BBC: England lead Ashes after epic win
England wobbled before holding their nerve at Trent Bridge to beat Australia by three wickets and lead an Ashes series for the first time since 1997.
OK, I stand corrected, maybe it isn’t such a crap game after all. When you’re WINNING, I mean.
Come on you whites!
Oh my, this is embarrassing:
Last weekend, I was going through some files on my old computer, when I came across an image from that time I got my head stuck in my scanner. I’d forgotten all about it, and now that the traumatic event is well behind me, the image seemed pretty funny, so I decided to print a copy.
Just as I clicked the Print button, however, there was this freak flash of lightning outside the window and, well, I’m not quite sure what happened, but… How can I put it? Erm…
Have you ever seen that film Weird Science, where two testosterone-drenched teenagers use their computer to manufacture themselves the perfect woman? Well, let’s just say that the plot wasn’t anywhere near as fantastical as I had previously believed:
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am those two testosterone-drenched teenagers, and I am Kelly LeBrock (and I had inadvertently set the Number of copies to unlucky 13).
Just look what happened!
An Embarrassment of Richards: Me and my 13 accidental clones last weekend. (Click image for larger version.)
BBC: ‘Men cleverer than women’ claim
Academics in the UK claim their research shows that men are more intelligent than women. A study to be published later this year in the British Journal of Psychology says that men are on average five points ahead on IQ tests…
Their research was based on IQ tests given to 80,000 people and a further study of 20,000 students.
Can you believe that, in this day and age, serious academics still have faith in the concept of a so-called Intelligence Quotient?
The human brain is the product of millions of years of evolution, it has approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000 synaptic connections, and is the most complex structure in the known universe. We have yet to come up with even a satisfactory definition of its most intriguing emergent property, consciousness, let alone an explanation for it. The human mind is capable of totally amazing things, like working out how to create fire, bake a cake, or write the latest Harry Potter novel; it can experience love, hatred, joy, boredom, and a thousand other emotions; it can solve problems, create music, learn from experience, and imagine things that aren’t there. Not one of us (brain surgeons excluded) has the faintest idea what it is like to be inside another person’s head.
And these people think they can measure our intelligence with a single number.
I heard one of them trying to justify the concept of IQ on the radio earlier this week. He explained that a number of indicators of intelligence were factored into IQ scores, such as verbal reasoning and spacial co-ordination (a skill not uncommon in gibbons, I understand). His main justification went something along the lines of, these tests are scientific because all the other IQ scientists use them (I didn’t catch his exact words, because I was too busy shouting at the radio at the time). You could use similar reasoning to prove that god must exist because so many people go to church.
The fact that men’s and women’s IQ scores differ tells us far more about the validity of IQ tests than it does about the relative intelligence of the sexes.
BBC: Homeopathy’s benefit questioned
A leading medical journal has made a damning attack on homeopathy, saying it is no better than dummy drugs. The Lancet says the time for more studies is over and doctors should be bold and honest with patients about homeopathy’s “lack of benefit”.
Actually, I’m quite cross with the BBC: their original headline read Medics attack use of homeopathy, which is a far more unequivocal. Why the need to damp it down?
Having said that, the Guardian’s headline was even better:
Guardian: As a fourth study says it’s no better than a placebo, is this the end for homeopathy?
Of course it’s not! The gullible public will never tire of bullshit.
Hey, I’ve just noticed that my computer’s K and T keys have been transposed.
Of course, you realise what this means. That’s right, I have a QWERKY keyboard!
I thank you.
Talking of giraffes, there was a programme on the telly yesterday about Longleat Safari Park in which they kept referring to the building in which the giraffes are housed as the giraffery. Is there really such a word? I think they made it up.
To add to the confusion, they then started referring to the place where they house the chipmunks as an aviary. When did chipmunks suddenly become birds? To be consistent, surely the people at Longleat should house their chipmunks in a chipmunkery.
Or should that be chipmonastery?
Q: What do you find in a chipmonastery?
A: Friars.
(Lap ‘em up, folks, these are the jokes!)
See also: Of or pertaining to the rhinoceros
Conversation with Jen the other day:
J: … Dog years, what are they all about, then?
R: How do you mean?
J: Well, who decided that one human year is equivalent to seven dog years?
R: Probably the same person who decided that the queen should have two birthdays.
J: It doesn’t make sense.
R: Did you know that racehorses all have the same birthday: 1st January?
J: Why’s that?
R: I suppose it’s to define an easy cut-off date when deciding which horses are allowed to take part in certain races—for example, a race for three-year-olds. It’ll be a bit like the 1st September cut-off date they have in schools to decide which year you should be in.
J: OK, I suppose that makes sense. But is it just dogs who have their own types of years?
R: I think cat years are probably the same as dog years, and I seem to remember Paddington Bear has two birthdays, just like the queen.
J: But what about giraffes, say? Can you measure stuff in giraffe years?
An excellent question! Well, I’ve done some research on the internet, and it would appear that the giraffe year has never been properly defined, so why don’t I do it right now?
1 giraffe year = 117.8331 mean solar days = 0.3226 human years = 2.2582 dog years
So now you know.
It was fun watching Ian Paisley Jr trying to find something nice to say about the late Mo Mowlam on Newsnight last night. He would have been better off keeping his mouth shut. Mind you, keeping one’s mouth shut is hardly a family trait.
Junior is clearly being groomed to take over the reins of the Democratic Unionist Party once the old man finally goes to shout at that great (protestant) pulpit in the sky. Fair enough, I suppose: he’s got the same name, the same accent, and the same obnoxious views. All he needs to do now is get someone to give him a back-street ordination, start calling himself Reverend, and receive an honourary doctorate from a friend’s joey christian fundamentalist university. Then he’ll be ready to wear the sash his father wore.
Me (back left) and Carolyn (far right) at a birthday party of my kid sister (front row, hairband) in the early 1970s.
My mum found this old photograph last week. It was taken at my kid sister’s birthday party in the early 1970s. For anyone who harboured any doubt that Carolyn and I go back a long way, I’m back left (blue shirt, no beard) and Carolyn is far right (purple dress). Where did it all go wrong?
No bouncy castles and shite like that in those days. We used to have proper kids’ parties, with salmon sandwiches and drinking straws—and the boys all wore ties.
I include this photo for the benefit of Carolyn's children, who won't believe me when I tell them that their mum was really naughty as a child.
Conversation with Jen:
R: I see the A-Level pass rate has gone up yet again.
J: I believe so.
R: That’s the 23rd year in a row. But they’re not getting any easier, of course.
J: Of course not!
R: 23 years. Amazing. That means the trend started in…
J: 1983.
R: Hey, I took my A-Levels in 1983!
J: I took mine in 1982. That means yours were easier than mine!
I think I’ve spotted a worrying trend developing:
BBC: Lion attacks on rise in Tanzania
An increase in lion attacks in rural Tanzania threatens both local people and lion conservation efforts, scientists report today in Nature.
BBC: Confused lions ‘hunt’ small cars
Small cars driving through a safari park in Merseyside have been chased by confused lions who think they are prey.
This thing has conspiracy written all over it.
As has already been established, I don’t know much about betting on horses. I first realised this while visiting Hitchin in Hong Kong in 1999. We went to the races, where I came up with what I thought would be a sure-fire betting system:
The number 4 is seen as incredibly unlucky in Hong Kong. So I reasoned that the locals were unlikely to bet on number 4 in a horse race. That being the case, if a rational human being such as me, who doesn’t believe in unlucky numbers, were to bet on number 4 to win, he should get far better odds than he deserved (because nobody else would be betting on it). Although such a betting system was unlikely to be successful in any one race, I reasoned that, all else being equal, if I bet on number 4 in every single race, it was bound to pay off in the end.
I lost my shirt.
I had failed to take into account the fact that the superstitious Chinese allocate the unlucky number 4 to the worst nag in each race. Well, that’s my theory at least.
In all the excitement, I forgot to take any photos at Newbury, so here is a photo of Ann & Bill's gay dog instead.
And there it was—No.7 in the third race—Penny Black… It reminded me of Carolyn for two reasons: (1) a few weeks ago, I gave Carolyn my lucky penny (no, I don’t believe in that sort of thing, but I thought Carolyn might), and (2) I have often told Carolyn off for not calling either of her daughters Penny (in which case, they would have been named Penny Farthing, geddit?) So I placed my bet: a fiver on number 7 to win at, ahem, 50:1.
It came in just before the start of the fourth race.
But for that, I could have won Carolyn two-hundred and fifty big ones.
In the meantime, Jen and Ann and Bill had been placing bets for our four-person syndicate, using some bizarre system involving something they called the horses’ form.
Our syndicate won £102.
From now on, my sure-fire system is going to be to take along some people who know what the hell they’re doing.
The following conversation (more or less) took place, albeit without hyperlinks, as Jen and I were driving through Oxfordshire on our way to visit Ann and Bill on Saturday:
R: Ooh, look, a sign for Blenheim Palace!
J: What about it?
R: Winston Churchill was born there.
J: Was he?
R: Yes, Blenheim Palace is the Churchill family’s ancestral seat. It’s owned by the Duke of Marlborough. He’s one of their lot.
J: Is he?
R: Yes. Blenheim Palace was named in celebration of the Battle of Blenheim, where the First Duke of Marlborough totally snotted the French.
J: Is that right?
R: …He was allergic to cabbage, you know?
J: Are you making this up?
R: No, it’s just one of those bits of trivia I happen to know: the First Duke of Marlborough was allergic to cabbage.
J: Are you absolutely sure you’re not making this up?
R: No, I’m not making it up: it was in a book of trivia that Irish Mick owned when we were at school. It said the First Duke of Marlborough was allergic to cabbage, and that Birmingham has more miles of canals that Venice.
J: …So was he just allergic to cabbage, or was he allergic to the brassica family as a whole?
R: How the bloody hell should I know?
J: Well you knew about the bloody cabbage!
BBC: ‘Threats to UK security’ detained
Radical Jordanian cleric Abu Qatada and nine other foreign nationals said to pose a threat to the UK’s security have been detained, pending deportation.
As Jen pointed out yesterday, the British public needs to start taking more Vitamin E: it’s supposed to offer excellent protection against free radicals.
BBC: Bogus Oompa Loompa admits lying
A 4ft-tall Nevada man has admitted he lied about playing an Oompa Loompa in the original 1971 Willy Wonka film.
Actor and hairdresser Ezzy Dame said he first made the false claim 20 years ago when his agent advised him to “pad” his resume with the bogus acting credit.
OK, I know I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I have also played an Oompa Loompa. Not in the 1971 film, but in the 1974 Christmas concert at my old primary school. Anyone who was in the audience is bound to remember my performance: I was the only Oompa Loompa wearing a hat.
I was also the only Oompa Loompa who didn’t need padding.
Unlike Ezzy Dame, I have proof of my Oompa Loompa role: my mum still has the photo on display in her living room. No, you can’t see it. Fortunately, she has lost the clipping from the local newspaper.
I’m not into any of that Sigmund Fraud bullshit, but I’m beginning to realise why I turned out the way I did.
See also: Note for my future biographers
See also: Things to do before you’re 40
BBC Gardening: Gnome competition
You’ll be seeing much more of this little fellow below in the future, as he’s the new Neighbourhood Gardener mascot. If you can think of the perfect name for him, you could win a digital radio. Send in your suggestions to with the subject title ‘competition’, by the end of September.
To:
Subject: CompetitionDear Neighbourhood Gardener Team,
Take your pick:
Gnome Chomsky (geddit?)
Gnome O’MisterniceguyRegards,
Richard
The stupid thing is, we can’t get digital radio round here.
London Review of Books: Dancing in the Service of Thought
[…The philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard's] contemporaries knew him as a loner and an intellectual dandy—a dialectical acrobat, a philosopher agile in logic and dry in wit, and a virtuoso of satire and comic exaggeration. He was famous for his wry scepticism, as in this so-called ‘ecstatic lecture’:
Marry, and you will regret it. Do not marry, and you will also regret it. Marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way… Laugh at the stupidities of the world, and you will regret it; weep over them, and you will also regret it. Trust a girl or do not trust her, you will regret it either way. Hang yourself, and you will regret it. Do not hang yourself, and you will also regret it. Whether you hang yourself or not, you will regret it either way. That, gentlemen, is the essence of the wisdom of life.
This is not an example of wry scepticism; it’s certainly wry, but what Kierkegaard is exhibiting here is cynicism.
It really pisses me off that people keep confusing these two words; they mean totally different things:
Mind you, don’t you just love those Danish double-’a's? I’m thinking of changing my name to Richaard Caarter.
BBC Radio 4′s PM programme had an item about the new US ambassador to the UK, Robert Holmes Tuttle, last night. (Of course, being the BBC, they said he was the US ambassador to London, but we knew what they meant.)
It turns out Mr Tuttle is a Texan used-car salesman, with no diplomatic experience, who just so happens to have donated an awful lot of money to George W Bush’s re-election campaign. His predecessor in the post was another Texan Bush benefactor with zero diplomatic experience.
Shouldn’t we Brits feel ever so slightly insulted by this? We’re America’s closest ally, for Pete’s sake! Don’t we deserve a career diplomat, or at least a politician? Who are the Americans to treat their ambassadorship in our country as a sinecure?
Of course, there’s only one valid response to this: we should send them Timmy Mallet.
