Stargazing 4
3 days ago
Monday, 17 November 2008
WOW... or not
Grieve, of http://www.thegrieve.co.uk/, came up with a rather interesting idea the other night. He intends to get some form of podcast on the go, in which himself, Matt the kiwi and Resident Protestant John talk about MMO's. Matt and John play EVE and WOW respectively, and Grieve is now playing the Warcrafty thing after a long addiction to EVE. He intends to get me involved in an unbiased everyman-type capacity, as I start playing one game or the other. Could be interesting. There shall be more on this.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
More Priorites
Obama's won it then, by 349 to 161 with a couple too close to call and Nebraska tied, I think. Ain't it nice the way they only actually count the votes if they can't guess who's won a state? Very enlightened way of doing things, I think.
I had intended to stay up and watch the whole thing, with McCain's home state of Arizona being too close to call until about half 4, which I thought was great. What stopped me staying with it, though, was the fact that I could only get BBC and ITV coverage of the thing, both of which ragged my pish.
I started watching it on ITV, who coverage was quite slick and well done - quite Amercian actually, as usual - but it annoyed me how simpering it was. It was pretty much "Countdown to Obama-rama '08", which is fair enough, but as far as I could make out the polls were looking a damn sight closer than to warrant that. So I flicked over to the Beeb for some unbiased reporting. It may as well have been a Top Gear Election Night Special.
I didn't so much mind that none of the VT seemed to work (which it didn't), or that this bewildered and annoyed the presenter David Dimbleby (which it did, greatly). What got me, predictably enough, was the tone the whole thing was presented in. The programme had the air of... I don't know, did you ever meet a distant older relative in a bar when you're both a bit smashed, like the mouthpiece uncle no-one's that fond of? You know that condescending look on their face that says "Aw diddums, look at the wee babby actin' all growed up", when they're falling about the shop at least as bad as you are?
It seemed the whole of the BBC's current affairs staff had been briefed specially to find a Republican and pick a fight. They even had John Bolton as one of the guests, which I thought was inspired, although after about an hour of baiting it became clear that the majority of the BBC's staff knew far less about American politics than they thought they did, or than they should have if they wanted to go arguing with a former UN ambassador and unabashed flaming bastard of a rag-hoisting American. I actually found myself siding with him. Sweet and gentle Jesus.
Between Rajesh Mirchandani's interview slash argument with a high-ranking Republican in Colorado, where he plainly didn't know his facts, Katty Kay's assertions that Mitt Romney would have been a far better running mate for McCain than Palin despite the fact that as far as I can see no-one in the Republican party even likes the man, and Simon Schama's quite interesting scrap with Bolton being stopped by Dimbleby to go to a video feed which turned out not to exist, I thought it was a great laugh. But if it had have been made in a basement by teenagers in their spare time, it still would've disappointed me a bit. Good thing I don't pay me TV licence then, isn't it? Maybe I will when I get round to buying an aerial. At the minute I'm using an Ibanez bootlace guitar lead, resting on the pin at the back of my TV, held in place by Goldeneye for the N64, and I've yet to have a problem with it. What an age we live in, eh?
I had intended to stay up and watch the whole thing, with McCain's home state of Arizona being too close to call until about half 4, which I thought was great. What stopped me staying with it, though, was the fact that I could only get BBC and ITV coverage of the thing, both of which ragged my pish.
I started watching it on ITV, who coverage was quite slick and well done - quite Amercian actually, as usual - but it annoyed me how simpering it was. It was pretty much "Countdown to Obama-rama '08", which is fair enough, but as far as I could make out the polls were looking a damn sight closer than to warrant that. So I flicked over to the Beeb for some unbiased reporting. It may as well have been a Top Gear Election Night Special.
I didn't so much mind that none of the VT seemed to work (which it didn't), or that this bewildered and annoyed the presenter David Dimbleby (which it did, greatly). What got me, predictably enough, was the tone the whole thing was presented in. The programme had the air of... I don't know, did you ever meet a distant older relative in a bar when you're both a bit smashed, like the mouthpiece uncle no-one's that fond of? You know that condescending look on their face that says "Aw diddums, look at the wee babby actin' all growed up", when they're falling about the shop at least as bad as you are?
It seemed the whole of the BBC's current affairs staff had been briefed specially to find a Republican and pick a fight. They even had John Bolton as one of the guests, which I thought was inspired, although after about an hour of baiting it became clear that the majority of the BBC's staff knew far less about American politics than they thought they did, or than they should have if they wanted to go arguing with a former UN ambassador and unabashed flaming bastard of a rag-hoisting American. I actually found myself siding with him. Sweet and gentle Jesus.
Between Rajesh Mirchandani's interview slash argument with a high-ranking Republican in Colorado, where he plainly didn't know his facts, Katty Kay's assertions that Mitt Romney would have been a far better running mate for McCain than Palin despite the fact that as far as I can see no-one in the Republican party even likes the man, and Simon Schama's quite interesting scrap with Bolton being stopped by Dimbleby to go to a video feed which turned out not to exist, I thought it was a great laugh. But if it had have been made in a basement by teenagers in their spare time, it still would've disappointed me a bit. Good thing I don't pay me TV licence then, isn't it? Maybe I will when I get round to buying an aerial. At the minute I'm using an Ibanez bootlace guitar lead, resting on the pin at the back of my TV, held in place by Goldeneye for the N64, and I've yet to have a problem with it. What an age we live in, eh?
Friday, 31 October 2008
Priorities
I haven't been inclined to go near this blog for a while, but at this point I find myself compelled to. We in the UK are quite happy to look down our neighbours across the pond for being crass, whipped up their media into pointless frenzies over nothing in particular. We pride ourselves on being higher-minded, not as petty, with a healthy dose of cynicism.
Why then, are the American people, to a man, having a (mostly) considered debate on who they want to implement their needs and protect their interests for the next four years, in a time when a lot of previously quite cash-strapped Americans are facing even more testing times? I didn't think their brains'd be dense enough for such cogitation, on account of all the air and water in their Wonderbread. But here's the real kicker- what are we, custodians of measured argument and logic in a world gone to fickle shite, debating, as we do, in the oldest and most truly representative democratic institution in the world? What great issue have we been turning our collective cultured mind to for the last week? Two dickhead Londoners abusing an elderly gentleman on radio.
It wasn't very clever, I admit, but I'm not going to discuss the ethics of it. That's been dealt with quite sufficiently by every single journalist and talking head in the country over the last week or so. It still amazes me, though, that the infamous incident got two - count them, two - complaints at time of broadcast. Then, of course, the Daily Mail picked up the story. Last I heard, the number of complaints received by Ofcom had passed the 20,000 mark. This sickens me. The story is still on the front pages of all the red-tops and the Independent, and only a pensioner foiling an armed robbery keeps it off the front of the Mail today. It came up at Prime Minister's Question Time, for fuck's sake! And that ended up on the front pages earlier in the week.
I know quite a lot of middle-class England are sick of hearing about this Credit Crunch jobby, but I don't think a story like this has any place on any newsstand, especially when our American cousins have (for the most part) realised where sensationalist pointless journalism has got them in the past, and are actually putting some thought into electing their leaders this time around. And we still resent Gordon Brown, because he just doesn't smile as nicely as Mr. Blair did. This is why I try not to talk about politics...
Why then, are the American people, to a man, having a (mostly) considered debate on who they want to implement their needs and protect their interests for the next four years, in a time when a lot of previously quite cash-strapped Americans are facing even more testing times? I didn't think their brains'd be dense enough for such cogitation, on account of all the air and water in their Wonderbread. But here's the real kicker- what are we, custodians of measured argument and logic in a world gone to fickle shite, debating, as we do, in the oldest and most truly representative democratic institution in the world? What great issue have we been turning our collective cultured mind to for the last week? Two dickhead Londoners abusing an elderly gentleman on radio.
It wasn't very clever, I admit, but I'm not going to discuss the ethics of it. That's been dealt with quite sufficiently by every single journalist and talking head in the country over the last week or so. It still amazes me, though, that the infamous incident got two - count them, two - complaints at time of broadcast. Then, of course, the Daily Mail picked up the story. Last I heard, the number of complaints received by Ofcom had passed the 20,000 mark. This sickens me. The story is still on the front pages of all the red-tops and the Independent, and only a pensioner foiling an armed robbery keeps it off the front of the Mail today. It came up at Prime Minister's Question Time, for fuck's sake! And that ended up on the front pages earlier in the week.
I know quite a lot of middle-class England are sick of hearing about this Credit Crunch jobby, but I don't think a story like this has any place on any newsstand, especially when our American cousins have (for the most part) realised where sensationalist pointless journalism has got them in the past, and are actually putting some thought into electing their leaders this time around. And we still resent Gordon Brown, because he just doesn't smile as nicely as Mr. Blair did. This is why I try not to talk about politics...
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Random Question
I asked this site to give me a random question earlier, and it got uppity when I tried to answer it in more than 400 characters. So I'm sticking it here, because I feel like it.
Q. Sponges and tongues are frequently misspelled. Is it because both are thirsty?
A. It is indeed. But the question I think we should be asking is- why are both thirsty? This is because your tongue is not a muscle, but actually a fish, living in your mouth in a kind of symbiotic relationship. It can only breathe in water, hence your production of saliva to keep it going. However, occasionally the saliva in your mouth gets too alkaline, which annoys the tongue. It then tells its buddy the brain (actually a mollusc) to make the rest of the body drink either very fizzy, very sugary, or very alcoholic beverages, to foster its preferred slightly acidic environment. So if you're an alco, don't blame yourself; your tongue and brain are bastard fish.
Q. Sponges and tongues are frequently misspelled. Is it because both are thirsty?
A. It is indeed. But the question I think we should be asking is- why are both thirsty? This is because your tongue is not a muscle, but actually a fish, living in your mouth in a kind of symbiotic relationship. It can only breathe in water, hence your production of saliva to keep it going. However, occasionally the saliva in your mouth gets too alkaline, which annoys the tongue. It then tells its buddy the brain (actually a mollusc) to make the rest of the body drink either very fizzy, very sugary, or very alcoholic beverages, to foster its preferred slightly acidic environment. So if you're an alco, don't blame yourself; your tongue and brain are bastard fish.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
Call Centres, and What They Drive You To
I s'pose this'd be my first blog entry then. And I s'pose hello's always a good place to start. I'm Jim Hutcheon, I'm a 21 year-old currently kicking up a stink as best I can in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and I have once again been ensnared by the slimy tedrils of call centre work.
Apparently the Northern Irish accent is one which the Enlgish, used of course as they are to being spoken to all day in that mangled, braying quack in which their compatriots communicate, will readily trust, and apparently buy things from, the Irish. I don't understand this. Surely if the world relates one thing to the Irish race, it's drunkenly trying to flog shoddy merchandise or labour? Who among you can say truthfully, that when someone says the word 'Irish', you don't immediately form a mental image of a red-haired, profoundly bladdered man, wearing a grubby overcoat with a pig under his arm? I know I do. But apparently there are enough people willing to trust a race who've spent the last century or two scamming our colonisers and the richer peoples of the world to warrant a burgeoning trade in outsourced call centres. It's so easy to get a job in one of these establishments, where one can do anything from broadband tech support to selling legal books that I, a self-confessed malingering bastard, have never had to actually try and get a job. I swanned into the interview for this one half-cut, and now sell holidays to the general population. No-one seems to have a problem with this.
There is, of course, a downside. The downside to this particular job, aside from having to listen to the English nyam at me all day, is that I have a little too much time on my hands. And being as the good people who run this joint don't let you read- heaven forfend - anything but The Sun's website, I might as well keep my hands occupied and tap some scribblings into a computer. This may even become a regular occurence if I could be arsed. You have been warned.
Fuckit, a manager approaches. Time to look busy. Although not too busy. That's how they know you're not working.
Anyways, all the best
-Jim
Apparently the Northern Irish accent is one which the Enlgish, used of course as they are to being spoken to all day in that mangled, braying quack in which their compatriots communicate, will readily trust, and apparently buy things from, the Irish. I don't understand this. Surely if the world relates one thing to the Irish race, it's drunkenly trying to flog shoddy merchandise or labour? Who among you can say truthfully, that when someone says the word 'Irish', you don't immediately form a mental image of a red-haired, profoundly bladdered man, wearing a grubby overcoat with a pig under his arm? I know I do. But apparently there are enough people willing to trust a race who've spent the last century or two scamming our colonisers and the richer peoples of the world to warrant a burgeoning trade in outsourced call centres. It's so easy to get a job in one of these establishments, where one can do anything from broadband tech support to selling legal books that I, a self-confessed malingering bastard, have never had to actually try and get a job. I swanned into the interview for this one half-cut, and now sell holidays to the general population. No-one seems to have a problem with this.
There is, of course, a downside. The downside to this particular job, aside from having to listen to the English nyam at me all day, is that I have a little too much time on my hands. And being as the good people who run this joint don't let you read- heaven forfend - anything but The Sun's website, I might as well keep my hands occupied and tap some scribblings into a computer. This may even become a regular occurence if I could be arsed. You have been warned.
Fuckit, a manager approaches. Time to look busy. Although not too busy. That's how they know you're not working.
Anyways, all the best
-Jim
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