waiter service, even when Mrs QO is at her most helpful. But hey, it's their money, not provided by the taxpayer, so good luck to them.

What bemuses me is that he's deemed to be worth that kind of money by his employers. I looked up his career stats. Now as I said earlier, I'm no football fan, so perhaps I'm missing something. But as far as I can see, his overall career stats suggest that he scores one goal in every three matches he plays in. As far as his League performances go, it's a tad better at one goal every two and a half games or so. Does that strike rate warrant a contract worth £10 million (ish) a year? For context, as I read their accounts, Man U carry debt of half a billion pounds. Does that all add up? Comments from anyone wiser in the world of football would be very welcome.

Good times in town - 2

2010-10-18T17:58:00.019+01:00

"You know, QO," said my mother-in-law after reading through my blog over breakfast one day, "the way you go on about it, people could get the impression you're always drinking." I laughed so much I nearly spilled my wine. Surely people couldn't jump to conclusions like that? Not my readers, at any rate. No, I won't even countenance the idea.

Anyway, this weekend was the Robin Hood beer festival. Organised by the local branch of CAMRA, this was the third year it's been held at the Castle, and a splendid venue it is too.

Many of us remember with a certain fondness the rather functional surroundings of the Victoria Baths, where the festival was held for donkeys' years, and how the ramp between canteen and main hall could surprise you and have your mushy peas down your front if you weren't careful. But there's no doubt the Castle is a delightful place to hold the event, and it's given it a real boost. Nottingham has responded with great enthusiasm and great capacity for the ever-increasing volume of beer provided by the good peeps at CAMRA. They're saying that the festival brought together more different beers than anywhere else has managed, which is a real achievement. I saw a figure of over 70,000 pints quoted in the media for last year's consumption, and the festival ran out of beer. So they doubled the beer order for this year. And they ran out of beer. I understand they got through to the end of Saturday night but had only 30 casks still running.

Beer festivals have come quite a long way since I started attending them in around 1980 or so. Lots more women come along, some of them even beardless, and lots of younger people too. I grant you that there's still a certain relaxed informality, shall we say, about the whole affair, and the merchandise on offer probably wouldn't sell huge quantities at Henley.

The festival is a credit to Nottingham CAMRA and indeed to the city in a wider sense; it's starting to appear on the beer enthusiasts' radar and bringing visitors in from quite a way away. It's also true that the ever-increasing reputation of the Castle Rock brewery and its excellent pubs is a draw for both locals and visitors. Their Harvest Pale was named Champion Beer of Britain at this year's Great British Beer Festival (the Big Daddy of UK beer fests) and given the standard of competition, that's a real achievement.

Having attempted to go to the Sunday afternoon festival session, only to find it was cancelled, we sat in the sunshine outside the Canal House and sipped some Castle Rock beer. Chatting to a friend who's also made a study of Nottingham beer for many years, we thought back to the days when Shipstones, Home and Mansfield dominated the pubs in town. They've all gone, of course, which is sad in one way. But the increasing number of excellent local microbreweries has meant a great deal more variety and, I venture to say, much higher quality for the local beer drinker.

I was going to put up this post yesterday but for some reason my six and a half hours at the beerfest on Saturday, plus the Sunday afternoon coda, left me a little distracted, and it's taken till now to gather my thoughts. I'm sure you'll understand.

Good times in town - 1

2010-10-18T17:55:00.004+01:00

Now that's the best offer I had during my trip to Goose Fair.

Now westlin' winds...

2010-10-06T20:17:00.011+01:00

... and slaughterin' guns, bring autumn's pleasant weather, according to Robert Burns. I didn't hear any guns this afternoon but a walk along the Trent and the Grantham Canal certainly provided very pleasant, bright and breezy weather. A glorious afternoon for a few miles along the waterways, in fact, although as ever at this time of year there's a tinge of melancholy at the year's turning. The trees are never so beautiful as when they are on the verge of becoming bare for the winter.

A slightly whimsical train of thought entered my head as I walked along the canal. A day or so ago I was praising the plan to invest heavily in new transport infrastructure for Nottingham - a forward-looking and bold investment in the future. Such was the Grantham Canal in its day - the end of the 18th century. Nearly £120,000 was spent - a very significant sum and one which stretched investors to the limit. However, once opened, the canal provided the fastest way to move goods and people between Nottingham and Grantham and it was a success. For a time.

The autumn of the canal's life was marked by the new-fangled railway, and indeed by 1845 the canal was owned by a railway company. Unsurprisingly, it fell into decline through neglect, and traffic stopped in the 1920s.

Over recent years, a lot of work has been done to make the canal an amenity for walkers and cyclists and a haven for wildlife. There's another post waiting in the wings to do with the short-sighted stupidity which very recently has probably put paid to the dream of re-opening the canal to water traffic, but that's for another day. Today the canal is sleepy, beautiful in a restrained way, and still an asset to the counties it passes through.

But not the asset its creators envisaged. I wonder how our descendants in 200 years' time will view the investments we're making now?

I'll leave you with that thought, and with the song referenced at the start of the post. One of my all-time favourites, performed by the mighty - and evergreen - Dick Gaughan.

Some things are too tempting to be resisted

2010-10-04T20:33:00.006+01:00

But quite apart from my views on red wine, strong coffee and Tabasco, the big temptation for headline writers today has been how to flag up the story that Nottingham railway station is in line for a major refurb without writing "Full steam ahead..."

A couple of artist's impressions. Let's hope the architects are a bit more inspired...

All quite nice, yes, but good value for £60 million? Well, we'll have to see. I'm right behind the development of the station as the public transport hub for the city, I should say, being an enthusiast for getting cars out of the city. Cities are for people, not for cars, and one of the best things about how Nottingham has changed over the nigh-on 40 years I've been wandering around the city has been the steady increase in pedestrian zones. For more on a similar theme, see fellow blogger Alan-a-Dale's story here.

I read that part of the plan for the railway station is a 950-space carpark. A better solution to my mind would be to increase the amount of space dedicated to new retail space and 'public realm' around the site, and encourage people from outside the city to leave their cars at the various park & ride sites on the outskirts - and hopefully that would include the proposed new park & ride at Clifton as part of the tram extension. Let's hope that the funding for that can somehow be ring-fenced.

A promising sign in that regard was today's other big public transport announcement: that the Government want to go ahead with HS2, the high speed rail link between London and the north. The favoured plan is a line from London to Birmingham with two lines then going off to link up with the west and east coast mainlines at Manchester and Leeds respectively. The latter would run through the East Midlands; it would be nice to think it went through our new station, but I suspect it's more likely to be a new station serving the whole region.

Good news, then, and it's encouraging to see capital investment still possible in the age of austerity. While we're at it, could we puh-leeeze make sure any new trains are electric? As we contemplate the run-down of fossil fuels, it's plain embarrassing to be travelling to and from London in diesels.

Not permitted

2010-09-29T16:35:00.008+01:00

Good news reaches the Observatory this afternoon: the proposed residents parking scheme has been scrapped in the face of widespread protest from the neighbourhood. I gather over 90% of residents who responded to the proposal consultation were against, and the County Council will not be pursuing the idea.

Excellent. A complex and expensive solution to a non-existent problem will now not be imposed on people who don't want it.

To celebrate, here's a pic of a part of the area you wouldn't park on anyway.

What is a fair price?

2010-09-26T21:23:00.008+01:00

Warning: more nerdish stuff follows...

Further to the previous post, I've spent more time working on this new Mac getting it to the point where I can actually produce some chargeable work on it, as opposed to just having fun in iTunes and Skype. I must admit I'd taken my eye off the ball in terms of developments in Mac hardware and Adobe software, and it's become sadly evident that I can't install my old copies of Photoshop and Acrobat on the new machine. They plain won't run, no matter what. End of.

OK, both are still available on my old Mac and indeed on the old Powerbook. But it's far more convenient to have everything you need on one machine, isn't it? So let's have a look at whether we can have a word with those nice people at Adobe and upgrade the software.

A few hours are now spent browsing the Adobe store website and various user forums.

OK, forget that. Maybe, as far as Acrobat goes, if I can persuade Adobe to allow a cross-platform upgrade. Yuh-huh, like that's going to be so easy. Given that I'm approaching 50, I haven't got the time left to call Adobe and go through the necessary routine to upgrade my PC version of Acro 6 to Acro 9 for Mac. It could take years and cost thousands of lives. No, we are looking at buying the latest versions. Fair enough, let's see what they cost these days.

Baise-moi. Now, I can remember the days when Adobe were every graphics pro's favourite as they were hungry for business, very cost-effective and much more user-friendly than those psychotic bastards at Quark. Those days would appear to have gone. The full version of Photoshop is around the £600 mark and the full Acrobat is over £500. Jeez.

I think I'll muddle along as best I can using my old machines. And investigate alternatives to Adobe software. For example, Photoshop is acknowledged to be the best photo manipulation software, but how about Gimp?

Having tinkered with this for a couple of hours, it would appear to do everything I need except that it doesn't handle CMYK colourspace. Well, that doesn't matter as much as it did a few years ago. In terms of everything else I regularly do in Photoshop, it's got it sorted. And guess how much it costs? Zip. Nada. It's free. Go read about it here if you're interested.

As for Acrobat, well, Quark's pdf export function is much more sophisticated than it used to be, and at first sight the new version I've got appears to be up to what I will need. If I get pdfs in from clients that need some work, I'll tinker with them on the PC - or send them back to the client with a politely rude note - until such time as the open source community sorts that out as well. The days when you had to spend vast sums of money on software may be drawing to a close. For example, instead of Micro$oft Office, why not try OpenOffice? I can thoroughly recommend it. Yes, it takes a little while to get used to, but then so did MS Office the first time you saw it, and OpenOffice is free too. You know it makes sense.

Right, no more techie nerdspeak for a while, I promise. We return you now to the usual mix of facile commentary and sweeping generalisation. It's what I do best.

Nerdvana

2010-09-24T20:23:00.003+01:00

Now, I've been using technology long enough not to get unduly moist at every new gadget that comes along. I must admit, though, that today's arrival has been very gratifying.

Pretty, isn't she? The new iMac 3.06Ghz Intel Core 2 Duo, 4gig RAM, wireless keyboard and mouse. No tower, everything is packed into the 21.5 inch screen housing. It's all sexy as hell, to be honest. Ooooh, Matron, come and see my new computer...

It was - of course - strictly a business decision. For nigh on seven years I've been meeting clients' needs with a trusty old workhorse of a G4 dual processor, stable as you'd like, never a moment's problem. However, the clients are all starting to get uppity and wanting to upgrade, and if that's the way the business is going, I have to follow. So the new machine was but part of the investment - upgrading of software doesn't come cheap, I can tell you. Fortunately certain monies have been put aside over the years for this moment, so it's been do-able if painful.

I have spent most of the day installing and configuring software, and have several niggles to sort out. And some major bloody aggravations too. Getting Quark and associated graphic and font software up, running and fit for purpose is not the most trivial of tasks. But no matter, doubtless solutions will emerge. Since, however, it's Friday night, I'm not going to do anything further that might be remotely useful, and will goof off by surfing aimlessly and enjoying this ludicrously large screen.

In the north country

2010-09-21T20:40:00.011+01:00

The weekend was taken up by a frustratingly short visit to Mrs QO's esteemed parental units in the high north-west of England. This part of the country is stunningly beautiful, yet rather quiet - so many only make it as far as the Lake District, or stay on the motorway and pass by up into Scotland. The opening up of the Hadrian's Wall walk is bringing a few more people in but thankfully it's not on the mass-tourism trail, and long may that be so.

Some say the north starts at the Trent; some think of the South Yorkshire border as more like it. To my mind - having spent three years up in County Durham and 30 years visiting Cumbria - the north starts at Scotch Corner. Take a left onto the A66 and head up and over the moors...

I've enjoyed driving this road for a quarter-century or so. It's been considerably improved in that time, but not yet completely tamed - they're difficult to see in this pic, but there are still striped poles up by the side of the road to show how deep the snow is. And, of course, where the edge of the road is. This is valuable information, given the rocky drops on either side. This road still bites back in winter.

Having safely reached Penrith, we turn north again on the M6 and half an hour sees us at journey's end. Around here are sights like these.

Thanks to Backpacking in Britain for this one.

Mrs QO's brother and his family live up here. The views more than make up for the lack of mains water, I think. They get red squirrels on the bird-table...

I'm very fond of Nottingham, and we have some quietly beautiful scenery in the county. But if I didn't have to get to London so regularly, I'd really think seriously about being up in the true north for more than a few snatched weekends here and there.

Seasonal adjustment

2010-09-16T20:57:00.005+01:00

Well, that's it for the summer's festivals. The camping kit is stacked in the hallway, waiting for a spare day to do the fettling that should be done before it's all carefully stowed away (OK, brutally and carelessly shoved) into the attic. The central heating has been on. Sweaters are being retrieved from drawers and previously undetected moths being sworn at in foul and intemperate terms. The Stoats Brewery is contemplating putting a winter ale on. Conkers are all over the pavements. No more this year shall we enjoy this sight:

I don't indulge myself, you understand, but you have to admire a pastime which combines fine old English tradition, healthy outdoors exercise, and so much beer. Well, OK then, my libertarian streak admits that you don't have to admire it, but I think you should. Just saying.

So we stand at the threshold of autumn. In fact, the chilly nights in the tent last weekend made us feel as if we were well over the threshold, but as I'm fond of saying: 'It'll get a lot colder yet.' (This saying drives Mrs QO up the wall, for some reason, which obviously enhances its worth as far as I'm concerned.) But I like autumn for all sorts of reasons. The Robin Hood beer festival will soon be upon us, for one thing. Last year's was excellent and Super-Disreputable Friend and his appalling wife will be beating our door down again demanding a bed for the night to sleep off the excess. Autumn's months give much better walking weather than sultry high summer, the rowan tree across the road will be a fiery riot of red, copper and bronze before long, and the bloody wasps are turning their little toes up. The child in me looks forward to Christmas; the blogger in me wonders if I can remember where I got the falling snowflake gadget I loaded on last year. Sod the salads, let's get a slow-cooked casserole on. Hearty food that sticks to the ribs is required.

And Strictly's back. Last year we were utterly determined not to get hooked on this trashy, superficial nonsense. What a waste of time and energy, we said, surely there's something better on BBC2, something enriching about Etruscan pottery?

Further this deponent sayeth not. It is for you, members of the jury, to form your own judgement.

Light and shade

2010-09-08T21:25:00.012+01:00

Noise and silence. Movement and stillness. Drinking and sleep. We humans need contrast, some measure of daily chiaroscuro, to keep us alive and alert. Knowing this, I don't overly resent having to leave the quiet tranquility of my study to travel down to London from time to time. It can be all bustle and business, scampering to keep to time and being hassled by surly train staff, free newspaper distributors and scallies after some change, but the experienced traveller will so arrange his or her affairs as to leave some interludes during which the spiritual batteries can be recharged.

Exempli gratia, this delightfully peaceful scene was photographed this afternoon, not a minute's walk away from the junction of Euston Road and Tottenham Court Road. Tucked away behind vertiginous glass-walled financiers' offices, one can sit with a good pint of Young's, hear virtually none of the traffic and enjoy the sight of a mature horse chestnut surrounded by rowans. How nice is that? Oh, and in case you were wondering, it's the offices that are vertiginous and glass-walled, not the financiers. Some of them are pretty tall, admittedly. The financiers, some of them are tall. Anyway, moving on.

Meandering back to St Pancras - as a Nottingham Observer must if keen to get home - the ants-nest hecticity of the Euston area can be mitigated by a couple of minutes walk down one of the sidestreets to the Somerstown Coffee House. Now coffee is available here, and good coffee at that, but pour moi the attraction of this place is that it's run by French types. They know about good food and wine, and seem to be pretty well up to speed on English beer, too. Charles Wells Bombardier and Eagle IPA are well kept here.

It's a very pleasant place to pass an hour before the train home. Or two hours, if you've been sensible enough to arrange things that way. The only trouble is that one can get so settled that the train home may not be the one you originally intended.

And once safely back in the old home town, another good way of winding down from the buzz of the capital is to walk along the river and back home across the Hook in the late evening sunshine - although as you can see the shadows are already pretty long at 6.30 at this time of year. I might also point out that the Hook is actually level, but your photographer had perhaps been a little too tranquil in the places of rest mentioned above. You won't be able to see her clearly, but somewhere in the pixellated foliage is Mrs QO, foraging for blackberries and elderberries. She has a cunning plan for the fruits of the field thus garnered, of which more anon, perhaps.

It's not often I do this...

2010-09-01T22:42:00.003+01:00

'This' being passing on stuff that arrives in my inbox, but my darkly exquisite sister-in-law sent something to me today that - particularly being short of blogspiration at the moment - I thought I'd share with y'all. OK, it's a bit trite, but it appealed to my old-fashioned values. Such as they are...

An Obituary printed in The Times
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair; and
- Maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his four stepbrothers:

I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realised he was gone.

Must do better, chaps

2010-08-25T22:22:00.003+01:00

Headline from the Evening Post:

Notts Police still missing targets for house burglaries

I find that quite reassuring really. It's bad enough having burglars doing house burglaries without the police joining in.

And with that thought, farewell for another few days, as Mrs QO and I depart to another folk festival. Yes, Super-Disreputable Friend will be there, so there will be much crass and regrettable behaviour, too much drinking, probably a deal of mud and some blurry mornings. Still, nothing that a bacon buttie won't solve.

Some odd decisions

2010-08-21T21:35:00.006+01:00

Superintendent Helen Chamberlain of Nottinghamshire Police (the cool blonde pictured left) was clocked by a fellow officer allegedly doing 79mph on the Epperstone bypass. Story here.

She has pleaded not guilty on the basis that she challenges the accuracy of the speed-gun, and the quality of the signage on the road. Her solicitor has also mentioned the decision to review the case after the event. The story is made more intriguing by the fact that the officer who clocked her and stopped her at the time felt able to deal it with by way of a caution, but an unnamed senior officer disagreed with this, and asked the Crown Prosecution Service to review the decision. They duly charged.

Doing nearly 30mph over the speed limit should see you summonsed to court. At the very least a fixed penalty should have been issued. So there's a questionable decision. But what I find most surprising is that she's now going to run a technical defence - something that frustrates the police when civilian punters try it on. She must surely have known she was driving over the limit. Even if the signage wasn't up to scratch (though I've driven that road plenty of times and have never been in any doubt it's a 50 limit), the limit on two-lane roads is only ever 60 at maximum. Unless the speed-gun was hopelessly inaccurate, it's hard to accept that a competent driver would not have been aware of going over the odds. And we note that there's no suggestion she disputed the roadside caution at the time.

Man up, Superintendent (if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am) and hold your hand up. The honest course of action would have been to enter a guilty plea but then argue that the speed wasn't as high as charged. "OK, I done it, but I didn't do it as bad as what they say", sort of thing. The court would then tailor its sentence depending on the outcome of a 'Newton' hearing to decide whether or not the alleged speed was correct. That would have been fair enough, albeit that a senior police officer would effectively be establishing her own force's technical incompetence, but as things stand it leaves a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth.

Let's see if some beer will help.

Permit me...

2010-08-21T20:12:00.004+01:00

... to apologise (again) for the lack of activity hereabouts. Busy times continue: more enjoyable social engagements and a bit of a work crisis brought on by too much laziness a few weeks ago and a batch of long weekends. And more of the same in the pipeline. Ah well, I hate being bored.

Now, talking of 'permits', one subject on our minds here in Lady Bay is the proposed residents' parking scheme. The County Council sent through some proposals, claiming that in an earlier survey the majority of residents were in favour. I don't recall that earlier survey, and I think I would have, but let that pass. At any rate, they want to bring parking restrictions, Monday to Saturday, 8am to 8pm, with only those cars showing residents' or visitors' permits allowed to park in the parts of our suburban village concerned.

I've lived here for nigh on 20 years, I work from home, and wander round to the shops or the Post Office (or, indeed, the pub) most days, so I venture to suggest that I'm better acquainted with the general state of things than the wonks up at County Hall. Apart from match days - and with all due respect to the Magpies, we only really mean Forest match days - there is no significant parking problem. Everyone round here knows that every other Saturday during the football season, it will be a bit chaotic. But neighbourly arrangements are made; next door knows that if the road is full, they can block in our car, because we know where they live, and they know that if they don't move their car when things have quietened down, then I will torch it, dance up and down outside their window screaming, and stuff the burning remains of their car through their letterbox. Fair enough, everyone happy.

During the week, no problem at all. The Council say that during the week, too many cars from "nearby office workers" use the area. The only "nearby offices" of any size whatsoever are the Council's own offices at Trent Bridge House and County Hall.

To solve this barely-existing problem, which the Council itself is responsible for (to the extent it's a problem at all, which it isn't, and anyway they seem to be getting ready to sack nearly everyone they employ) the Council proposal is that every household (it's not clear what they mean to do about the many multi-tenanted properties hereabouts) will be eligible for a resident's permit, at the cost of £25.

[We interrupt this tirade to award the previous sentence the Worst Sentence Ever Written in a Blog Award. Tickets for the awards ceremony available from all good alcohol rehabilitation clinics.]

Should you be such a social gadabout as to invite a visitor who needs a car to get there, or should you wish a tradesman to be able to park his van outside to work on your house, you will have to purchase a visitor's permit, also at £25. Both kinds of permits will be £25 each year, naturally. If you lose one, or need a new one as you've changed your car, or if a visitor or tradesman forgetfully goes off with yours, it will be... you guessed it... another £25. Ker-ching!

One fellow whinger has worked out that the income for the Council will be of the order of £50,000 per year. Obviously there would be legitimate start-up costs - we'd have to have all kinds of signage, lines painted on the roads, etc etc (all good reasons in themselves to object) but would it amount to £50,000? Would it buggery. And every year after that, it would just be a nice little earner for the Council - and doubtless on top of that there would be goodly revenues from parking infringements.

We are not happy. Mrs QO and I have registered our complaint, and conversations with other local malcontents suggests that a fair number of others have too. We wait to see the outcome.

Well, that was cathartic. If you've read all the way to the end, I thank you for your patience, and reward you with a glimpse of some superb parking technique.

Lo, my children...

2010-08-10T20:20:00.003+01:00

... I am come among you once again. I am sorely conscious of the hiatus or lacuna in my postings over the last week or ten days, but the salve is helping nicely, thanks so much, and I can therefore turn with refreshed intellectual vigour to providing the Observations without which your lives are bereft and hollow, as I'm sure you'd agree if you were sufficiently self-aware.

Life has been full of late. Various friends have invited themselves to stay, and you will doubtless appreciate that anyone calling themselves our friends will require more than the usual provision of food and drink. Especially drink, yes. I am palsied and trembling with the effort of heaving beer, wine and spirits up from the dank cellars of the Observatory to the habitable levels, while the good Mrs QO has been slaving away in the shambles and at the firepit to keep sufficient baked meats arriving at the humble board.

Over and above our self-sacrificing hospitality, we have jointly and severally created a 'princess dress' for a miniature person of our acquaintance, delivered a couple of guitar lessons, baked a birthday cake for the abovesaid miniature person, attended the party at which the cake was presented (I was strictly forbidden to drink or smoke in the presence of the younglings so sat in sullen silence throughout), Quarked a monthly magazine, brewed some ten gallons of beer, visited the excellent Riverside Festival:

and have also done a little breathing and sleeping. And this is meant to be the quiet time of the year...

But this is all good. Some of it was even lucrative, if only just. Catching up with friends is important, and so easily left out of life's hectic schedule if you're not careful.

OK, you'll have gathered by now that I don't have anything of real value to say, but I thought I'd just check in so you know I'm still alive. I know you were worried, bless you.

How camping works

2010-07-27T21:27:00.009+01:00

Following on from our previous instalment, I thought it might be helpful for those who aren't experienced campers - or, indeed, folk festival attendees - to sit at the feet of the master and glean some scraps of wisdom. Mrs QO and I have refined the process over many years and although I cannot pass on certain of the higher arcana in this public forum, it may help the novitiate to have a few discreet pointers.

Packing the car
QO: "Is your bag ready to go? Because it has to go in the middle of the back seat and that's where I'm up to."
Mrs QO: "Nearly, dear. Now, what do you want in your sandwiches?"
QO: "What? Oh... er... ham and mustard, please."
Mrs QO: "We've got some cheese, you know."
QO: "Yes, I know. But you know I always have ham and mustard."
Mrs QO: "If we have ham, yes."
QO: "Erm... yes, so about your bag... because if I can't pack your bag, I can't pack the bedding."
Mrs QO: "Why ever not? The bedding's all ready."
QO: "Yeah, but... the bedding always goes on your bag. You know what? I'll finish the sandwiches if you finish packing your bag."
Mrs QO: "Oh, you can take it if you like. I'll put the other stuff in a carrier bag."
QO: "You're taking two bags? Oh, for... how the hell can I pack the car properly if you take two bags? You never take two bags, we haven't allowed for two bags... I might have to move the washing-up bowl... but that would mean the inner tent going in the boot... and then... oh, God, we'll never get there..."
Mrs QO: "Oh, look... we've run out of mustard. Ooops."

Pitching the tent
QO: "OK, we'll drive round the campsite three or four times just to make sure of getting the right pitch."
Mrs QO: "That's fine, dear. Let me out here, would you? Oh, and pop the tailgate..."
QO: "Let's see. I have my compass here... OK, so that's north. The Met Office say prevailing wind for the weekend will be nor-nor-west, and obviously we want the back of the tent towards the wind."
Mrs QO hums a snatch of Aida to herself as she empties the tent poles onto the ground.
QO: "But of course before making a final decision, we need to check the slope of the ground. Fortunately I have my spirit level with me..."
Mrs QO assembles the frame poles and opens out the canvas.
QO: "And then there's the question of shade... let's see where the trees are, and I'd better check on the BlackBerry to see when sunrise is..."
Mrs QO, with a deft flick, drops the canvas onto the frame.
QO: "I wonder whether we might usefully dowse for any artesian springs that might lead to excessive dampness under the tent?"
Mrs QO, now humming a tune from Gilbert & Sullivan, taps the final pegs into place and rigs the guylines.
QO: "And I'll just Google the local mole population density..."
Mrs QO unfolds her camping chair, sits down, and opens the first of many beers.
QO: "Damn. I meant to look up where the ley lines are round here. Oh well, we'll just have to manage."
Mrs QO: "Want a sandwich, lovey? I think you packed them under the sundial. Ooh, isn't it nice here?"

That's enough classified material for one post, I feel. Moving swiftly on... you may recall I once wrote a post about a new kind of Barbie doll. I can now exclusively reveal yet another variant - surely one that will do superlatively well in the current zeitgeist. (That's French for 'these days', by the way.)

Among our extended camp family - by which I mean the group of friends camping together rather than anything smutty, thank you so much - was a miniature person of indeterminate age (though Mrs QO assures me the young lady in question is nearly four), among whose dearest possessions is a Barbie doll with very long hair.

Super-Disreputable Friend and I could not help noticing that it didn't seem possible to put the doll in question down without its legs splaying. Now, I grant you this is distinctly puerile, and we did get serious Extreme Aunt looks from the womenfolk, but we decided that new Slapper Barbie would be a market winner. See what you think.

Ton up

2010-07-21T20:21:00.006+01:00

It seems that this is my 100th post. Well, don't that beat all... I only started this so as to learn something about blogging so I could help Mrs QO put up a site all about her craft-work, sell shedloads of stuff and make a ton of money. That was the cunning plan; what's happened is that there have been 99 outbursts of mental incontinence here, and Mrs QO's blog has still to see the light of day. Ah well. Such is life, and that's more or less how our plans have worked out for the best part of a decade. Go with the flow, we say, and pour another drink.

Despite the enervating heat, we have managed (between drinks) to get somewhat ready for the first camping trip of the year. This is always a bit of a trial, requiring as it does hauling many tons of equipment from their overwinter storage space and then 'fettling' them into some sort of order. It is at this point that I recall failing to do the planned 'end of camping season' fettling session last autumn, so last year's mud, flat batteries and empty paraffin lamps have to be dealt with. Or maybe not, we're not fussy campers. Fortunately we will be camping on a folk festival site, so food, water, showers etc are all laid on, and there's a fully-stocked town within easy reach. It's not as if we're going to be in Antarctica. There will be good music, good friends, and plenty of time in the meditation suite.

The weather will make its own mind up - at this time of year it could do anything. We are prepared for anything, of course, with drinks to suit all climatic conditions. Thirst-slaking beers for blazing sun, wine for the turn of the day as the sun dips over the treeline, whisky for the slight chill that comes on as Orion wheels overhead, and brandy for when it snows. Or even if it doesn't. Other emergency equipment always to hand includes at least two flavours of Pot Noodle, a guitar and a super-disreputable friend camping next door. (You know who you are.) All contingencies are therefore covered.

I leave you - since we're on the subject of cetaceans - with this wonderful image of a southern right whale trying to hitch a ride on a yacht, to the startlement of all concerned. No whales or humans harmed, though the yacht will need a bit of work, it seems.

No sense of values

2010-07-15T22:28:00.001+01:00

It has come to my attention that some deluded individual has started a Facebook tribute page to the deceased mammal featured in the last Observation.

What is the world coming to?

Doing a job properly

2010-07-15T20:32:00.002+01:00

Two sub-contractors for Hampshire County Council are painting white lines on the A338. There are worse jobs on a nice day - out of doors, plenty of motorists to annoy, nobody to tell you not to light up. But all of a sudden, a problem.

"'Ere, Bert - wossat in the road?"

Bert leans forward and removes his sunglasses.

"Bugger me, Aristide, issa dead summat."
"Well, I can see that, Bert... looks like it might have been a badger."
"Bloody badgers, no road-sense. Worse than cats. Blimey, he's really copped it, 'asn't he?"
"Must have been there for a week by the look of it."

Bert thoughtfully rolls a cigarette.

"Well now, young Aristide, this is a bit of a problem. Can't paint over 'im, now can we?"
"Well, no, but I'll just get me shovel and..."

Bert gives his young colleague a pained look.

"Ho no you won't get your shovel. 'Aven't you learned anything on the job yet? Lines is us, no problem there. We work for a company who works for a company who works for Hampshire County Council, right?"
"Yes, I know all that. But why can't I just..."

Bert raises a magisterial forefinger.

"And Hampshire County Council - and its contractors or subcontractors - is under no circumstances responsible for removing roadkill. That would be New Forest District Council. Different bunch altogether. You've probably seen their boys around... bunch of cheeky buggers they are an'all."

Aristide looks puzzled.

"But... Bert, it'd take two seconds to scoop the bloody thing off the road and heave it into the hedgerow. He's past caring and who's to know?"

Bert shakes his head in mild despair and puts a gnarled hand on Aristide's shoulder.

"Look, lad... I know you weren't brought up with the old idea of demarcation, but this is exactly the same thing. It ain't our job, it's some other bugger's job. Can't go round doing some other bugger's job, where would that end up? We'd be helping stuck motorists, giving directions to people, picking up litter... gawd 'elp us and save 'us, it would be chaos! Besides, and this is what it's all about these days, we 'aven't been trained in the removal of roadkill. Can't do anything what without being trained, surely you know that?"

Aristide scratches his head.

"Can't see much training needed for scooping a couple of pounds of dead badger four feet off the road. I mean, I've been trained on the shovel. Three weeks that took, and a certificate."

Bert looks at him in some surprise.

"Three weeks? Bloody 'ell, they rush you young 'uns through it these days, don't they? But quite apart from that, we 'aven't got a licence. Got to 'ave a licence, obviously. So no, I'm your gaffer on this shift, and we ain't touching it. We'd be sacked on the spot - well, after a couple of weeks' counselling, anyway. We'll just to do the best we can, get back to the depot, fill in the RR27(A)(Mammal)(A-road) and fax it through to those lazy sods at New Forest."

Aristide sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"OK, you're the boss. Still seems daft to me, though."

With a deep sigh and a hat-tip to the BBC.

A bargain missed

2010-07-11T18:28:00.005+01:00

Over many years of nubial contentment, Mrs QO & I have come to an amicable agreement about shopping for clothes. Mrs QO's clothes, that is, since I hate shopping for myself. Once every two or three years I am forced to go out and purchase a shirt or pair of jeans, after which I will spend a couple of days in a darkened room with a cool pint of beer to recover. But it seems that my presence during Mrs QO's retail forays is occasionally welcome, if only to hold the various items that she intends to try on while she fingers the hem of a fifth or sixth garment. I am from time to time invited to voice an opinion on an outfit, though since I once accidentally channeled Gok Wan and shouted "Oh my God, that makes your bangers look amazing, darling!" she tends more often to trust her own judgement.

At any rate, the agreement mentioned above is, briefly, that I will accompany my dear helpmeet on a retail mission on the understanding that for every shop entered, I will consume one pint of beer. Seems reasonable, I'm sure you'll agree. So it was that on this sunny, breezy Sunday, we ventured forth into the city centre to acquire a summer suit.

I was, as usual in emporia dedicated to the shrouding of the female form, standing around like a spare part, when my eye fell on this:

Well, I really don't know where you'd find a better offer than that. Getting known-brand women at a reasonable price - certainly on my budget - has been something of a challenge for years. I've never been able to go so far upmarket as House of Fraser women, but equally anyone with any social conscience has scruples about Primark women these days. Littlewoods women were more suited to the over-50s (and in any case the shop's gone now), Debenhams women were always a bit of a trial to return if they didn't fit, and Waterstone's women are all so earnest and bookish. And we won't even mention Poundland women. Even I have my standards.

So you can imagine my excitement, I'm sure. John Lewis women at roughly the same price as the sadly-departed Woolworths! It was indeed with Woolies in mind that I decided to indulge myself with a little 'Pick & Mix', so while Mrs QO was trying on a ludicrously skimpy top I wandered over to the sales counter and commenced negotiations. I said I was thinking of the ash-blonde lady with the exquisitely-sculptured cheekbones on the Hosiery desk, the bootylicious dusky one on Kitchen Appliances and the studious redhaired goddess of Gardening.

Things were going swimmingly, and only three security guards had arrived, but Mrs QO found me at that point and took me sharply by the ear. I issued several sharp squeaks of protest, but notwithstanding she dragged me to the Lincolnshire Poacher and injected me with several pints of beer. And so passed a golden opportunity.

Ah well. Perhaps there'll be another sale in the autumn.

Good times Friday

2010-07-09T23:48:00.007+01:00

It's hot, it's been a looooong week, and Mrs QO suggested we meet up at the Canalhouse after work. So don't you be expecting anything profound.

Tell you what, let's just enjoy a clip from one of the most moving films of all time, featuring John Belushi in a toga. I think I need say little more. Oh, but for the blues fans out there, see if you can ID the bass player in the band.

He certainly can be strongly persuasive.

That was a hint, by the way. Post your answers in the comments, and you may win a parsnip.

I was going to leave it there, but - nay, damn it, let's have a gratuitous picture of the heroine of Animal House. I give you the luminous Karen Allen.

Simply messing about in boats

2010-07-06T21:15:00.011+01:00

Back from a week of some of this in the Norfolk Broads:

...and I have the bumps, bruises and muscular strains to prove it. Oh, and the liver's taken a bit of a hammering too - yes, even by my (ab)normal standards - but the challenge of being well outside my comfort zone will have done me good, it says here in the life-coach manual. I don't know how many of you have done some sailing, but 20 feet of solid timber boom whipping round at head height is something that isn't part of my everyday life. Another interesting little pastime on Broads yachts - designed to go under bridges - is dropping and raising the mast. The brochures always say this is "simple and safe", but frankly they're lying through their teeth. The theory for dropping the mast says you undo the 'gate' that locks it upright, push gently against the mast with one person on the ropes and pulleys at the bow (or pointy) end of the boat, and another person will be at the stern (non-pointy) end ready to "guide" the mast into the crutches - basically a pair of wooden scissors in which the mast sits when down. The reality is that you undo the gate, and the mast then refuses to go anywhere. You apply unscientific violence and much abuse, and eventually the mast comes down far too fast and one runs the risk of being hammered through the deck of the yacht like a human nail. Bad form, I'm led to believe.

It is at this point that one wipes one's forehead, lights a cigarette, and lolls limply for a few moments thinking about life's sweetness and how you never told so-and-so that you loved them.

Having got the yacht under the bridge, one must - as night follows day - get the mast back up again. By a strange quirk of physics, the mast now weighs some 50% more, and even with the help of the pulleys it feels like one is attempting to raise the whole of Norfolk to the vertical. A later diagnosis from a technical adept suggested - and you'll have to pardon the jargon here - that "well, you 'adn't slackened off the topper-lifts so you 'ad the weight of the boom and gaff an' all." Well, one lives and learns, if lucky. Eventually the several thousand tons of timber is more or less pointing uppards, and one brave soul is told by the skipper to "jump down into the tabernacle and close the gate". What this means is that one gets down into a little hole, right by the currently unsecured counter-weighted end of the mast, and locks it into position. The question that goes through one's mind - should one be of any imagination whatsoever - is what happens at that point if one's crewmate should let go of the rope temporarily holding the mast upright before the gate is locked? I put this question to my more experienced colleagues one evening and was referred to the principle of the mediaeval trebuchet. If lucky, you'd come to ground in the water (so to speak) rather than on terra all-too-firma or somebody's else's boat.

All of this excitement is before one even raises a scrap of sail, which is when things get really interesting. But it's all good fun, and I can recommend it to anyone who's life has got too comfy of late.

Do, however, make sure your affairs are in order before you go. I'm just saying.

Excellent news

2010-06-25T00:01:00.005+01:00

Anyone need any of the following: healings and awakenings, a cure for cancer, a raising of Chi or Om Energy beyond comparison and awakening of the soul to its highest potential? I know I need my Om Energy boosting. Fortunately, recent Observation has revealed the answer: Shekina.

It's changed my life. Now, some of you may be wondering how Shekina can do all that, over and above being quite cute. Here's the answer and, like, it must be true, cos it's on her website:

What is So Unique About Shekina, Harmonic Vocalist?
Shekina is a Harmonic Vocalist, and what is so unique about her sound transmissions is she is a direct voice messenger for Mother Goddess of Creation and the Blue Ray. Shekina has never sung before, not even for karaoke.

"... not even for karaoke." Well, that closes it out for me. And how exciting to think that, since I've never sung for karaoke, I might be a Father God of Creation and the Blue Ray too. How cool is that?

Om.

Random thoughts

2010-06-24T22:18:00.006+01:00

A busy week, partly because I shall be away next week - so apologies in advance to the few deluded souls who read this nonsense. We can all comfort ourselves with the thought that the French are out of the World Cup, and England are still in, and that means life can't be entirely bad.

No carefully thought-out post tonight - so situation normal, then - but here's something I've been meaning to post for a while. Holders of the Prince 2 qualification, look away now:

Click to enlarge (for those of you not used to driving on the internet)

And now a thought courtesy of this week's Private Eye:

Number Crunching
11 People killed in accident on oil rig leased by British company BP, resulting in four presidential visits, a $1.6 billion clean-up and the establishment of $20 billion compensation fund in two months.

15,000+ People killed in accident at Bhopal plant owned by American company Union Carbide, resulting in 0 presidential visits, no clean-up and $470 million compensation in 25 years.

Ouch.

On a lighter note, a 'compare and contrast' exercise. One picture depicts national support at the World Cup from England, the other from the Netherlands.

Oddly enough, it wasn't the English that were thrown out of the stadium, just for once. These days it's all about the sponsorship. Hey ho.

Live long and prosper.

Lord, what fools these mortals be

2010-06-21T22:13:00.008+01:00

It seems no more than a couple of pints ago that I noted the winter solstice, and here we are at the summer one. Who - as they say - knows where the time goes?

I've only seen Stonehenge once, and that wasn't under the best of circumstances, stuck as we were in a traffic jam on the A303 caused by people slowing down to look at Stonehenge. Mrs QO, who was driving and therefore waiting for her first drink, said something quite unrepeatable. But one day I'd like to go back and have a proper look. It's a shame that the plans for improving the site have had to be axed but it's been around quite a while, so I expect it'll still be there when things pick up.

And we can of course still celebrate it in song. I leave you with Spinal Tap. Nobody does it better.

Self sufficiency

2010-06-18T21:28:00.014+01:00

"I am a firm believer in the people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet any national crisis. The great point is to bring them the real facts, and beer."
-Abraham Lincoln

Long ago and far away, O best beloved, there were three young males at university. Blessed with more time than money, and more money than sense, they decided that during the odd four or five days a week they weren't studying, they would make beer. A relatively modest capital investment was made in bins, barrels, demijohns and such, as well as various plastic impedimenta like long spoons, buckets, syphon tubes and what-have-you. Such was their youthful energy that between them they were soon turning round 120 pints a week. The Rocksoff Brewery soon became rather well-known among the beer cognoscenti of their colleges, and legendary were the end-of-term parties when the accumulated termly surplus was disposed of in the best possible way. Back in the day, our beardless youths estimated the cost of a pint of Rocksoff Best at 10p (compared with a pint of electric soup from the subsidised college bar at around 50p), and the brewery mission statement was "Pissed for a Pound". This, unlike most corporate mission statements, was not only entirely accurate but if anything a slight understatement.

Moving forward some - dear Lord - 28 years, Mrs QO and I (erstwhile stakeholders in the Rocksoff Brewery as well as long-standing CAMRA members) recently became a little tired of handing so much tax to the Guvmint for each pint of beer we consume, and so decided to delve into the depths of the cellar and see what brewery kit we still had to hand. Quite a bit, even if a lot of cobwebs had to be blown off.

My excellent father - never one to miss an opportunity for a canny investment, or indeed a pint - offered to put some capital into the new venture, dividends to be paid in liquid assets. With such financial backing, it was not long before the new Stoats Brewery (we like mustelids) was launched and the sweet scent of malt liquor was in the air here at the Observatory. This 110-year old house is in many ways ideal for brewing. The bathroom upstairs is where the boiler lives, so is constantly warm and therefore perfect for the primary fermentation. The hallway is at a good temperature for secondary fermentation for the 48 hours or so required, and then it's down into the cellar to condition and clear in cool darkness.

Here we see a barrel of Stoats Summer Ale conditioning, and a half-pint drawn off tonight suggests it's nearly ready. This is a light, golden bitter which we plan to make even more summery by adding more hops to the mash. Purists may be disappointed to note the CO2 dispenser on top of the barrel, but purists can, frankly, go and boil their bottoms. It's only to keep a blanket of gas on top of the beer to prevent oxidation, not to force excess gas into the beer. And yes, that is a case of Grolsch - but hey, sometimes you really want a cold one from the fridge. And we're going to be using the bottles to put some real beer in.

The cellarage - a bit low on stocks at the moment, but that's partly because we've had a Canadian around. Fortunately, there's another batch in secondary fermentation in the hallway. This is our way of welcoming visitors to the house.

And tomorrow night these little puppies can go downstairs to mature.

But what is it like, I hear you enquire? Well, not bad at all. There is - to the discerning palate - a certain 'homebrew' flavour to do with using malt extract, but it's one that you can get used to quite quickly. We estimate that today we're brewing at around 3.8 ABV for about 25p a pint, and by my calculations less than 4p goes to the Treasury by way of tax. Is that not a result? There is of course a labour element - roughly three hours per brew of 40 pints - but one can listen to the radio and drink beer while carrying out the duties. It could be worse.

And the end product? Well, you're welcome to come round and try. Here's what it looks like - note the well-conditioned natural head and clarity, he said modestly. And do treasure this shot as a particular rarity - the glass is full.

I leave you with this gem of philosophy.

"Well ya see, Norm, it's like this... A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers."
-Cliff Clavin, of Cheers

Back at the BP press conference

2010-06-14T22:32:00.007+01:00

Chaotic scenes again today at the latest BP press conference. The newly-appointed chief media officer, Ms Lulu Mortenson, paid tribute to her predecessor Bernard Hofsnider whom she described as "A wonderful human being now pursuing exciting new opportunities," before going on to hotly deny that BP had in any way tried to influence the result of Saturday's World Cup match between England and the USA.

"OK, we have to accept that in many ways a draw was the right result for us here at BP, aware of tensions between the two countries right now. But there is absolutely no truth in the rumours that we hosed down anyone with money to ensure that America got a good result and had nothing new to whinge about, apart from, like, you know, the whole of the Gulf of Mexico and all those oily penguins. I don't know much about English soccer, but I've been briefed that the England team are quite capable of being crap all on their own."

British journalists at the press conference were seen to nod ruefully at this comment, but proceedings were then disrupted from the back of the room when Mr Bernard Hofsnider burst in wearing a Marty's Bar T-shirt and waving a bottle of 'Crazy Dog Detroit Bourbon'. He was heard to shout:

"What a crock! Those guys were told weeks ago!! OK, we never paid Robert Green cuz we never thought they'd be dumb enough to pick him, but Jeez Louise, the others were told three-nil to the US of A. Sheeit. Guess we shoulda post-dated the cheques..."

At this point Mr Hofsnider was tazered repeatedly by security guards, and is now said to be "resting". Ms Mortenson issued a press release later categorically denying everything, whether or not anyone was saying it.

An apologetic Observation

2010-06-11T22:36:00.004+01:00

I note with some chagrin that it is over a week since I last updated this corner of the blogosphere (and we pause for a moment to sip some of this Rioja and ponder whether any kind of sphere can have a corner). A combination of Canadian flu and a heavy workload have left little time and energy over the last week, though things would appear to be settling down again.

To London today for a client meeting. Several questions arose:

1. Why can London pubs not serve beer in a proper fashion? Warm, flat and overpriced is not the way to go, chaps. (I should say this is not mere Midlander prejudice; I took care to acquire a substantial body of evidence.)
2. Just how difficult is it - in a major capital city - to keep public 'conveniences' stocked with paper and to equip them with hand dryers that will, you know, work?
3. What part of the 'quiet zone - please do not use mobiles' stickers on Carriage A of East Midlands Trains services to London is so tricky for some people to understand? 'Tis a sad indictment on our education system, I fear.
4. Talking of mobiles, can we not have a new law (and I never ask for new laws lightly) against 'walking on a public thoroughfare while looking intently at one's mobile and therefore being a complete menace to one's fellow pedestrians'? A level 5 fine (£5,000) or six months would be appropriate, I feel. I do however have hopes that eventually sufficient of them will just walk into traffic while texting and Darwinian selection will weed out the tendency to be such a numpty.
5. Talking of traffic, why would anyone with half a brain drive in London? I swear the cars I saw stuck in gridlock outside St Pancras at 10.20 were still there at 18.30.
6. Would anybody mind if I killed the very next person that tripped me up with one of those stupid little suitcases that half the world seem to tow around behind them in London? You know, the ones they have to stop and tinker with immediately after getting off a Tube train or right at the top of the escalator, so that you can't help bump into them? No, I thought not. Thanks so much. I'm proposing to hurl them under the next northbound Victoria Line service, but if you have other suggestions I'd be glad to have them.

This is a grumpy old Observer signing off. It's been a long day.

Nature notes

2010-06-02T22:39:00.006+01:00

[We would like to assure readers that here at The Quizzical Observer we see no need to resort to cheap and tacky totty-shots to bring in extra traffic. Any pictures posted will be of strict relevance to our material. We now return you to tonight's latest post.]

Assiduous readers will recall the posting about swifts a little while ago, and the QO has been much concerned that the numbers of birds seen has been terribly low - our local colony seemingly amounting to only three individuals.

It is therefore a great relief to note that Springwatch tonight reported that there is a reason for this: the Icelandic volcano eruption has left hundreds of thousands of swifts stranded in southern Europe, having to slowly make their way north on over-burdened public transport. It is expected that very soon the number of swifts in UK skies will be back to normal.

Kate Humble, one of the Springwatch presenters. The show charts the progress of the rampant mating habits of many creatures at this time of year.

At the latest BP press conference

2010-06-02T20:40:00.003+01:00

There were chaotic scenes earlier today as the chief BP media officer, Mr Bernard Hofsnider, apparently suffered some kind of breakdown while delivering the daily briefing to representatives of the world press.

A reporter from the Daily Gripe, of Pigsknuckle, Arkansas, asked what the latest plans were to cap the leak, currently estimated at some 12,000 barrels a day. Mr Hofsnider responded:

"We are currently attempting to pump some 30,000 barrels of heavy materials through the blow-out preventer into the well-head..."

At this point Mr Hofsnider paused, crumpled up his notes and swept them off his lectern.

"You know what, guys? We're shit out of plans. We're fucked. You want an honest answer? We have no fucking idea what to do next. It's 5,000 feet down, it's flowing out faster than shit through a goose, we can see damn-all and everybody - but everybody - in the whole goddamn world is bitching and moaning at us, from the President of the United States to the secretary of the Accrington Stanley Supporters Club."

Mr Hofsnider scratched his head.

"Does anyone here know who the fuck Accrington Stanley is? Or what he's in prison for? Anyway, moving on. We do in fact have three planning teams working twenny-four seven on possible solutions."

"Team A is calling the BBC in London, England, asking for Dr Who's cellphone number. We're hoping we can lease the Tardis to take our contract managers back in time to before they signed up with those shit-for-brains sub-contractors. Team B is lighting incense and preparing to sacrifice a few of those contract managers to Kali, the Hindu devil Goddess, to pray for intercession. Team C is beaming messages into space hoping that Thunderbird 5 will pick 'em up and get International Rescue here. I hope you'd agree that's a pretty comprehensive package of total desperation, ladies and gentlemen of the press. Any of you got any good ideas?"

There was a short silence before a correspondent for the Telford Advertiser enquired whether Mr Hofsnider was aware that BP's share price was dropping rapidly.

"No shit?" said Mr Hofsnider. "Well, don't that beat all. We kinda thought investors would approve of us rendering the entire Gulf of Mexico unfit for life and fucking up the Gulf Stream. Guess you can't please all of the people all of the time. And hey, you Brits had better get used to weather like Labrador. You might wanna suggest to your councillors they buy more salt in for next year. Any other stupid fucking questions? No, cancel that, cuz you know what? I quit. I'm heading down to Marty's Bar to drink myself comatose on cheap whiskey."

Mr Hofsnider was said by BP to be "resting", and that a further press release would be forthcoming as soon as they'd heard back from Dr Who.

You know it makes sense

2010-05-29T18:51:00.008+01:00

Ms Deirdre Voletreader, a spokesperson for Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs (HMRC), today announced a new tax at a packed press conference.

"We acknowledge that times are hard, and that ordinary hard-working families are finding it increasingly difficult to make ends meet. The last thing that they need is gobby numpties talking nonsense, and that's why today we are announcing the implementation of Publicly Ridiculed Announcement Tax (PRAT)."

"For too long politicians, sportspeople and alleged entertainers have been free to say stupid things regardless of the irritation caused to ordinary hard-working families, but the new PRAT regime will ensure that they pay a fair contribution to the nation for sounding off like brain-dead muppets."

"Each moronic announcement leading to public ridicule, exasperation or irritation will render the person concerned liable to PRAT at a flat rate of £5 per utterance. We at HMRC have striven to make this tax as simple as possible to administer, and we are proud to announce that the detailed regulations, exemptions and sample self-assessment working sheets have been condensed to a paltry 247 pages."

"Our systems are extremely sophisticated and track broadcast material, blogs, Tweets, newspaper columns and appearances on Question Time. Special arrangements will be possible for those particularly liable to PRAT, and as an example I can announce that Jonathan Ross has agreed to make a one-off payment of £5,000 per annum to cover all his liabilities over the year."

In answer to a question from the floor, Ms Voletreader confirmed that there would be no Parliamentary privilege.

"You can hear and see MPs on the Parliament Channel, so we don't see why they shouldn't pay. Equally there will be no Crown exemption, except when Her Majesty is reading a speech written by politicians, in which case the originators will face PRAT liability. We are in discussions with the Duchy of Cornwall and agents for the Duchess of York, and expect to be able to announce PRAT revenues sufficient to completely regenerate Wolverhampton."

In response to a question from the floor, Ms Voletreader confirmed that Wolverhampton had in fact already been regenerated, "but nobody noticed."

Another journalist enquired how the system would work in practice. Ms Voletreader said crisply that HMRC needed no practice in applying tax.

Ms Voletreader added that the new PRAT tax would not be retrospective. "We would have liked to have reclaimed previous PRAT liabilities, but we acknowledge that 90% of our current Members of Parliament would thereby be rendered bankrupt. This was felt to be no bad thing per se, but administratively questionable given the current political situation. The point will be open to review."

Mr David Blunkett said that all this was an outrage, as was the cancellation of the national Identity Card scheme that he had nurtured for years. He said that he was minded to sue the Government for the £30 that he had paid for his card. Ms Voletreader said in reply that Mr Blunkett was entitled to his opinion, but that he also now owed the taxpayer £5.

As regarded foreigners making dumb announcements in the UK, Ms Voletreader announced that HMRC regarded all foreigners as "regrettable" and also that HMRC saw no reason why they should not be liable to PRAT as a condition of entry to the country. "Consider Ms Britney Spears," said Ms Voletreader, "We have her on record as once saying: 'The cool thing about being famous is traveling. I have always wanted to travel across seas, like to Canada and stuff.' Surely that is worth £5 to the British taxpayer? Like, why should we have to listen to this stuff from foreigners, innit?"

A journalist from the Guardian said he was outraged, and that PRAT was a tax on free speech. Ms Voletreader said that speech was still free, but that "talking like a knobhead in public is a privilege, not a right." She added that HMRC would like a word with Polly Toynbee.

Following the press conference, and for the first time ever, Mr Lembit Opik said he had no comment.

Medical advice

2010-05-28T23:56:00.004+01:00

Some residents of the East Midlands are reporting worrying symptoms following the arrival in the area of a Canadian singer-songwriter.

Said concerned blogger Mr QO: "I was fine until Monday and then this burly Canadian arrived and produced a bottle of Bunnahabhain whisky from his rucksack. Ever since then I've had difficulty getting to bed, and in the mornings I've had these strange feelings of intense dryness of the mucus membranes, a blinding headache, and a marked disinclination to work of any kind. I've not been able to keep up my blog. It's disgraceful and I blame the lax attitude towards immigrant workers shown by successive governments."

We spoke to a local woman who wished to remain anonymous but after a few drinks said we could refer to her as "Mrs QO". Said the equally concerned resident: "Get a grip, you drunken prat."

Neither Mr QO nor Mrs QO were paid for their interviews, but both asked where they'd put their drinks down.

Despair

2010-05-25T00:14:00.011+01:00

I struggle to be enthusiastic about the 2012 Olympics. I want to be proud of what Britain can achieve, but can't help thinking about how the original budget managed to forget about VAT, causing a bit of a dent in the sums. Not an auspicious start, and things didn't get better as the optimistic estimates of sponsor income rapidly deep-sixed. And the logo was launched to almost universal derision, some of it in rather poor taste. Don't, whatever you do, follow all the links here at El Reg. It will only depress you.

But there you go, at least the building is mostly on schedule, which just goes to show that not every time you throw billions of public money at something it's all wasted.

However, tonight I saw the 'mascots' for the first time. Why an international sporting festival for adults requires mascots I'm not clear, but I'm given to understand that today's spectators can't watch sport without some twat in a kids' fancy dress party costume mollocking up and down at the edge of the playing area, so we have to have one. Or two, since it's the Olympics.

So let's welcome the official mascots for 2012.

Oh, dear Lord. These two apparitions are 'Wenlock' and 'Mandeville'. They have their own blog and everything, and you can see a terribly moving account of their origin on the official site. When I say 'moving' I'd like you to do some word association with 'bowels', and would suggest that you don't watch that video if you're feeling at all queasy to start with.

What demented mongtards were responsible for this infantile lunacy? Can we not have them thrown off Beachy Head within 48 hours? I quote MSN News: "London 2012 said it cost 'a few thousand pounds' to create the designs but would not release a figure." A few thousand pounds is terrifying enough, since your average pot-plant could have come up with a better design for no more than a few drops of water and a kind word from Prince Charles, but the fact that they won't release a figure suggests to me that they dare not release the true and much higher cost.

I'm not sure whether it's just a cruelly apposite coincidence, or a fiendishly clever ironical statement, but the single eye of each mascot is, apparently, a camera: "capturing everything I see as I go..."

How apt. Whatever happens in the Olympics gold medal tables, the UK is already assured of one particular success. We are the most CCTV-observed nation in the world.

Makes you proud.

Change management

2010-05-24T21:48:00.019+01:00

Today's budget cuts are going to be painful in the public sector, yet represent less than 1% of annual Government spending. There are two opposing realities: we cannot afford to keep on borrowing money to provide public services; and the private sector is terribly dependent on revenues from supplying goods and services to the public sector and its staff, who are after all tax-paying consumers.

It's all terribly confusing for someone like me who's most comfortable discussing the merits of different generations of Star Trek, or whether Windy Miller was so called because of his love of home-brew.

(The Prosecution rests. Your witness.)

However, I will make so bold as to suggest a couple of useful strategies that might help guide us through the process of reducing our economic reliance on State borrowing.

Firstly, let's try and avoid publicly-funded social engineering. My example here is from my old friends Barking and Dagenham, who are now looking for a Group Manager, Community Cohesion, but sadly can only offer a rather stingy £47,907-£51,741. Times are indeed hard. The appointee will "head up a dedicated team of Community Development and Equalities and Diversity Officers" and the role will be "more than just policy and commissioning, it's about influencing key stakeholders and developing innovative solutions to a unique set of challenges."

Now, I freely admit I've been blogging too much on this cheap-shot gig of quoting Guardian public-sector jobs, and as soon as I've quit smoking and drinking too much, I will desist, I promise. But since I've already cut and pasted the above in, we might as well poke some fun at it, don't you think?

But seriously, folks, the last sentence in this job advert seemed a little spooky to me: "What's certain is that you have a practical understanding of the importance of bringing people closer together; no matter who they are, or what they might believe."

Even if, let's say, they're quite happy being quiet peaceful recluses who believe that they're quite happy being peacefully reclusive? Or, let's say again, if they're middle-aged Moslems who'd prefer to spend their leisure time with middle-aged Moslems rather than teenage African-Caribbeans?

We all have our own notion of a perfect society; but I very much doubt that we can afford to spend hundreds of thousands of pounds of public money (in this one London borough alone) on trying to force one version of it into existence. Social engineering is littered with catastrophe, and depending on your political stance you could think about Le Corbusier's high-rise towers, comprehensive schools, Thatcher selling off council housing or the rampant crime and poverty in the collapsed former Communist states. What inevitably happens is those who can afford to escape the imposed system do so, and those who can't are left to suffer in the wreckage, worse off than they were before. This is stupid at any time, and even more so when we will struggle to keep meals arriving with the house-bound elderly and disabled.

Secondly, let's not have the public sector do what the private sector should be doing. This isn't all about the PFI debate, it goes right down to tiny things. I used to be in the print industry. It was well known that January to March was the time to really sniff round the local authorities for print jobs, as about that time of year they would be desperate to use up any unspent budget lest they 'lose' it come the next funding round. One job I saw going through was a rather nicely produced booklet of walks using the county's rights of way, published by the county's rights of way department, oddly enough. All very worthy, and I am myself a great enthusiast for rambling the county's rights of way, some of which are very ancient and beautiful. But a quick peek at the shelves of WH Smith or Waterstones will show that such guidebooks are already out there - and will be losing business because of the freebie version being distributed from County Hall.

Now, from the private sector printer's point of view, it doesn't really matter who places the order and pays for it, but from the wider view, it would be better for the entrepreneurial publisher to do it and make enough money to employ a couple of ex-rights of way officers from the county council (which would still leave them plenty) to generate more books. A tiny example, as I said, but a transfer of the generation of economic activity from the public sector to the private sector.

To sum up. This post has been way too long and rambling (heh! see what I did there?) but can be boiled down to:

Oy! Public sector: don't attempt the bleeding impossible, and don't try and do what the private sector can do perfectly well.

Having gone for a top-up of home-brew and re-read my masterly change management analysis, I'm very tempted to apply to the London Borough of Havering, who are seeking four 'transformation programme managers', each on up to £77,000. They need me, I feel sure, and having avidly watched the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer cycle, I think "evidence of strong stakeholder management skills" will be no problem. But would £77,000 compensate me for living in Romford?

Uh... no. I've been there.

Further thought needed, I suggest

2010-05-21T18:25:00.004+01:00

Now, apart from an occasionally regrettable media moment, David Milibanana strikes me as quite an able man, he's young and personable enough to cut it in today's image-obsessed politics, he's held down the job of Foreign Secretary without starting any (new) wars - Labour could do worse.

Whoever it is, though, will have a real job on their hands. DM said in a leadership speech:

"New Labour isn't new any more. What I'm interested in is next Labour."

Next Labour?

I'd suggest the first thing Labour need to do is sort out who they are and when they're going to be who they think and say they are. At the moment, nobody seems too sure. Some are calling for a full reverse of the New Labour thinking, and are presumably forgetting that until Kinnock started the modernising work that Blair continued, the party was unelectable for years. Clause IV, anyone?

Ah well, it will be interesting to see.

Have a good weekend, I'm off to meet some of the rare people who drink as much as I do.

Personalisation

2010-05-19T23:45:00.006+01:00

An interesting word, and one which I've seen popping up in those strange job ads in the public sector recently. I've no idea what it means, so naturally I turned to Google (my friend). I saw a link to the Department of Health. They deal with persons, I thought, let's go and have a look there.

Error 404: Error page

We are sorry but the page you are looking for cannot be found. It may have been removed, had its name changed or be temporarily unavailable.

OK. Presumably the definition is being reworked due to the new administration. I can see that.

Meanwhile, though, experts in personalisation - old stylee, we must assume - are still much in demand, at least in Barking & Dagenham:

Group Manager - Commissioning
"In Barking & Dagenham, personalisation has seen a major shift in the way we deliver choice and control through excellent social care services.

We need creative energetic people to join our team, who share our passion and vision for personalisation and have the hands on experience to make this a reality for local residents.

The Group Manager for Commissioning will have a key role in developing a range of good quality, safe and affordable opportunities, experiences and services which enable local residents to lead independent lives through a variety of commissioning, stimulation and development methods, in partnership with key agencies and stakeholders and other public sector commissioners.

If you have experience of commissioning or directly managing the delivery of health or social care / support/housing services, including procurement, and have an understanding of the role of care and support services in the context of Personalisation, we’d like to hear from you."

Thank you, a well-deserved round of applause. Who could not admire the way they got all the essentials in there: 'creative... passion and vision... personalisation... make this a reality...' and all in the first paragraph. Some would have thought it quite a daring risk to leave 'stakeholders' as late as paragraph three, and 'delivery' down in the poor-rent paragraph four. The boldness of that decision leaves us breathless, and must surely have involved countless meetings, consultation, flag-flying tests and deep-diving.

All that said, what does it mean? Any ideas? Is it like 'Total Place', another phrase which keeps popping up in local guvmint jobs and which presumably means something to somebody? I have to say it means sod-all to this local guvmint voter.

Admittedly, I'm a small sample. They always said it would stunt my growth.

A ddarleno ystyried*

2010-05-17T20:31:00.007+01:00

While cruising the blogosphere over the weekend, I noticed an post pointing out that the Wales Women's National Coalition had lost its 'core funding' from public funds - amounting to a little under £100,000 over the next year. The blogger, 'Valleys Mam', says she is a "believer in social justice" so can hardly be said to be a rabid Tory determined to trash all public expenditure, but she evidently has doubts over whether public funding of the WWNC - which has been going on some years - is a good thing.

I won't comment in the particular case of the WWNC as I know nothing in detail of the work they've been doing. But I'm sure that more and more organisations like this - not really at the 'front line' but an umbrella organisation for those who are - will find public funding terribly hard to find in the future. 'Nice to have, but we'll have to manage without it', will be the watchword. 'You'll have to look after yourselves'.

Talking of 'looking after yourselves', before WW2, in the border country between Wales and England, a Miss Morgan was born. One of her earliest memories was of her drunken, knife-waving father threatening her mother. Fortunately - from one point of view - he soon disappeared, leaving wife and small daughter behind. Miss Morgan never saw him again. Dysfunctional families are nothing new, nor are they confined to the inner city. Her mother married again as soon as possible - there weren't many other options open. Her new husband, a farm labourer, didn't like children, so Miss Morgan was packed off to an aunt, a kind woman, but of no great means herself. Miss Morgan did well enough in her 11+ to go to grammar school, but the family couldn't afford the uniform, so that was that. At 16, Miss Morgan left school and left home to make her own way in life, all her belongings in a single suitcase.

Life as a till-girl at Marks wasn't very glamorous, her flat was tiny and shabby and rationing was still in. Things brightened up a little when, on one her rare nights out at a dance, she met a young man from the south coast who happened to be stationed nearby on National Service. Well, briefly he was stationed nearby...

Long story short: after a long-distance courtship involving thousands of miles of rail travel, they married. A tiny flat in Portsmouth was the first home. Following a job, her husband then took her to Lincoln, and they both had to check a map to find out where on earth that was, but the job - coming as it did with a cheap-rent terraced house - was too good to miss, as they could save towards a place of their own. The house didn't have double-glazing or central heating, but then very few did.

Fast forward again: the former Miss Morgan and her husband gradually became better-off, more comfortable, lived in their own home. Her husband had also left school at 16; nobody thought he was worth anything, but it turned out that he was just short-sighted and could never properly see book or blackboard. He was hard-working and able and 'got on', as they say. They had children.

Despite the better circumstances, the former Miss Morgan never lost some of the insecurities of her childhood. She was 'self-sufficient', 'stepped lightly on the earth' and 'recycled' long before those concepts were commonplace, as deep-down she was never entirely sure that she wouldn't have to leave home again, with all her belongings in a single suitcase. She never lost the idea that you had to look after yourself, waste nothing, treat everything as a bit of a bonus. Because nobody gave you anything, you had to work for it, look after it, make do. Family first, always. Whatever else you cut back on, you keep the roof over your head. Anyone who needs help, through no fault of their own, you help and expect nothing in return. Don't take anything for granted.

She had no time and little comfort for those who had put themselves where they were and complained about the results. 'Your bed, you lie in it - or get on,' was her philosophy in those cases.

Her children are somewhat different, of course. Comfortably off from birth - even if two of them remember the house with no double glazing or central heating - they're far more 'socially aware', inclined to have a much wider definition of 'no fault of their own', not at all inclined to read the Daily Mail. They're very different in some aspects of their lifestyles and their aspirations. But all of them have worked continuously since leaving education (and are grateful they've been able to), none has been convicted of a criminal offence, all give to charity, all believe in taking responsibility for where your life-choices have taken you.

I'm sure some reading this will think: "Oh god, what a crock of romanticised, sub-standard Keith Waterhouse 'working class makes good' nonsense." Think what you will, I'm not being didactic here, just telling a story. What I will say is I suspect Miss Morgan's model - the model of expecting nothing from anyone else and cheerfully working bloody hard for anything you want - is likely to be an increasingly useful one.

So, with due deference to the Wales Women's National Coalition, I'm with Valleys Mam.

* Let him who reads reflect