Disc-location

So, having been off for two weeks, my colleagues were amazed to find that I had not watched any daytime television. So, how did I achieve this?

Well, aside from a few non-physical projects, it has involved a lot of films in one format or another. I treated myself to a trip to the cinema, have my own collection of DVDs and Blurays, and digital copies. And all of them vary in quality.

We are being convinced by movie studios that we need quality. We have to have Bluray in full 1080p high-definition. And yet the technologists are going the opposite way, finding smaller and more portable ways in which to consume our media. So my little netbook doesn't even have a diskdrive, let alone one compatible of playing Blurays, and my smartphone can play pretty much any codec on a 5" screen, which is only 1/100th the size of some domestic screens these days.

So, what should I do? Digital is the future, clearly. The idea that we are going to carry around vast boxes of discs when we can store hundreds of films on a 1tb hard drive just 3.5" wide means that unless physical can offer something other in competition it loses out on portability and convenience. But to what extent to I compromise on quality?

Yes I may be able to fit hundreds of films on my hard-drive on my home computer, but if I used a 'pure' codec I may only get a dozen on my netbook, and a single film may not fit on my smartphone.  And why would I need it to? It's not as though I'm going to benefit hugely from full 1080p high definition on a screen that simply does not have that resolution. And that's before even considering whether the processing power of the devices can keep up.

Obviously the solution that the movie studios want you to take up is multiple format, particularly whilst 'format-shifting' in the UK is still illegal, meaning you would need to purchase each format again and again: fully lossless high definition discs with bonus content for my home computer and tv; with a lower resolution encoded digital format for my netbook, and an ultra-portable codec for my smartphone.

Yeah, that's not happening.

But it got me thinking about the degree to which we are making our own editorial decision. The producers and directors have gone to great lengths to ensure the quality is just how they want it in the same way as they have selected the shots. Would I sacrifice colour in the same way to save on a bit of diskspace? After all, people used to watch colour films on a black-and-white tv, but that was out of necessity rather than choice, particularly.

And music. I have to say that my ears are simply not sensitive enough to know the difference between a loss-less wav file, and a compressed mp3. But in the same way as my palate is not sensitive enough to taste all the spices in a dish, it does not mean the chef hasn't taken the time to mix and blend them, carefully (perhaps a little too carefully) creating a dish of presumably exquisite taste. But do we stop there? How about the artwork or the cover notes for the album? By buying the download we forgo these for the convenience of NOW, but it doesn't mean they are not an equal contribution to the product. Or does it? Afterall, if we just wanted artwork, we'd buy art?

And in the same way as technology continues with its inexorable progress, so choice doggedly persists. The reports of the death of vinyl were clearly very premature, and still to this day LPs and EPs are released, each with their own individual, very distinct crackle, interfering with the quality of the track. And yet still for many djs they are the weapon of choice, a medium - so it is argued - which offers greater control and versitility, albeit at the potential compromise of both quality AND portability.

And yes, I may be compressing and stripping the quality, but I am not changing the story, or the acting or the direction or the actual filming, I am still retaining the fundamentals of the film or music.

Aren't I?

Getting back to it...

So, today I returned to work.

This week is expected to be my first full, 5-day week in the office since the end of November. Well, assuming I get through the week, that is. That's right, I have avoided a full 5-dayer for around 10 weeks.

I have already discussed how I horribly back-ended myself with holiday last year, allowing me my Parisien escapade before the Christmas break.

And then I got to work a full 6 days and a morning before my medical excitement and, whilst I am not fully recovered, I have to go back some time. Someone suggested I should get a little more leave and break myself in gently with a short week this week - my attitude is that I will see how I go. If I start to struggle, then I may take the end of the week off; but I do have to get back some time, and at some stage I have to work a full five-day-week, so I might as well try for it from the outset.

I didn't want to go back. I have lots of little projects started (non-physical) which I could easily have stayed at home and completed; but I worry about my sick leave record - I don't want too much time off on my file in case either I get a job offer where it would form part of the reference; or in case something else happens to me that needs me to take more sick leave - we only get 4 weeks paid leave in any 12 month period.

But as I say, I have to go back at some stage; and if I'm healthy enough to do bonking over the weekend, then that surely is healthy enough?

And that's a story and a half, that is.

Before Christmas I had a snog with a lad in a nightclub. He was cute, it was good. Well, except that he kept his eyes open when snogging. That breaks one of the rules of kissing. One day I will set down the rules of kissing for all. But one of the rules is that once you know who you are kissing, you close your eyes.

Anyhow, we remained in contact, and were supposed to go for Sunday lunch had my appendix not exploded. But it got postponed and occurred this weekend. Well, not the Sunday lunch, but our reconvening. We each knew the other were to be out on Friday night, and the instant we saw each other in the bar we clasped.

All well and good, he came back and we had a lot of fun. Eventually. It was a bit of a struggle to get three fingers in at first, but we got there. Anyway, I gave him some sausage in the morning (by way of a good hearty sandwich, obviously) and he was off out into the wide world.

Was I to see him again? Well, we were under no misapprehension. He was transferring university away, and would be close by to me infrequently at best. So it was going to be fun whilst it lasted, but that was all.

But then he texted me on Saturday night. Now, this is the problem of living so close to town: I can receive a text at quarter-past eleven and be in a club in town - washed and changed - before midnight. Now, the text simply said that he wanted to meet me, and I said I was at home watching a film. He said we could either meet in town or he could come round mine.

I made the decision.

Despite being somewhat tired, and halfway through a film, I wanted to go out. I knew off Facebook that some of the footballers were out. I hadn't been invited, and I quite like going out with other people on those occasions to make a point - to show that I have other friends if they are going to snub me. And this was probably the key factor.

So I arranged to meet the boy just outside the club and (eventually) he turned up and we went in. And yes, he was a boy. He did that very cute thing when I asked how old he was he said "Nineteen... next week."

Looking back at it I should have seen the signs; I should have known. I was, with all the best of intentions, being used slightly. He didn't have anywhere he could stay: because of his position between universities he didn't have a room here; and yet he couldn't go anywhere until Tuesday. So one way or another he had to stay with me or with someone else.

Ultimately it was someone else; and done in a slightly dishonourable way. Yes, we were under no misapprehensions: we were not in a relationship, there could be no relationship. But, in reality, I was on a promise, surely? We'd had sex the night before and here he was wanting to see me again, pestering that he could either come over and stay, or that we could go out together and go back together. But we didn't. He turned round, and directly in front of me started snogging his ex-boyfriend. He had been flitty in the nightclub about him: he had said that he was on the look-out, didn't want a run-in with him so was trying to keep away. In reality he was on the look-out, wanted him, was trying to find him. And I was purely the crutch to use until he could toss me off and lean on someone else.

But I don't make a scene. I went off, on my own. And I'm not bitter about it: I got to have sex with a cute lad; and there was no pretense that we were to go forward together; so was it really any worse that he had another moment with someone else rather than me? No. It was just slightly unfair that is all. And had I wanted to play safe and keep himto myself, I could always have suggested that we stay in at mine.

Of course, the worst thing was then leaving the nightclub to find the footballers queuing outside to get in. They asked me to join them, but I wasn't in the mood. And anyway, they were only grabbing me whilst I was out - they hadn't actually invited me.

Lies, damned lies and fudges

Shall we talk about Gay Marriage?

Or rather, shall we talk about statistics?

Or rather, shall we talk about what people want you to know, about manipulation, about foggyness, about fudge, and - yes -about lies?

I'm not the first; and I am not going to be the authority on it. You can spend decades at university learning about statistics; statistical manipulation; interpretation; flaws; averages - norms etc; deviations; demographics; gaining degree and then masters and then doctorate and then teaching the things and everything that you can do to avoid work.

My last study of statistics was before I went to university to study something other. But university introduced me to 'university perennials': people who can't or won't work. I've met many over the years (few) since I left; and they have different reasons behind continually returning or getting drawn back to university.

Many of those reasons are good, true and honourable. Some are not. I know of people who have done a Masters - and even gone on to do a PhD purely on the basis that they couldn't think of anything else to do. Some have genuinely looked for work and tried hard and simply found nothing. Some have looked for a job in a very limited field, and after a few knock-backs given up. Some have done less well, come to the end of their course and merely scoured prosepectuses for the next course that they could do. Some have tried, really tried, even going for jobs far beneath their skills because - whether in the time-lapse between applying for a degree and completing in the job market has changed; or whether when applying for a degree as a young student you really don't have your eyes set on the ultimate goal and (quite rightly) select a course which you enjoy and in which you will thrive - there are no jobs available when they are released int the world, and there is a glimmer of hope if you have that MA or other letters. There are some who have their eye on their eventual goal: employment by the university and lecturing at the university so that they can pursue their personal passion of research.

But there are those who become lazy, indoctrinated, isolated, insulated. They love a lifestyle where they can get out of bed at 9 (or perhaps later) where they can work when they want, to the plan they want, with occasional deadlines that they can ask to be extended. They don't want to think about appraisals, and targets and clients or customers or taxes or pensions or anything like that. They are cocooned in an environmental establishment where the careers service is a very optional extra-curricular activity.

From my life at university, it is different to some course. Most courses it is difficult to 'break out' of that system. Yes, there is an expectation that end of the course you will go into some gainful employment, but few direct routes. I did law - there, there is an expectation that you will go on to do a post graduate diploma and either follow the route to becoming a solicitor or barrister. There is more than enough careers advice telling you how to do that; considerably less so if you decide that is not your cup of tea. But there isn't the help and assistance actually achieving the ultimate goal: securing that training contract or pupilage. That's down to your own hard work and perseverance. In other courses, unless during your entire course you look around for jobs for which you have skills, hone your skills appropriately to those jobs, and - obviously - are ultimately successful with your application; I can wholly understand how simply easy it is to stay within the cosy education system.

/rant

Anyhow, this takes me a hundred, million miles away from where I was supposed to be arguing. Yes, statistics is a mammouth, huge and diverse subject. But it should be mandatory that someone in every single media outlet be qualified on statistics. Just as they all have a solicitor - or usually a team of solicitors - to ensure that they comply with the press code, libel laws, and data protection and such like; so there should be a statistician there to advise as to what precautionary caveats should be included in any report as to things such as sample size, demogarphic, margin of error, even error on error.

For example, this week I saw there was a media report that "the public overwhelmingly supports gay marriage". And what was the basis for this report?

It was the fact that the hashtag #gaymarriage was trending very highly on Twitter.

So, shall we deconstruct this...

Demographic
Well, it's Twitter. I shall include my own considerations of margin of error here:
The people I follow on Twitter are predominantly under 35; predominantly liberal; predominantly pro-active and ready-to-adopt/adapt (certainly in terms of media); generally more affluent; and predominantly based in or around London.

Now, I know that my sample size (around 100) is very VERY limited and my further arguments will actually work against it being taken seriously; however it is something I have observed quite widely. I live in the heart of England (though if you ask me, it is North in a strict North-South divide). If I ask people round here if they use Twitter, hardly anyone does. Quite a few people have set up accounts but rarely - if ever - use them. I have to say, I was slightly slow on the uptake myself for that very reason (despite having my account since 2007):  it was only when I realised that my London friends used it as their predominant form of communication that I became a much more frequent user. But amongst my many many Northern friends, I think two of them use Twitter frequently.

Again, small sample size, but of the few people I know over 35, they don't use Twitter. My mam and dad have just gotten around to Facebook, which they like because of photo albums. They ain't gonna tweet any time soon. In fact, unless you're someone famous with something (you think you need) to say or someone with something to promote, you're not going to use Twitter. But I've   discussed a lot of this already in a different post as to why people use Twitter.

Anyhow, that's a bit of an idea as to the people who use Twitter. And it was reported in the 'liberal' press - those that are greater users of Twitter.

Bias
This isn't statistics - this is human psychology. Everyone has probably heard the phrase "You do a good thing, they'll tell one person about it; do a bad thing and they tell ten people." I'm not so sure that this is actually true, and having seen some on the internet memes that go around, people are very willing to share good news - humanity as a species is a naturally optimistic one, and despite the vast doom and gloom of the news we probably look forward to the '...and finally' story at the end. Yes we enjoy a good tut and scowl and 'isn't this wrong'; but we love watching a dog skateboard all the more. And it is - very weirdly, counter-culturally the pessimistic side which we seem to emphasize about ourselves. Perhaps it is like those school reports where we were told 'could do better' - actually, we had done very well, but as an English nation we don't want to acknowledge that. But if we have done well, do we not slack off? Achieve less? I suppose that's another subject.

The point I am really trying to make is that we are much more eager to speak out (albeit digitally) where we feel there is an oppression occurring; a minority that needs saving. Those that support the status quo are either absolutely indifferent, not wishing to swim against the current for disturbing the waters; or radicalists whose views will be heard; but could be dismissed. It is those with something to fight for that have something to fight for - those for whom the change matters, makes a difference. Those for whom there is no change, whom still can marry regardless, hav less of a podium to speak from so have to find some other arugment to build themself up with.

We naturally shout up when something is wrong. When it is right, we don't rightly acknowledge when it is...because it's turned out just exactly how it should have turned out.

So there is natural human nature which means the single voices shouts above a reasonable contented murmur.

Sample Size
So, we've already done demographic; what about the sample size? The report was that it was trending high. But trending where? Was it UK only? Was it worldwide?


So, what do you need to trend anyway?

Well, I've just done a quick search. Top trending at this very second in the UK is #NTAs. The National Television Awards. For the UK actually quite a huge thing. And I've just totted up the uses of the hashtags.

500

Of which many were 'media' uses: media sites which tweet this things with a referral to their websites.

500.

Twitter claims to have 500 million accounts worldwide. In the UK it is vague: it has between 7 and 15 million accounts. Now, an account is not the same thing as an active user; and if we assume that 75% of accounts are dormant or fake, that's still a lot of 'active users' most distinctly not tweeting about one of the hottest topics in the UK.

And when we look at actual tweets - which, obviously differ again because many 'active users' will choose not to tweet about a subject; whilst some active users will tweet many times on the same subject.

So, worldwide there are around 200 million tweets per day. In the UK it is around 50 million per day.. So 500 tweets out of 50 millions... well, that's around 1 in 100,000 tweets. Today. And that's a good trend. A 'reasonably decent' trend is in at number ten - #garybarlow. With 45 tweets.

45 Tweets will get you into the top tweets?

And this is when the media pick up on it? If an account were to have 45 followers; and each of them retweet a comment; or hashtag a comment once then it gets into the top ten, it is highly easy to see how rarely the idea of the hashtag has actually been adopted, and how useless they actually are - unless you are a newspaper journalist scrabbling around to find a statistic to confirm your story... which finally brings me to:

Journalism
Everyone has a very biased opinion to put across, journalists particularly who seem to think that their opinion is more worthwhile, more acceptable, more reasearched and therefore more reasonable than anyone else's. And this is th thing about statistics: there is always someone out there who is willing to give you the statistic that you want to corroborate your point of view. All you need to do is find it.

And you may find it in many different sources.

I have to say, the BBC is fantastic both to a good and bad extent. Whilst they are one those who reprint press releases from those with a vested interests; quoting from biased reports funded by institutions with even more of a vested interest; so they also have the Magazine, and the Monitor with a regular feature from Michael Blastland analysing very carefully how unreliable almost every statistic is; and their own letter writers and commentators commenting on how biased or unreliable reports actually are.

So it leaves me with a note of caution - never believe anything.

A tale of two cities. Well, three

It's odd to think that just a month ago today I was arriving back from my little international adventure.

Only a month. In normal times a month takes no time; It's from one payday to the next. It's how we live - our absolute existence reliant upon the regularity. No sooner are we paid than we look forward to the next time, and so we dash time before our very eyes, wishing it away into nothingness with barely a thought for the meaning each moment means to someone, somewhere. And, as we wish more and more of the months away, so we need each one all the more and have fewer and fewer remaining.

But January always seem such a long month. And there are many reasons for this. For a start so much and yet so little happens. From payday in December until the same in January one has such excitements as Christmas, New Year and - if they so tickle you - the January sales. And then? Nothing. And entire absence of excitement, daylight and probably resources, eeking out the days to payday on the barest of existence with not a glimmer of hope until, quite probably, Easter.

In fact it will get worse - much worse - before it gets better, because although the shortest day will have passed and the days are getting longer, still practically every hour of daylight is spent in the office (assuming you are office-based) and the temperature actually continues with its downward plummet and will deteriorate further for a couple of months.

But yes, a month. And I've been trying to get around to blogging about my international getaway for a while. It seems an odd thing, but though I am off work with an injury which restricts my movements, and yet I have struggled to find the moments to tap out these missives.

So, what was my great adventure? And why?

Well, my birthday falls very shortly before Christmas.

It is a rubbish time to have a birthday. My parents now apologise to me for having me when they did. If you ever have the choice, do not have a child in either December or January. The reasons are thus:
December

• Parties are impossible as everywhere is booked up with Christmas parties.
• Even if they are available, they are expensive.
• Friends are busy because they are at Christmas parties
• Or they are busy because they are doing things with various elements of family that they only see once a year and cannot do closer to Christmas because they - or their partners - have other family that thye are having to spend more of their time doing things with
• In the very VERY rare occasion that they are actually available when you try to do something; they have no money with which to do so.

January

• People have no money
• People have taken up some ridiculous New Year resolution of not drinking for January so are reluctant to put themselves out.

Believe me - having a birthday in December, despite the best endeavours to organise nights out, pub crawls, parties and such like; none has ever been too successful. I once combined my birthday celebrations with those of a friend from football and together we managed to gather together seven of us - the two of us and five other friends - for a night out. Amazing. It was worse at school/university because my birthday would fall during the holidays when everyone had gone home so I couldn't celebrate with my friends as they were scattered around the country in any event.

Well, last year was my thirtieth birthday. The big 30. And people started asking early on what I was to do. They said that I had to do something big, something spectacular. Well, it is the big three-oh. Regardless of the fact that it is merely the passing of a number, a different day in the calendar, in essense the closest thing that we get to celebrating the fact we have not died over the preceding year, I was to have some fantasitical event. I have, obviously, previously waxed about our celebrations of trivialities but there was an expectation on me to do something.

And it started early on - one of my friends has her brithday in January, and she mentioned to me at her celebration that I needed to organise something very early on because of the timing and the risk that everywhere would get booked up quickly. So at that point I made a decision: I would do nothing. Well, not that I would do nothing, but more that I would do nothing that inconvenienced others. I would celebrate, but in my own way, in a way which involved me and me alone. And so I made a plan.

NEW YORK.

Around Easter my mother suggested that I needed to start organising things as well. By that point a very sketchy plan was already forming in my head and I made a very brief mention of my intention to get away. Within a matter of moments I had a text off of my sister to say that if I did go anywhere I was to let her know and she would come with me. A similar thing occurred with another friend - I suggested my intention was just to run away from it all and she said she would follow. Well, that was too much. Already people were inviting themselves along on something which I had specifically designed to involve as little external involvement as possible.

And so it was that an absolute veil came down over any plans - I would have my moment but I would have so in absolute secrecy. In fact it became a challenge. I had to do as much as I absolutely could do - every single moment planned as comfortably as possible; yet with absolutely no-one else knowing a single thing that was happening.

I am a very organised person. I may have mentioned this before, but I am not one of those people that can just 'go' somewhere with no idea what I want to see. But I am organised in my way - I have to research. I don't just buy the Lonely Planet guide and tick the bits off. I'm on the web (because it is free) searching hundreds, thousands of sites to make sure that I don't miss anything - those special, hidden, unknown 'local-only' experiences. And I need to know where they are. So I plot them - I get a map of the area, and I work out where all of the various locations are. And they all get marked down, using a very careful alpha-numeric key and legend. And then they get colour-coded depending on what 'day' they fall into. Because I plan the route-of-best-fit to all the places. And then the bars that I want to go to get plotted out on an identical, though separate map. Obviously just in case I get drunk and leave the map behind somewhere.

Shut up.

I know it is sad.

But this did enable me to cover over 30 different places (we got past EE on the legend to the map) over the course of 5 days, whilst spending one day recovering from my actual birthday, in New York. And I cheated a bit. I did some of the pink events on a blue day.

But, so it was that I had my full plan of events laid out to me and me alone. Everyone was expecting me to do something (yet distinctly not committing to attending anyting that I had organised) most particularly because my birthday fell on a Saturday. And so I started conjuring my illusion. I told all my family that I was spending the weekend with various groups of friends, and therefore had to have the family meal on the Wednesday before; whilst for my friends I told them I has having various family-related events with it being the hugely massive three-oh that they had 'bigged-it' up to be.

I went for the family meal on the Wednesday night, and then on the Thursday I fled the country, after the most inconvenient morning ever. My father turned up at my house for some reason. Picking up many of his tools or something. I had to explain that I had taken the morning off for some reason - using up holiday; expected hangover or such like. I had to leave for my bus to the airport whilst he was still in the house - smuggling out my suitcase which was clearly non-work related; whilst he was suggesting that due to the inclement weather (it had started bucketing it down with rain outside) he should give me a lift to the train station to get the train to work. I somehow managed to decline, and got to the bus depot and then the airport with no further incident.

And ended up in New York for my thirtieth birthday.

And it was the best thing I could have done for it. It was the absolute perfect solution to an otherwise impossible problem. I had the single most phenomenal time I could have hoped for, and anything small, local, domestic-and-distinctly-non-international could only have been a disappointment. And that's even if people had turned up.

But it set a seed.

This was the seed to get away, spend my birthday doing 'me' things, but mostly doing 'me' things where I know absolutely no-one else.

And so the plan started for this year. It was the bigger-in-number-yet-strangely-less-celebratory three-one. And New York had been done. So something closer, more accessible and (after the various credit card statements) considerably cheaper. And so I decided upon Paris.

Only this time I did it differently. For a start I told my parents. I got such an ear-bashing (via voicemail) from me mother when I was in New York about not telling them I was absconding that I decided it would be easier to tell them this time. And it destroyed the secrecy, the mystery, and my private build-up to the event. I know with New York I didn't - I couldn't - get excited about it beforehand so it all hit me the moment I got to the airport. But it was more that I was doing so knowing that nobody else in the entire world knew what I was up to - that mystique was gone, that cheeky schoolboy knowing that he's planning something that he's not supposed to be.

And then there was the timing - whilst the previous year my birthday had fallen on the Saturday, because of the way the years work it was on a Sunday this year. Not a great day; and were I to do similar to New York, I'd have to celebrate more on the Saturday which wasn't my birthday. Add to this that I have somehow acquired a tradition of a pre-Christmas trip down to London to see friends; and unfortunately the only opportunity that we were all suitably able to come to was my birthday weekend. Now, it was a mixed blessing: I needed to be in London for the (rather suitably reduced price) Eurostar train I needed to get over to Paris; but it also meant that I spent my actual birthday in, and between, cities: as the clock turned midnight I was in a London nightclub, and by the time the clock turned midnight again I would be in a Parisien Jazz club. I'd organised everything exactly the same; there were just three differences: location, timing and disclosure.

But it didn't realistically affect the weekend. I still had a most marvellous time in a city I haven't visited since I was  young teenager. And it was a lovely getaway for someone who rarely getsaway properly. And I knackered myself out in doing so, walking a hundred million miles and sleeping little in a hostel dorm of over a dozen.

And if you are wondering as to my style of writing today, I am watching The Mystery of Edwin Drood and have taken on some of the Dickensian language for some reason as yet unknown.

Give him an inch...

So, Simon Schama's been spouting off again. It doesn't surprise me. He's a very noisy chap who seems to do whatever he can to maximise self-publication; whether by bandwagonning or by purely incendricising debates.

You can have an opinion, and a nice, reasonable, quietly held opinion is a rather private affair. But in order to get your opinion heard and considered you don't just have to put it out there, you have to force for it to be received: merely laying it on the floor where someone may tred is not enough; you either need to attract attention to it; to put it in the way of people so they cannot avoid it; or to cause sufficient offense, disruption or simple curiousity that people will go out of their line of least resistance to at least investigate it, or hopefully agree or attack.

And this is the case with perfectly reasonable views. One way to get your very, very ordinary and uncontrovertial is to compare any contrasting view - again, quite possibly very reasonable - to something so disgustingly perverse that they have to respond. Eastenders is nothing without some sort of slanging match. And so it is that the easiest method to get any form of publicity for whatever you are doing is to compare an opposition to Hilter - that ultimate of evil. The association may be so far detached, so remote so as to actually be ridiculous; but at least people are listening to you if only to be able to shout back in your face.

And this is perhaps the most common way of drawing attention - setting fire to your argument so that people see the flames and the smoke and go and have a look.

The other is simply to use something which is the darling of the moment and - again, usually inflammatorily - somehow attach your argument to it. And it is this device which Schama has used to obtain the lead headline on the BBC Entertainment news website. Downton Abbey is currently being lauded by anyone who can get their voice heard above the hubbub. It is the done thing to heap praise upon it because it has proven so publically popular; and if you question that then you are a snob, or you are miffed that someone beat you to it or overlooked your own attempt. If you don't agree, you are either out of touch, or you are sucking sour grapes. And the critics don't want that - they want to be seen as normal, the voice of the people. Yes, I - as your reviewer - liked Downton, and therefore you can respect my view and tastes of these other items for your consideration... And so it is that when something reaches such a fever as Downton, these reviewers are outdoing themselves with superfluities, always trying to heap more praise than their immediate rival on it to over-validate their opinon.

And so it is that, in order to publicise something or other, Schama has done both - he has bandwagonned onto the cultural apogee of the moment; and thrown his tiny firecracker into that spotlight, picking the launch of the second series - where he is currently lecturing - to put wind in his sails.

His argument really holds no weight - on the one hand he criticises it for being inaccurate - it has never claimed to be accurate and regularly plays the artistic licence joker - yet in reality the innaccuracies he points out are mere triffles based on his own supposition of character traits or the financial stability of the house. On the otherhand he simply confirms that most of the portrails of anachronistic language and etiquete are pretty accurate. He seems actually to have more of a concern with the story-writing and the character creation than he does of the historical perspective. Which is odd because he speaks from the point of view of a professor in history, rather than an acclaimed playwrite or fictional author.

I have no particular problem with the tactics and I have seen them used and abused far worse, often by 'green' protesters or health lobbyists who will pick absolutely anything that is the zeitgeist to attach their argument too, very frequently very feebly.

I think my main problem is that I don't know why he is drawing attention to himself - what it is that he is aiming to achieve or pubicise out of it? But then perhaps is it a slightly shrewd move by the creators of the advertising for the programme to pay him to speak out to obtain a few free column inches of publicity.

Which appears to have worked.

Of hacking, tracking and back-tracking

So, the Leveson Inquiry is rattling on with its various commentators as to the morals, ethics and legality (or lack thereof) of methods used by the UK media to investigate what may or may not be legitimate intrusions into the private lives of public figures.

I have covered a lot of the discussions as to what is a public figure, a private life, and a legitimate intrusion when I considered Super Injunctions here and I'm not going over them again, or the behaviour of the journalists. My discussion is over language.

Take 'hacking'. Essentially, what the journalists have done is not 'hacking' in the technical term. A hack is an invasive or destructive intervention into a system. You access the bits of the hardware, firmware or software that you are not supposed to get access to, and use that in order to access data or perform functions by circumventing security measures. That isn't what was done.

The journalists have used a perfectly legitimate passcode to access voicemails, using the standard voicemail retrieval system in exactly the way in which the system was designed. There is no illegal tampering with the software, there is no subjugation of the system or even stealing of passwords. All they did was try the default passcode for the system and were successful where the true owner of the account had not changed it.

Now, the mere fact that it is not a technical hack does not make it a legal interception. There are a number of pieces of legislation which stipulate that accessing information left on a voicemail which is not your account and which is not intended for you is illegal. As an analogy, take a cashcard with PIN. The fact that the account owner may have left a slip of paper with the PIN on it with the card does not suddenly entitle you to the money in the account - it is still a theft of somethine which does not belong to and was not intended for you; but what it does is absolve the bank of any liability for the account access because a legitimate card with legitimate PIN has been used. Now, a hack would involve a clone of the card; or intereference with the bank software or hardware that means that the proper PIN does not need to be used or could be changed to one of the criminal's desire.

But 'hack' has been adopted by the very devil what did it. Why? Well, it's an easy phrase. It's short, abrupt, it sounds as evil and nasty as the actual act, and is something simple that the public can relate to. And it's a fudge - it's not quite the right description; but it's pretty damned close enough and nothing else really comes any closer unless you're going to use a paragraph to discuss and explain it. And so, having been uncomfortably melded into a hole that wasn't really correct for it, it has now adopted its new persona.

And this is the flexibility, fluidity of language. Go back hundreds of years and you will see that we use language for far different meanings from those that they used to be used for. And we should never consider an 'original' use of any word, because it is so impossible to identify and single source of a word. The Oxford English Dictionary has a database where it records all uses of words, first appearances - but it does so crucially in a particular 'form'.

What we are seeing is the escalation of adaptability, fudgeness, and plain abuse of definition and intention. The internet has ensured that what once took decades to occur because of the time-lapse in publishing and distribution of texts can happen instantly, and isn't edited by someone who thinks they know better than the author. Just as flashmobs evolve from a genesis, a mere thought, to half a community turning out within hours; so language can adapt instantanously. And you see it very quickly with the 'kids on the street' for whom - at the time of writing - "sick" is falling out of fashion. But whereas to my parents sick was something of revulsion or disgust, these days "sick" has been adopted in a full about-turn to express impress, desire or enthusiasm; almost as a perverse desire of the new users to directly confuse other users, but more to adopt language as their own - it isn't about damaging or denegrating language, it is about taking ownership and using creativity over it.

One of the reasons that people hate 'kidspeak' and this 'abuse' of language, is the lack of control that they have had over it; and the rapidity with which it has occurred. If it is a slow, insipid adjustment people don't even realise that it is happening; they just come to accept that it has happened - but then I have discussed the human condition regarding change on many, many occasions. But the main thing is the lack of control. The people who complain are people who regard themselves as better educated, and therefore more able, responsible to act in a position to act as controller, editor-in-chief of the language than these unqualified whipper-snappers who have no knowledge of the history of the word. But is there a need for a knowledge of the history? If they like the word then surely the mere fact that they are experimenting and using words should be encouraged? And, in due course, as well as giving the language new meaning they will learn any history associated with the word - learning by insipid osmosis.

People may see reflections of the recent Waterstones decision to abandon its apostrophe; but really it is quite different - that is about an entity deciding what it wants to be called. What would be different is if other people decided what it was to be called, or known for, or used as. Yes, it may have made the decision to drop the apostrophe as it is trying to 'move with the times' and that its apostrophe was 'no longer practical in modern times' - well, it may think so, but that only extends as far as its own apostrophe. It doesn't spell a wide change in punctuation use, not the death of the apostrophe as we know it; all it is is a slight branding trend in pretty much the same way as the most recent branding trends have included the use of entirely lower-case letters, often in a sans serif, very simplified font with a minimalised palette.

I have a rather fascinating book on the subject called The Etymologicon: A Circular Stroll Through the Hidden Connections of the English Language by Mark Forsyth which I cannot wait to read to give me a history of the meanings of the language; if not necessarily the reasonings behind the adoption of such meanings.

Destruction of anatomy

So, it's been an exciting few days and is good to have a sit down.

Do, please, when reading that load it very heavily with sarcasm.

What this is, is an exercise in not using the internet to self-diagnose. I'm sure I would not be in this position were it not for Wikipedia.

So, I went to work on Wednesday. I started feeling a bit funny on the train, but I put this down to having a bit of a jog on my recently consumed porridge. But then it started feeling a little worse. Nothing hugely odd about that - the previous day I had eaten a bit of pork which had been in the fridge for around a week. It hadn't seemed bad at the time, but even at the point of eating it I was a little wary. So it must have been that. Or the prawns - I had prawns that evening which I had fried lightly in butter, herbs and lemon juice and tossed into pasta. Perhaps I hadn't quite heated them through properly - they were precooked, then frozen, but even then it can still go wrong.

So I put it down to an upset stomach and ploughed on to work, where I worked diligently for as long as I could. But it got to lunchtime and I didn't feel like lunch. I didn't feel like anything. I just wanted to curl up. So I made my excuses and went home. I say 'went home' - it takes me 25 minutes to get from work to the train station; then around an hour on two trains, then another 20 minutes walk home from the train station. 2 hours of discomfort until I could crawl into bed. But crawl I did.

I had a phone conversation about my stomach cramps with my friend on the other side of the world. As you do. She had suffered with something similar around New Year and described it as the Crazy International Virus as her dad had contracted something similar over Christmas in Spain. So I had caught a bug from Spain via New Zealand over Skype.

But that was it. I'm never one to make too much of being poorly. I hate being poorly at the best of times. Sick days should be for shopping. Well, that was the policy of one of my ex's - he always thought sick days should be spent shopping, only he couldn't shop in his home town in case anyone from his workplace saw him. Karma caught up in due course, obviously, and having taken a sick day to do Christmas shopping ("Everyone else at work has at least a couple of sick days a year, I should have a couple of days off") he was promptly poorly on Christmas day. My policy is much more along my dad's lines - you are given by good grace a specific number of holidays to do with what you choose; and you are expected to work the remainder of your time unless you are incapable. Just because other people flaunt the rules, doesn't make it correct.

But I generally am a terrible patient. Even where I am incapable of doing work-work, if I am off poorly, I don't enjoy wallowing in bed or lounging around on the sofa. I'm still tidying, or cleaning, or anything that I can do, quite probably to distract myself from my poorliness. It doesn't mean I'm not poorly - I am, and I am usually hindering my progress. Nor does it mean that I'm not thinking everything under the sun is wrong with me: on this occasion I had a very real concern that this was, in fact, bowel cancer or something similarly terminal. Well, it didn't happen that way. I did just curl up in bed, hoping to fever out whatever nastiness had accompanied the pork into me.

Anyhow, that was Wednesday - general discomforting, increasing to considerable discomfort almost certainly food-poisoning.

And then on Thursday it developed. The 'generalisation' disappeared over time, localising itself to my right-hand side. This was odd. This wasn't a general bad-belly. This wasn't a Crazy International Virus. This was something quite particular. And so the netbook came out and Wikipedia was dragged into life. As it had localised over my right side I immediately thought this could be appendicitis. No huge bain - people get appendicitis all the time, surely? It's just a niggle. It often sorts itself out, doesn't it?

Well, this is where the internet is possibly both a daemon and a saint. Whilst it confirmed almost certainly for me that it was appendicitis; what it also did was increase my concern - if this wasn't treated quickly and the thing burst, the risks of mortality were very high. Very high? How the devil could that be? This was my own body working against me. But it powered me into action, and I dragged my fettid, infested, self-destroying body down to the doctors. I told them I thought it was appendicitis. The student doctor told me he thought it was appencitis. He then told the doctor he thought it was appendicitis. The doctor then told me he thought it was appendicitis and packed me off into an ambulance to go to hospital for the hospital to tell me they thought it was appendicitis.

Now, that all sounds very smooth and urgent. An ambulance possibly wasn't strictly necessary; however this is another example of external forces rubbing in how single I am, in that had I a partner they would have been the one to take me. As it was I had to lie reasonably motionless on the doctor's couch for around 2 hours waiting for an emergency ambulance because they had determined that I was in no fit state to get the bus.

Anyhow, eventually I got to hospital, though only after my parents had arrived, bringing news of the deliciousness of their fish and chips.

Let me put their remarks into proper context.

On the Wednesday I had had my breakfast. I didn't fancy my lunch and was trekking to get the train in any event so a cup-a-soup would not have been ideal. I didn't feel like eating when I got in. On Thursday I started feeling a little more peckish, but wasn't really in the mood to prepare anything for myself, other than drinks. So I hadn't eaten for a long while, despite starting to feel hungry. So I was obviously delighted that they had a delicious fish supper.

I had also had my last drink around 4pm before setting off to the doctors. The doctors considered that I may get assessed quickly and potentially operated on quite soon, so they wanted to retain my nil-by-mouth status; as did everyone in hospital. It's just such a shame that I didn't actually get assessed until 1am. There it was confirmed that it was appendicitis and that an operation was required. There I was given a window of one hour to eat before returning to nil-by-mouth, but the nurses did me proud with their scavaging.

So it was that I had a confirmed diagnosis and a sandwich and a flapjack. And ultimately an operation. In hospital I am actually an incredibly good patient. I appreciate that the doctors and nurses do a difficult, usually altruistic job throughout the day and night, and there is absolutely no reason why I should do anything to make it any more difficult. And I don't get nervous about being put under general anaesthetic; so there I was having a joke with all the people in the antechamber to the operating theatre; and as soon as I was brought round I was doing what I could to assist, albeit without my pants which had gone somewhere during the operation.

But the operation was done and I awoke and recovered very quickly. Indeed I was ready to return to the ward within 15 minutes. Unfortunately the ward wasn't ready for my return for four hours; a very convenient 15 minutes after dinner had been served. They offered me sandwiches, but I was all sandwiched out. Fortunately my mother came to my rescue with some stew and all was good.

Now, my 'perfect patient' routine can work somewhat counter-productive. For example, my tendency not to bother the nurses results in me getting up to get my own drinks; which leads to nurses dropping whatever they are doing to chase after me to castigate me for getting out of and risking my stitches. And so it was the case when I was to attempt to recover my belongings. You see, when they took me for my operaion they did so from ward C31. When they returned my, it was to E14. Without my bag, my laptop, my mobile, or my pants. It took me around six hours to recover my life, considerably longer than it took for me to recover my senses.

That night in the hospital was an eye-opener. It was going to be difficult anyway, as I was being woken up every couple of hours for my observations to be ... observed. But I was on a ward with five other people - one quite a bit older Polish chap; and four extremely old chaps. Aside from myself, the least problematic of the patients was the very old chap next to me who was so unresponsive the only problems that occurred were when his machines stopped beeping. The Polish chap managed to set an alarm off by smoking in the toilets. The other old chaps were, in turn, racist, offensive, problematic, and plain obnoxious to the nurses. It was cringeworth to hear a patient refusing to be treated by a 'foreigner'; or another to ask why his 'rights' as a patient were being ignored, apparently on the basis that he wasn't getting 24 hour, one-on-one nursing from his favourite nurse.

Breakfast time couldn't come soon enough. And soon after was the assessment that I was fit to leave - fortunately after the lunch order had already been taken, ensuring that I would at least have one proper meal in hospital.

And so it was that I returned to normality. Well, a form of normality. I am off work for the next two weeks whilst I recover; and I have to cope with my mother and father regularly 'dropping by' and fussing me to the point of annoyance. And I have a few new scars and a little less hair now as a reminder of the excitement. And nothing else planned.

But already I have had the urge to pick up a hammer...

We apologise for the delay....

So, I really want to blog: I have a lot of topics on which I want to blog. But let me explain (quickly) reasons why I haven't been able to much.

Firstly my mobile device has been off for repair. This means that I can't currently blog on the train. Well, the device got returned to me at the weekend; but they neglected to return the charger so although I have it I can't use it.

Then, of an evening, I am concentrating on my DIY. Tonight I am taking a break from stripping the ceiling in the spare room of paper (don't ask) and paint, in order to finish off the new doorframe downstairs. I have a damned determination to finish the spare room off before Easter so I can, as usual, spend the summer concentrating on the garden.

Any spare time that I have at home elsewise - having eaten or before I go to bed - I have been concentrating on tidying up my c.v. and searching for and applying for new jobs. This has to be a priority for me.

If I'm not doing that then I am working on one of my projects - I have one particular one that needs a lot of tidying and then is ready to go - or having a bit of 'me' time tinkling on the piano.

And this is on top of leaving the house at 6:30am and not getting back until just before 7pm; still having to cook and keep the house clean, and being unable to do any of my personal projects - including applying for jobs and this blog - at work for obvious reasons.

Were I to get a new job, that would have double benefit - by reducing the amount of time I am out of the house, as well as ticking 'get new job' off the above list.

So hopefully it is slightly understandable why the blog has taken a slightly back-foot in the same way as doing some of my exercising and other little projects; although as soon as I get my charger I shall hopefully be able to maximise my train journey time by getting back to my usual rants.

Wrong but for all the right reasons

Normal service should hopefully resume next week when I get my device back that allows me to blog on the train.

However, in the meantime, I've been mulling things over. A while ago (quite a while ago actually) I had a rant . It didn't sit particularly pretty with me at the time and it hasn't since. And there are a few reasons for this.

Firstly, obviously, a lot of the points that I picked on aresimply not fair. They are not something that anything can be done about. Physical attributes and behaviourisms are not thing that can be changed, or at least not easily. Indeed nor are the majority of them faults: just because I find the behaviour annoying, that doesn't make it wrong, or even irritating to anyone else. In fact, some will find those behaviourisms cute, funny, quirky. And who am I to rant about them anyway? It's not as though I don't have at least as many, probably more, behaviourisms which actually are irritating or just plain rude. And I have the most faults of anyone that I know, so why should I be the one to start pointing out anyone else's faults? Those in glass houses and all that. And yes, in the posting I did identify that I have faults, and yes I know I caveatted and precied the post at the time with lots of lovely sentiment; but the ripping of shreds far outweighed any attempt to deflect the blows (in a horrible mash-up of metaphors), certainly in that post (though I did make a pathetic attempt at reparation in the latter posting).

But as well as being simply unfair, I was ungentlemanly in the manner in which I handled it too. And I think it is this that grates on me more than anything. Yes, by all means be irritated at people - some people do just end up rubbing you up the wrong way - and yes, vent spleen about it; but do so in an appropriate manner. Was a blog posting the correct forum? I had already had private conversations, counselling opinion from friends as to the state of the relationship and the irritations that befell me; and I had already ranted away at them. And again, the blog was reasonably anonymous - neither I nor the victim were specifically identified in it. But I knew - or at least should have known - that the victim would read the post. Perhaps that is why I did it - dissatisfied at being prevented from saying what I wanted to say in person I found an alternative method to get the message over? Subconsciously reactive?

And I whilst I was wrong in my method; there was an underlying reason behind my frustrations. Bear in mind I had just had to spend almost a week away with the football team where I was unable to escape from my ex cavorting around with someone I knew.

I may have been the person that broke up the relationship; but that doesn't exempt me from feeling hurt. There seems to be this ridiculous notion that if you precipitate the break-up, anything your ex does is fair play and you have to like it - you are not allowed to feel pain too, because it's all your fault. And whilst the old adage "I don't want you, but I don't want anyone else to have you" wasn't true; it could more accurately have been written as "I don't want you; and you are free to go off and move on with someone else; just don't do so in such immediate circumstances for such a long period of time whilst I am unable to avoid it." It's probably hardly surprising that over the holiday I was the only footballer to play away - I needed the to work off the anxiety, the tension, and to get out of that bluddy hotel.

Breaking up may well have been a release for me, but like firing an elastic band into water, the fingers still smart somewhat, and the water splashes back. No-one comes out of a relationship entirely unscathed; otherwise what did the relationship mean to either of them?

But mayhaps a blog openly available to the public; albeit not directly identifyable as me; may not have been the best way. There is a lot of discussion around at the moment about how social norms have struggled to keep pace with 'new media' and technology. One day we will just call it media. But the immediacy and openness of Twitter and such like cause many, many problems for people. I know of many people who have problems at work because of it, or journalists who can post things anonymously but not report them publically and such like. But my blog is my vent - it allows me to think my thoughts out loud, work things through and come to my own conclusions. It is pretty much a stream of consciousness, put down by me and for me, but openly so that anyone who wanders past can have a look in. It isn't actively or garishly put out there to gain attention or cause controversy; it just exists, like a diary left out knowing your mother will probably look through it.

So, why not delete it? Indeed, why draw futher attention to it? As to the latter I do not know - again, this is just something I feel I need to get off my chest. But I don't delete things. Things occur, you cannot simply erase them. The sticking plaster may cover the wound doesn't cover the pain, and the scar will always remain. It may have been moved but that was for an entirely unassociated reason. Rather than paper over the cracks and pretend they don't exist, it is much more important to look at the foundations and see why the cracks occurred.

And anyway, we have both moved on since then. Maybe I have grown up a bit like my mother is always telling me to. But probably not.

New Year, new...

So, it's the day after New Year's Day.

New Year, new start, new life, new routine, new toothbrush etc.

And it is as daft as that.

Everyone seems to make New Year resolutions. I don't. But I do seem to have developed a new year routine of sorts. I think it started after I moved into my house. Since then I have had control over everything within my castle and have exercised that control. And that, for some reason, means that at New Year I enter into extreme nesting mood.

Now, this year was an odd year. With tI have already made mention muchly of my lack of festivity. I won't say festive spirit of itself was entirely devoid - I did listen to the music, wrap the presnets, watch the movies etc. but I had barely a tree. And I know I have covered the reasons behind this already so I will not start the new year by retreading old ground.

But, the lack of tree and - finally - absolutely completing the bathroom, enabled me to be tidy for the first time in months. The scaffolding for the roof was gone, the mess was gone, the bathroom was finally all tiled and tidied and could therefore be given a final clean and tidy; along with the entire house.

And so it is that it started - the entire house had to be cleaned, the bathroom given the deepest scrub it could be given, even weeding had to be done. It even extended to me clearing out my lists, checking everything off, uploading everything that I could into albums, and all before the clocks struck midnight on New Year's Eve. Despite resolutely never making new year resolutions I seem to have fallen into a new year tradition. Or, more particularly, a pre-new year tradition.

For some reason.

Why do we attach such ridiculous emotive attachement and expectation to what is, in reality, just another day in the calendar? Yes, it may be the first day in the calendar, but why should that make it all the more special? We do the same with Christmas. Ignore any religious sentiment behind Christmas - it was long a celebration of mid-winter before religion hijacked it; and as religion loses its social significance it is returning to a celebration of that which we have: though these days it is money rather than mere sustenence.

Yet we spend all that money on celebrating a nothingness. The day has no significance for us than that which we give it ourselves. I watched a particularly rubbish 'festive' one-off comedy, where one of the characters was obsessed by her 'family traditions'. But these were merely gathered routines with associations - she attached nothing of significance to any of the other activities which she did on a regular basis but were so fripperous to attach any significance to - they simply did not become 'traditions'.

And it is the same with New Year. I spent a dreadful amount of time on New Year's Eve cleaning, tidying, even throwing things out that I will never use to ensure that as the clock struck twelve my bathroom needed not a touch, my lounge was spotless, even all the washing had been done and put away.

New year, new start.

And yes, new toothbrush. New razor (though that happens at the first of every month anyway). New mayonnaise, new soap, new deodorant, new toothpaste, new all sorts of everything. And I thought that each and every time. And routines as well as things. New year, new routine. So I'm washing up every night rather than a couple of times a week; and a number of other such things.

So I myself have started attaching significance to the day other than simply the bank holiday which it should have become.

But it is good. Because otherwise we shall drift through life attaching significance to nothing. If we can't attach significance to insignificance - the mere change of a calendar - what can we attach significance to? The only other things are very personal to ourselves, like birthdays, to which others attach practically nothing. We just plod along from day to day to day for nothing. The only plans we would make would be mundane or in extremis. The New Year is just the jolt that most of us need to restart our lives. If it wasn't for that, then when would we make the plans to change jobs, move house, decorate the kitchen, start a diet, be more healthy, stop smoking, learn a new language or such like?

I realise that I am the ultimate dichotomy for a number of reasons, but mostly because my love of the regular, of the routine, doesn't affect my adoption of change. And for exemple of new year new start, and my love of the routine, one of the bars I used to go to on a regular basis has closed. On various nights I used to go to one, few, many or all of some four pubs: Central, Jaceys, the Mill, and AD2. And last night the last of those closed. They are gone. And I don't know if it is a good thing or a bad thing. At one stage each of them were the life of the party; and yet, by the end they were each scraping their arses on the ground to find a penny. And yet, just down the road is the Trip to Jerusalem, a pub which has existed since 1189. There is a stage at which a bar can make an income purely from its tradition, but until then it needs to innovate to compete.

But, if it means that things get done, that life progresses, then why not?