Pointless Tweet of the Day

 I make very little use of Twitter. I mainly follow my local football club and a few individuals whose tweets interest or amuse me. But I have been on the system for about 15 years, long enough, one might think, for Twitter to have some idea about the sort of adverts that might attract my attention. 

No, of course not. They haven't got a clue. This is what turned up in my feed today,

I suppose, given the mention of "pharma" that GSK might be GlaxoSmithKline. But then again, who knows? They haven't bothered to actually put their proper name (even though there was plenty of room) and I'm not going to waste my time clicking on their twitter hash, cunningly named @GSK (and therefore telling me nothing additional by way of help).  I am trying to feel a frisson of vicarious excitement that they have won some sort of award but I have no idea what ESG means and I don't know what putting the # in front does, either. 

 I have no idea who or what DJSI is (but I have a horrible feeling it may be the Disc Jockeys' Social Institution, a ghastly club where middle-aged men pretend to like the music that appeals to 13-year olds and who are unable to listen to anything longer than 3 minutes without interrupting with a "dedication" or a "motoring update"). No award that these parasites issue is worth anything.

Anyway, hearty congratulations go to @SPGlobal, apparently and no, I don't know who they are and what their connection is to the DJs or to the pharma industry or to GSK.

And now you are undoubtedly thinking to yourselves "Did he click on the link in order to learn more?". No. I did not. I would, in fact, be happy to learn less. I do not need to know who has the leading score in the pharma industry, whether judged on ESG (sorry, #ESG) or not. And really, Twitter, you should bleedin' well know that by now.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of, Your Grace

 

Source: The Guardian

A wooden bird. Worth a fortune to those in the know. Royal connections and skull-duggery. I think we have here what is known as a prequel.....

 *&*&*&*&*&

My manservant coughed discreetly as he let her into the cheap room that I rented in a cheap alley near Cheapside.

"A lady to see you, sir"

What sort of lady would come by herself to my part of town? She swept into the room, veiled and wearing a dark cloak. 

"Mr Shovell? I need a man of discretion and ability. I am afraid for my life. A certain personage is threatening me"

"Indeed my lady? What do you wish of me?"

"Follow me tonight. I shall frequent Whitehall. Scare him away, Mr Shovell."

"And may I know your name? For to act for one unknown is to cast dung after ordure"

She frowned at my aphorism "Call me Lady Moresee". She left. I pondered a while, then procured my sharpest dagger, my second-best cloak and a bottle of mead. It was going to be an interesting night.

*&*&*&*&*&

The Fat Man grunted as he swilled another bottle of sack. His weaselly associate still held the pike with its sharp tip just under my throat. I breathed very carefully. No sound from outside reached this small, tapestry-lined chamber.

"I am after this ...object, Mr Shovell. I have been pursuing it for many years. During that time I have risen high in my ...chosen profession. I have much power and you would do well to hearken."

"Oh, I'm hearkening" I said, as jauntily as a man with a pike at his throat can be "But I haven't heard anything worth hearkening to yet"

"Shall I prick him a little, your eminence?" hissed the little man.

"No, we need him intact, Mr Cornwall. But only as long as he is useful to us. Now, I ask you again, where is Mistress Moresee?"

"I don't know and even if I did, I never betray a client"

"But she has betrayed you, Mr Shovell". The Fat Man laughed, a long and wheezy laugh "And she has betrayed me and Mr Cornwall here, too. 

Then it all went black.

*&*&*&*&*&

We were gathered in the upper room in the Angel Inn at Islington. A fast coach-and-four was waiting below but I knew that none of us there would be fleeing north on it tonight. The Fat Man sat in the only chair, sweat glistening on his forehead in the light of the crackling fire. Cornwall paced up and down. Lady Moresee stood by the window, tense and trembling. 

I pointed to the package on the table. "Before we unwrap that, let me tell you a story. A story about three very ambitious people. People like - you, Lady Jane Seymour! Yes, I saw through your story at once. And you, Cardinal Wolsey! Everyone knows you're the fattest man in the Church. And as for Cornwall - or should I say Cromwell? The finest pike-twiddler this side of the The Strand. But what was it all about?"

Wolsey pointed a shaking finger at the package. "Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell slit the paper. Wolsey reached and withdrew a small wooden figure.

"At last. After so long, it's finally mine". I watched the others; they were watching him. I grabbed the pike. "Back against the wall, Cromwell. And you, Wolsey. Hands where I can see them. Ah, no you don't" and I snatched the little knife from Seymour's hand "Now, I prithee, show us the prize".

"It's a falcon" Wolsey's voice registered amazement and shock "I thought it was a precious relic, covered in gold and jewels. It's just a sodding wooden falcon. It's worth no more than £75"

Ignoring the pike, he stood up, gathered his robes about him and swept out, Cromwell following meekly in his wake. I let them go. Little did they know that the coachman was going to take them directly to the Tower where the King's executioner was waiting. I looked at Seymour, whose moist lips were parted.

"Oh, Mr Shovell, you'll not see me taken by the guard, will you? I thought we had something special between us. You did love me, did you not?"

"Perhaps, Jane" I said through gritted teeth "But you're taking the fall. The King's been on to you for some time.  That falcon is going back to Ann Boleyn and you, My Lady Moresee, can kiss goodbye to your pretty little head".

*&*&*&*&*&

Cast

Cardinal Wolsey	Orson Welles (with sherry)
King Henry VIII	Orson Welles (with cushion up his tunic)
Lady Jane Seymour	Jane Seymour (Jane Seymour the actor, not Jane Seymour the Lady)
Thomas Cromwell	Oliver Cromwell
Sam Shovell	see if Michael Caine has a free day
Manservant	Sam Kydd

My new mate, Chris the robot

The landline rang and it was an unfamiliar number. I automatically assumed it was a spam call but, because I like playing games with these people, I picked up. After a short pause, a friendly English male voice announced himself as "Chris, your local energy advisor for your postcode".

I was intrigued. I don't know how you get to be an expert on local energy but, let me tell you, there's loads of it round here, from the gale force winds that blow at the top of Windmill Hill near where I live in beautiful Ruislip, to the majestic onrushing waters of the river Pinn. I also pondered on how anyone could be an advisor for a postcode and whether he had opted for my area or had it handed it to him by his manager "Jim, you lucky sod, you get W1A, plenty of rich folk there, Alison, you get OK4, take your waders, it can be pretty wet up in the Orkneys, and Chris, watch yourself where you're going lad, I've hand-picked you for Ruislip. They're a rough lot there, don't let me down".

 Chris then asked if I was the householder and I mumbled something, and after another pause said cheerily "I assume you've taken advantage of the Government scheme for insulation 10 or 20 years ago". Now strictly speaking that is a statement about him and not a question so I didn't answer. Instead I said "Don't you have to qualify for that?". Another pause and it all went quiet.

Ten seconds of online research revealed that "Chris" is a very clever bot, a series of recordings that are played by computer and adjusted for the response of the victim. Anything unexpected, as in my question, aborts it. There are numerous complaints about "Chris" making multiple calls to the same people and frustration that the authorities do not intervene. Presumably the idea is to find someone who will say that they do want advice or insulation and then a real person will take over. As the cost of making the robot calls is pretty low, the people behind it just let the system run phoning numbers in sequence.

 I must admit I thought I was talking to a real person, albeit rather a slow-witted one.  It would have made no difference to the outcome but, now I know, I will refrain from inventing time-wasting stories in future because, sadly, the only time that I would be wasting would be my own.

The Uxbridge Effect

 One must feel sympathy for the hapless family who found their dream holiday in Cornwall metamorphosed into something unusual - a hotel in sunny Uxbridge. The Guardian took up their case to reveal the usual web of agents and hotels blaming each other for incompetence, and leaving the customer to suffer.

What, of course, concerns us is the fascinating idea that the agent, Booking.com, could consider that Uxbridge (which The Guardian maliciously describes as "a London suburb close to Slough"¹) might be some sort of acceptable substitute for the golden beaches of north Cornwall. Booking.com is a Dutch organisation but presumably has some knowledge of UK geography. They must surely know that Uxbridge, just four miles from beautiful Ruislip, is sufficiently far from the coast that any seaside jaunt that starts from these parts requires either a re-mortgage to pay for the exorbitant cost of train tickets or hours spent in a hot, cramped car jammed onto a motorway, as the flasks of tea cool and the impatient kids in the back seats dig their feet into one's back.

Of course, it is possible that one of the Dutch researchers came here on a day-trip a few years ago and still cherishes happy memories of buying cheap chocolate bars in Poundland, admiring the many office blocks that have all but strangled the historic town centre and finally taking a train a few stops east to stroll blissfully up Ruislip High Street for a spiritual recharge by the duck pond. It's not exactly a fun-filled family day out but maybe there was sufficient magic to make Uxbridge the obvious choice when it became apparent that there was a cock-up with the Newquay booking. 

Footnote:

1. I have covered the "part of Slough" calumny before, in a searing and contempt-laden review of Facebook's disgusting practice of branding Ruislip as part of the hellhole ten miles to our west. I have explained why right-minded citizens should affirm a belief that Slough remains a place to avoid as part of my series 101 Things I Refuse To Do Before I Die.

Petrol, panic and perception

 Here we go again. Another news story blown up out of proportion with serious consequences for huge numbers of people. Nine years ago the fears of a tanker drivers' strike (that never happened) created massive demand for petrol that saw many stations run dry and others besieged by long queues of motorists desperate to top up.Now, with a few BP stations having to close because of a shortage of tanker drivers, the fear has returned, generating the self-reinforcing "rational" behaviour of drivers queuing to fill up because they don't want to be trumped by all the other drivers queuing to fill up because they don't want to be the ones left out repeat ad nauseam.

 These are some of the typical comments on the Ruislip Facebook group posted today:

The cause of the shortage of tanker drivers is, of course, Brexit which at a stroke forced large numbers of drivers to return home but provided no home-grown replacements. We learned today from the hapless "Minister of Transport" that his department is considering whether temporary visas might help' naturally the most dysfunctional government department, the Home Office, is unhappy and will probably block it on the grounds that the British people voted to take control, or something.

Wholesale gas prices have increased sharply and shortages of other workers is pushing up inflation,  President Biden  has made it clear to prime minister Johnson that the UK is not in any sense a priority for a trade deal, a headline I saw in passing on one of the Irish daily papers stocked by my supermarket noted that UK exports to Ireland were down a third since Brexit, and now the media are raising alarm about whether the shelves will be fully stocked for Xmas. Jeepers. We really are the guys, aren't we?

 

Those Awful Advertising Slogans - No. 17 - Toyota

 Toyota, the largest manufacturer of motor vehicles in the world, is also, not surprisingly, a major sponsor of the Olympic and Paralympic Games that have been held this summer in Tokyo. I have no issues with Toyota supporting the games and in particular putting their hefty marketing muscle behind the assistance of athletes needing help.

What I do resent is the slogan that this massive business has adopted to showcase their efforts. It only came to my attention recently, when a large poster appeared in beautiful Ruislip, but apparently it has been running since 2018. Here is one of the many examples of the use of the slogan.

 I am certainly not the first who has looked at these three words and pondered, deeply, about why it is that marketing people are so offensive. A cursory glance on Google showed that a frequent search on Toyota and Impossible is "What does Start Your Impossible mean?" and the answer, according to Google, is

"Start your impossible" is a catchphrase that Toyota made up and it means to "start making your impossible dreams possible.

Good. I am not alone. I really cherish that phrase "made up". They just knocked it out in their shed, as it were.

Let us not waste too much space dissecting the mentality of people who try to turn adjectives into nouns. They know what they're doing.  Presumably it goes down well with the kids, or something, Why they couldn't use "Start your impossible dream" I don't know. It's a helluva lot better as a slogan, and it rules out the alternatives that we at Ramblings naturally came up with when considering how the slogan should have been crafted:

• Start your impossible ambition to expunge admen from decent society
• Start your impossible attempt to make vehicle manufacturers take direct responsibility for poisoning us with diesel emissions
• Start your impossible campaign to make it impossible* to drive a car with the windows open whilst playing music loudly.
  

I suppose the guys in Tokyo really think they are doing cutting-edge, innovative marketing. But they are not. Like all car companies, they are inherently conservative and terrified of doing anything really new. The three-word strap-line is so firmly established in the ad world that it seems nothing can shift it and, if what they really want to say is several words longer, then they just cut out the extra words and leave it up to us to guess.

*Sorry about the repeat of "impossible". I couldn't think of an alternative and it's getting late

Taking the pss

 Many years ago I took out a personal pension through a well-known institution in the market - Standard Life. In 2006 it floated on the London Stock Exchange and I subscribed for a few shares. I have held them ever since.

Standard Life merged with another institution, Aberdeen Asset Management in 2017 and the new entity traded as Standard Life Aberdeen. 

This year the old names have been jettisoned. The business is now known as abrdn. Yes, you saw it right. Out goes the old fuddy-duddy capital letter at the start of the name. Out go any unnecessary vowels. We must now think of this organisation as something both ungrammatical and unpronounceable.

Here is how the business news portal Bloomberg reported the change, in April this year:

Standard Life Aberdeen Plc decided it was the vowels holding it back.

One of the U.K.’s largest asset managers is changing its name to Abrdn -- pronounced “Aberdeen” -- in a bid to attract a younger client base by mimicking the naming approach of some startups. In a major rebrand complete with its own video, the company created by a 2017 mega-merger announced the new name Monday.

The rebranding is “modern, dynamic and, most importantly, engaging,” Chief Executive Officer Stephen Bird said in a statement. “Our new name reflects the clarity of focus that the leadership team are bringing to the business.”

 Incidentally Bloomberg got it wrong. It really is abrdn, not Abrdn. I know because they wrote to me today to tell me they have changed their share registrar.

So "abrdn" is pronounced "Aberdeen". Well, that clears that up.Yes, those pointless and frankly rather irritating number of e's in the name made life so complicated. Now we can phone them up and not waste all that time and instead pack in a lot more investing.

I am however bothered that abrdn still employs a Chief Executive Officer. How old-fashioned. That's never going to cut it with today's youth. Something far more dynamic, with greater clarity of focus, is surely demanded. How about Top Dude? Head Honcho? The Boss Groover? And what's with this "Stephen" nonsense? None of the modern young client base will stand for that. Stv. That's all the letters a modern, thrusting and dynamic Groover needs for that all-important engaging with the kids. Stv Brd. Rolls off the tongue, does it not? Pronounced "Dickhead".

 

Back on the Met

 I last took a London Underground train in the first week of March, 2020. The growing fears about the Covid epidemic convinced me to stay away, well before the first official lockdown. Today I finally ventured back with a short trip on the Metropolitan to Finchley Road (and a return via the Jubilee from Swiss Cottage).

It felt good to be riding the rails again and somewhat disconcerting, too. Most of my fellow passengers wore masks but several hold-outs sat defiantly with mouths and noses exposed. Coming back, I was struck by the number who propped a bag in the adjacent seat, as if to ward off those thinking of sitting next to them. The technique here is to avoid all eye contact with anyone who looks wistfully at the seat on the grounds that most people are far too polite to ask for the bag to be put where it belongs, on the floor.

The journeys themselves were not remarkable, although the Met on the return was held several times for a few minutes; we were very close behind another and they might have been "regulating" the system as they used to call it. There were no announcements about covid precautions, no station assistants were to be seen and, of course, nobody was enforcing the wearing of masks although this is a legal requirement under London Transport's own by-laws. We used to get loads of announcements about not smoking, standing behind yellow lines, keeping one's property with one, all that sort of thing, so it was strange to have a peaceful journey.

I also noticed that some of the signals on the Chiltern Line northbound out of Harrow were covered up. These tracks are also used by some Met services (indeed, a fast Chesham was due in according to my tube app) so it seems that the Automatic Train Operating system, promised for God-knows how many years, may be in force on that section. This system has been running well on the Jubilee for quite a while and it should mean that Mets can go faster. It has been a long time since I used to get hurled around in the swaying carriage of the old A stock belting up from Neasden at 60mph plus; it will be fun if they can push the S stock trains to their full potential over that section.

The Man on the Scooter

 The Olympic Games are well underway in Tokyo and right now cycling events are taking centre stage. Whilst most sports leave me cold, I enjoy cycling, one of the very few activities that I do myself. I find the strength, stamina and daring of Grand Tour cyclists genuinely impressive. However, the Olympics cuts out pretty well all of this in order to have nearly all of the cycling events take place in a velodrome. So there are no grinding climbs up 1 in 8 ascents, no 70kph descents round hairpin bends, no breakaways and chasedowns... just one long sequence of cyclists going as fast as possible whilst going round and round. "How can we spice this up and add something to grip the wider public?" was the burning question.¹

The answer was a race called the Keirin, introduced in 2000. The competitors follow a man on a scooter (or "keirin") who, grim-faced and unwavering, chunters round the course whilst they follow, forbidden to overtake until the final three or four laps when they are permitted to sprint for the finishing line. Naturally, in the Ramblings household, all attention is on the little man (given that there is not a lot going on behind him, other than the cyclists gradually speeding up to match his gradually speeding-up scooter). Will he ever look to left or right? Will he glance over his shoulder with a "So long, suckers" kind of expression? Will he fall off, leaving a rogue scooter careering up and down the steeply banked sides of the arena while the cyclists scramble to dodge it?

How does one get this sort of job? It requires no physical skill but a fair amount of concentration. Do the Japanese hold intensive week-long exams where the candidates, wearing loose judo-style clothing and headbands, confront each other with glaring eyes and chest-beating? Must they be able to compose, and to illustrate though beautiful calligraphy, haikus in honour of cranes soaring in the morning mist over Mount Fuji? Is there a Keirin Master who asks baffling Zen-style questions such as "If a man falls off a scooter in a deserted arena, is he enlightened or merely bruised?"

This is the only sport where a non-competitor is actively involved. You don't get girls in jodhpurs cantering on a pony ahead of the steeplechasers, casually guiding her steed over the jumps whilst calling back "Come on, it's easy". The rowers, who of course train with a coach on a bike, barking instructions through a megaphone whilst tracking them on the towpath, nonetheless are quite capable of going up and down the pool without, say, a bloke wearing sunglasses in a motor-boat and swigging champagne, going ahead of them. A young woman on very high stilts is not required to encourage the pole-vaulters, nor do frisbee-throwers dance about when the discus-throwers begin chucking things.

My final problem with the Keirin is simply its pure artificiality. Nobody can take part in this sport unless they have access to a velodrome and to one of the little men with a scooter to hand. Anyone can ride a bike but almost nobody who does so will ever participate in a Keirin - it is strictly for the elite, a spectator sport rather than an all-embracing one. Which is why I couldn't care less if they dropped it and we never heard of it again. But if they introduced Keirin jousting, where two competitors ride in opposite directions for a few laps, one higher than the other, until that last lap where they meet literally head-to-head whilst brandishing spears ...yes, that one would definitely be watchable.

-&-&-&-&-

1. I assume it was a team of stupidly over-paid marketing consultants who took on this assignment. They probably drooled over the fantastic commercial possibilities of ad-breaks during the interminable laps before the actual racing began.

Out on Probation

 Nearly all covid-19 restrictions that have been in place in England, with varying applications from time to time, were lifted at midnight last night. TV news showed crowds of young people celebrating in the time-honoured fashion of gathering in crowds in the streets, drinking, cheering, hugging strangers and shouting a lot at each other. If there is a quicker way to spread the virus amongst those yet to be vaccinated, I'm struggling to think of one. No, I'm wrong, the restrictions on nightclubs have lifted as well. The drinking, hugging, shouting, etc. can all go on but in a confined space where the raison d'etre is to be as close as you can to others. 

Maybe it has to be this way. Infection rates had been falling nicely to just a few thousand a day, with hospital admissions measured in hundreds. Now we have daily rates well over 40,000 and 4,000 are in hospital, and this is at the start of the new freedom. In exchange for the opening up of the economy and doing away with the compulsory wearing of masks, we must live with a greater strain on the NHS and more risk for those with existing medical conditions that make them vulnerable to respiratory disease,

It feels rather transitory - a 48 hour pass rather than a release. At some point a return to restrictions looks inevitable under the pressure of hospitals once more desperately trying to cope whilst cancelling all non-urgent (and many urgent) procedures. 

Meanwhile we have a heatwave, a real one, with the mercury topping out over 31c yesterday in these parts and staying high until Friday. It adds to the febrile atmosphere - we have a holiday but all holidays come to an end. [Actually I'm thinking of taking a few days off. If that's alright? I assume it is... er, is it? Oh, well, I didn't really want to go anyway: Ed]

Sporting Triumph

 I said in my last piece that England would triumph¹ in the European Championship "Round of 16" knockout against Germany and that is what they did.

Source: BBC

Not only did we enjoy the rare spectacle of a Wembley crowd behind England in a game that really mattered but they stifled their old enemies before despatching them with two beautiful goals. And to add the topping to this burger, veteran cyclist Mark Cavendish, unexpectedly summoned to take part in the Tour de France when his career seemed to be over, won the day's sprint. Fittingly, the location was where he last won a stage at the Tour, five years ago.

At a time when covid cases are rising back to some 20,000 a day, we need all the boosters we can get.

 

1. [Umm, yes, up to a point. You also implied that they would be trounced. I believe this is what is called hedging one's bets: Ed]

Sporting Mayhem

 There was destruction a-plenty in major sporting events yesterday. At the Tour de France a series of crashes throughout the day transformed what should have been a straightforward bunch finish into a lottery. Geraint Thomas fell off early on and brought down Robert Gesink.  Thomas managed to ride away; Gesink abandoned. Later Primoz Roglic fell off and lost time to the GC leaders. During the sprint finish Caleb Ewan and Peter Sagan bumped wheels; Sagan rolled over with his bike firmly in his grasp but Ewan lay on the ground, just yards from the finish line, waiting for the peloton to pass before medical aid could reach him.

Those crashes followed the incident yesterday when a moronic spectator, more intent on waving a piece of cardboard for the cameras than watching the race, hit Tony Martin with it on a narrow section of road. Martin went over and some 40 riders piled over him, leaving bits of bike strewn across the road.

A different sort of destruction in the European Championships. Following the Netherlands lack-lustre performance yesterday, it was nearly Spain. Leading 3-1 against Croatia until a few minutes before full time, they let in two quick goals and were taken to extra time where they recovered. In the evening it was real for France. Uncannily their game with Switzerland went exactly the same way - Switzerland scored a shock early goal, France banged in three in the second half and were strolling and then the Swiss rallied to score twice at the end of normal time. But there the resemblance ended. No goals in extra time and the failure of France's fifth penalty-taker to do what the nine preceding strikers had achieved put the World Champions out.

Today England host Germany. The mood of the English supporters seems to be rather muted. There are few flags in evidence in the streets or in houses. Most comments are resigned to another disappointment. This writer has no such defeatist qualms. Of course we will triumph. Unless we don't.

Are THEY watching?

 Two weeks ago we had a few days of extremely hot weather (hot by UK standards, you understand). It came without any build-up, following a delightful week of really pleasant sunshine, a week in which, by pure coincidence, Mrs. C and I enjoyed a holiday for the first time in 18 months. But the heat did not simply fade into a typical summer, or vanish amidst thunderstorms (although there was a fair bit of rain). It was replaced by a cold snap so virulent that we, and other people of our generation, were seriously considering putting on the central heating. In June!

I am pleased to say things have now settled down to a normal British summer but at the back of my mind is one disquieting fact. The US government  is about to publish a definitive report on the existence of UFOs.

Nobody denies that unidentified flying objects exist. One of them hurtled past my ears only the other evening before disappearing mysteriously somewhere near the net curtains [Could it have been a fly? Ed]. What excites the loonies of this world is the idea that some must be alien spacecraft and that the US government knows all about them and is, perhaps, in contact with them.  Naturally, the aliens possess technologies so far in advance of our own that they can be thought capable of anything. Flying across light-years of space - no problem. Whizzing round our world undetected pretty well all of the time - a snap. Being able to land, abduct Americans, investigate their anatomies intimately and then return them without anybody else ever seeing - happens all the time.

And now we come to the crux. The aliens, who monitor all our of media closely (and I hope they find EastEnders of particular use when analysing the psychology of people who glower a lot and keep getting barred from pubs) will know all about the forthcoming report. They have kept their existence, not exactly secret, but deeply obscured, for at least 75 years.

Some suggest there is much earlier evidence, if the account in Second Kings is given credence -

 As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them, and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind.

What do the aliens want? Presumably to go on probing the digestive systems of Americans and zooming around the skies in order to baffle airline pilots. They obviously derive enormous satisfaction from this and are credited with absolutely nothing else.  Would these activities be harmed by the truth being disclosed to those of us not already privy to it? Is this, in fact, why the weather has been so screwy? Are they sending us an awful warning?

Detailed, robust and painstaking research conducted here at Ramblings has established the following scenarios that pertain.

• The aliens do not want any more information about them to be released. The heat and the cold show what they can do if they are offered further provocations.
• The aliens want the information to be released. The heat and the cold are a warning that full disclosure must be made.
• The aliens want the information to be disclosed but are not happy at the thought of all the loonies going "I told you so" because, in a way, this undermines the total secrecy of the aliens' activities and make them look rather stupid. The heat and the cold are there to ensure governments round the world suppress all dissent but, so far, only the Chinese have followed them to the letter.
• The aliens don't know what they want and are having a furious debate about it with their overlords back on Tharg. As all messages can only travel at the speed of light, and Tharg is 24 light-years away, they are still waiting for a reply from a message sent in 1974 asking if they should exterminate the Bay City Rollers as a threat to the wholesomeness of the younger and more impressionable of their crew. The heat and the cold are a message to their mother ships anchored in orbit somewhere beyond Pluto and mean "Well? Yes or no? Get on with it, five-eyes!"
• The aliens really like sharp changes in temperature, such a refreshing contrast to the constant -139c temperature on their flying saucers. After a long day's medical review of the intestines of Americans, they like nothing better than to land on a deserted beach, take in the sun for a while and then don fluffy cardigans as the mercury plummets. They are worried that these activities may have to be curtailed when the report is published and so are getting in a final burst of basking and shivering before it all has to end.

We will soon know what the US government wants us to know. It doesn't really matter what they publish because the true believers in UFOs as evidence of alien spacemen will allege that the REAL facts are being covered up. And the strange contrasts in our weather will continue.

-*-*-*-*-

Readers! Do you have any stories of alien abductions in which things were inserted into parts of your body that, quite frankly, made you feel rather squeamish? Have flying saucers buzzed you while little green men leant out of the windows thumbing their noses or sticking tentacles down their outer proboscis or whatever it is that aliens do when they can go faster than you? Do you know the GRISLY TRUTH about what is REALLY going on and if so, do you dare to disclose it?

Please send in your contributions to the usual address and, provided you don't mind having thousand of goggling Thargians watching as your innermost secrets are probed with a, er, probe, you could win a holiday for two on a flying saucer. Just remember to bring your thermals!

Terms and conditions apply but as they have to be approved by the Thargian government it will take 48 years before we can let you know what they are. 

 

Memorable Names

 When one rather unusual name, with a certain amount of risible potential, comes into public view, then the columnist seeking inspiration may put it behind his ear, reserved for future use. When two such names are furnished, one begins to feel the need to record them for posterity. 

A couple of weeks ago some political machinations in Northern Ireland brought to the fore one Edwin Poots as leader of the Democratic Unionist Party. Within a matter of days further machinations unseated him. I naturally wished to record this in the traditional way and had begun composing lines in this sort of fashion:

So farewell then Edwin Poots.
I wonder who will fill your boots
And lead the DUP?

You'd scarcely put down any roots
When others, acting in cahoots
Marooned you out at sea.

etc etc

 But the second silly name overshadows poor old Edwin. For famous sprinter Usain Bolt has become the father of twin boys and has named one of them Thunder and the other - well - it clearly should have been Lightning but the poor mite has been landed with Saint Leo. I don't know if there is a Saint Leo Bolt in the Christian pantheon but it seems unlikely. Is this an attempt to forestall objections from the Vatican and book the youngster's place in Heaven? If so, seems a bit unfair on his brother, doomed to be be the butt of jokes from henceforth whenever he has to announce his moniker to strangers.

What else could St. Leo have been dubbed? Nutsand? Latch? Door? There must be something snappy but I can't think of it right now.

1000 UP!

 This is the 1000th post. It's taken more than 16 years. Some might think I should mark this solemn moment with carefully worded reflections on the state of the world, the work of the blogger and perhaps the changes in the commuting landscape, especially since the covid infection has knocked the stuffing out of public transport.

But sod that. Here's something of much greater importance.

Source: BBC

 

The voters of Pontiac, Quebec, must be proud of their representative in parliament. Taking a phone call with colleagues, Mr Amos was seen unclothed, protecting his modesty with the phone itself. His explanation - "My video was accidentally turned on as I was changing into my work clothes after going for a jog".

 Insert your own "Member" of Parliament joke here.

Dissing Disney

 I am on Facebook. I am there in order to participate in some groups, mainly concerned with local affairs, the Metropolitan railway (obviously), the football team I support and so on. This, together with my age, ought to establish me in the minds of the Facebook programmers, as a certain sort of bloke. But it does not.

Facebook have taken to bombarding me (and, no doubt, everyone else) with "suggestions". They have never bothered to ask me what sort of thing I might wish to have suggested to me. This is not the Facebook way. Instead, they either blindly follow what their major advertisers want them to do and then pretend it is a genuine suggestion, or they simply don't care. My reasoning for arriving at this conclusion is that every day I receive a suggestion that I should visit a page or website concerned with Disney.

Anyone who followed my, surely-an-award-must-be-forthcoming-soon, series 101 Things I Refuse To Do Before I Die will recall my excoriation of the works of Disney.  I don't care for the stuff. I've made this clear. But will Facebook listen? No, only today they suggested a visit a page called Adults Who Love Disney.

Every time I get one of their ghastly suggestions I am offered the chance to send feedback. There is a list that pops-up if you click the little buttons to the side. It looks like this:

 

 Amongst the choices are Hide Post (with its intriguing byline of "see fewer posts like this" and Hide All from (in this case) Adults who love Disney. But here is the catch. You can only check one option. I would like both to receive fewer posts about Disney (preferably none at all but they don't give me that choice) AND to see no more references to the specific page in question. Not possible. As soon as you make a choice, the window and the suggestion itself vanish. Which would be fine if indeed they showed me fewer sites similar to the one I had expressed a dislike for. But they don't. They go one finding more sites about Disney and eagerly thrusting them in my face, like a cat bringing home bits of dead bird, ignoring the cries of disgust and racing back outside to assassinate more innocent sparrows.

It would nice to get rid of the lot by using the Hide Post option but as this does not work, I have to take my enemy down one at at time by using the Hide All From option. But how many sodding Disney sites are there? Is Facebook going to suggest a different one every day no matter how many times I beg them to hide them? Are there a couple of baffled boffins in their back room, scrutinising their clipboards?

Boffin 1: He's rejected Adult Disney Geeks¹
Boffin 2: Damn, I thought we were on to a winner there. What about Disney Nerds?²
Boffin 1: No good, he rejected that two weeks ago.
Boffin 2: Disney Fans with IQs above 80?³ It's a tiny group but it might just work.
Boffin 1: OK, we'll line that up tomorrow and if that fails, let's go with Disney For Snuff-Box Collectors⁴.
Boffin 2: I didn't know he collected snuff boxes
Boffin 1: I don't suppose he does but what the hell, it's a Disney group and it's got to be relevant. I mean, that fact that he has asked us to hide the 58 previous suggestions just proves what a great fan of Disney he is.
Boffin 2: He sure must like Disney, hell, who doesn't? I can't believe there's any other possibility. Let's suggest again all the one's he's previously rejected, something's bound to stick.
Boffin 1: Great thinking. 

Notes:

1. It's genuine (they suggested it)
2. So is this (also suggested)
3. I have a horrible suspicion this might real as well but I haven't bothered to check
4.[ Do you happen to have the address for this one? Asking for a friend: Ed]

Operator - We seem to be cut-off

 There's no fun like trying to contact a telecoms company that finds itself unable to communicate, or, worse, which sends out false information and then is uncontactable. 

Today's case study concerns my mobile phone provider. I will not identify them fully, just in case all this is a ghastly mistake at my end, but let us simply call them "Walkmobile".

I pay my account by direct debit on the 9th of each month. Today, the 6th, I received a text message saying "We've noticed you haven't paid your last bill. Take a look at your account..." and it went on to give a website link. Naturally, I was horrified to think that £7.50 remained unpaid from last month. I was pleased with the "We've noticed" bit; so much nicer than "Look here, you utter bastard, you owe us serious cash so pay up or kiss goodbye to your house, car and life savings" which, I am told, is the tone taken by some, less respectful, phone companies. Nonetheless, this seemed urgent. I checked my bank account. The last amount due had been paid on time.

Thinking that perhaps there was a problem with them verifying my bank details in advance of the current payment, I attempted to log on to my account. Their website refused to accept my login details. I checked them. They were correct, although I probably have not logged on for many years so perhaps they had expired. I requested a change of password. They said they would send, at once, a confirmation to my email address. Nothing happened. Half an hour later it still had not happened*

I called them. I was told (and you knew this would be the next line, didn't you?) "We are experiencing a high volume of calls at the moment". Oh, and they were unable to tell me roughly how long I might have to wait. This is a phone company, let me remind you, who make their business by operating, by phone, to their customers.

Their text message also suggested I set up an online account. I thought perhaps a glitch had separated my account details from the phone number. Using the number they supplied I tried to re-register, only to be told that the account number was already in use.

I went to their website and saw a webchat feature. "If you see an orange Chat Now sign then there are advisors available" it said. I saw the orange sign and filled in my info. "Please wait, we are connecting you" it said. This looked promising. Then it updated "All our advisors are busy. Estimated delay is 31 minutes".

I give up. I can't contact them by phone. I can't reset my account details so I cannot login. I cannot access them by webchat. I shall have to resign myself to the loss of house, car and life savings after all.

====================================

* Update. The reset email did arrive, 2.5 hours afterwards. When I clicked on the link, it took me to a page that said the token was invalid or expired. 

**Update the next day: I received a grovelling text saying it was all down to a "clerical error" and the bailiffs had been called off. Phew! Those clerks, eh? I suppose someone's pen slipped and the wrong name got typed on to the list of people in default. Happens all the time in busy offices, I believe.

Panic revisited

 One year ago the great toilet paper panic began in the UK. Australia had already seen extraordinary scenes of shoppers overloading their trolleys, now it spread here. Our social media had pictures of empty shelves and the inevitable comments "What is wrong with people", and the heart-wrenching images of health workers unable to find food, after a very long day's work grappling with the first of the corona virus victims, were about to make headlines.

There was nothing "wrong" with people - that's the trouble. For individuals to try to protect their own position at a time of great uncertainty is rational. The problem is that what works for some does not work when everybody does the same, as economists have known for a long time whilst studying the workings of markets. I am currently reading a book about the South Sea Bubble of 1720, an amazing time in English history, when sophisticated financial products were snapped up by the upper and middle classes on the grounds that if someone else was doing it, then it must be the right thing to do. As with Bitcoin today, the rationale is always that there is no risk because you can sell out, when necessary, to others willing to buy. The notion that there might be nobody willing to buy, because everybody is aware that it is time to sell, always comes too late.

Anyway, those days of queues and rumour seem a very long time ago. We shopped this morning as normal, and the shelves were full and all was placid. Everybody was wearing masks and making spaces for others as they passed in the aisles; other than that one could barely distinguish the scene from that of normal times. Even the traffic around beautiful Ruislip was about as busy as it used to be.

We have reached a key moment in the vaccination campaign. Everyone over the age of 65 has been vaccinated, bar those who do not wish it or for whom it is not advised. This has been the main group of those admitted to hospital with severe breathing difficulties. The risk of the health services being unable to cope with those needing emergency treatment has therefore receded and continues to diminish.

Next week schools go back and then we face an agonising time to see if this pushes the infection rate back up to dangerous levels; if not, then the rest of the return to normality can continue.

Jabbed

 At a time when our news is dominated by stories of people receiving vaccination against covid-19, why should this column be different? Let it be herein recorded that last week, not only did I extend a bare arm to the ministrations of a very nice young lady in a local pharmacy, but Mrs Commuter had a similar experience in the local Youth Centre.

We had both been wondering when our turn would come. Curiously, whilst I received both a letter from the NHS and a text from my GP, the wife got only the second. Which is why we were treated at different locations.  

Within a day or so we were told that the vaccine we had both been given, the Astra Zeneca version, was not suitable for people of our age group, was ineffective against a new South African strain, might need to be boosted in the autumn, might be better if the second shot due in 12 weeks was the Pfizer vaccine ... but it's OK folks, really, because world-renowned virologist and medical researcher B. Johnson (also our local MP and Prime Minister) opines that it's all going to be fine. 

Not that it will make much difference. Until the level of infections is really very small (much below today's figure of some 12,000 new cases) our lifestyle will remain as it has been for the past 11 months - avoiding contact with people and staying almost entirely at home.

A Fitting Legacy

 I met a traveller from the New World,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand near a long abandoned golf course. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And sneering lip, and bulging cheeks
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
that filled and corrupted his subject's mind.
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
'I am the greatest President
My reign shall last 1000 years and my name be for ever remembered!'
But no name is there inscribed and none can say
Who this puffed and bloated boaster was.
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The bunkers and the ruined greens stretch far away.”

With thanks to Percy Bysshe Shelley, author of 'Ozymandias'