Feeding the masses

BBC: BBC Trust commissions news review

The BBC's governing body is to review the corporation's coverage of news across the UK following devolution…

BBC trustee Richard Tate said the devolution of powers in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland had presented "new challenges" for the corporation.

That's all well and good for those parts of the UK which have devolved government, but what about the rest of us?

It's a matter of continuing irritation to those of living beyond the M25 just how little news coverage we receive in so-called national news broadcasts. The BBC's dismissive attitude to those of us living north of Epping Forest—those odd chaps who pronounce their A's short and live on tripe and whippets—is nicely illustrated by the role of North of England Correspondent. Note the singular: the BBC thinks it proportionate to dedicate as many correspondents to the whole of the North of England as it does to a handful of German toffs down the Palace who pronounce their A's long.

I live in the biggest county in England: Yorkshire. I can't remember the last time I heard national BBC News coverage of anything that happened in this county. What's that you say? Yorkshire is four counties. I stand corrected. Well, our neighbours in North Yorkshire live in the biggest county in England, and I still can't remember the last time I heard national BBC News coverage of anything that happened in that county.

But perhaps that's because national news bulletins are becoming increasingly irrelevant. I gave up on national BBC TV and Radio news coverage years ago, and now totally rely on RSS feeds for my news coverage. I have a really nifty feed which delivers any news stories which mention Hebden Bridge direct to my desktop, and another for stories which mention Charles Darwin. Oh, and I also have (at the last count) 157 other news feeds, all of which are relevent to me. If Stense gets mentioned in the arty-farty press, I pick up on the story almost immediately (and totally freak her out by sending her a link—I suspect she thinks I'm stalking her). If someone links to Gruts or comments on one of my photos on Flickr or publishes the latest edition of a podcast I like, I am informed automagically. It's like having my own very, very personal newspaper.

So, if you haven't got into RSS feeds yet, why not give them a go? Hell, there's even one for Gruts. All you need is an RSS Reader (I use and recommend Google Reader), and the world is your oyster in a nutshell.

Gaa! The the cat's out of the bag! Now you know how it is that I am so incredibly well informed.

Oh the irony!

During an instant messaging session with Carolyn last night, I drew her attention to a brilliant photograph I had spotted on the Flickr photosharing website, which I thought she would like. She did.

In return, Carolyn drew my attention to the following comment made about said photograph:

Commenter{wyethhouse} (pro) says:
it's really great! full of life and expression

As Carolyn pointed out, the commenter's own photograph is anything but!

Double-blimey!

Guardian: What's wrong with homeopathy

Time after time, properly conducted scientific studies have proved that homeopathic remedies work no better than simple placebos. So why do so many sensible people swear by them? And why do homeopaths believe they are victims of a smear campaign? Ben Goldacre follows a trail of fudged statistics, bogus surveys and widespread self-deception.

I find it incredible that people like Ben Goldacre still need to write articles describing the concept of double-blind trials, which show that so-called homeopathic remedies are indistinguishable from placebos.

Goldacre is too polite to point out that the homeopathic concept (I won't dignify it by calling it a theory) of almost infinitely dilute solutions' being able to cure people is pseudoscientific bullshit. Every glass of water we drink contains almost infinitely dilute solutions (and less) of pretty much anything you care to mention. They also contain far, far greater amounts of many other things you might prefer to gloss over—such as Napoleon's last piss.

See also:

Call me Neo

As we were going to be travelling down to Ann and Bill's last Friday evening, I gave Jen a lift into work in the morning. Our route to the motorway takes us over the marvellously named Blackstone Edge. The steep, winding road down Blackstone Edge has an almost sheer (and, in the place I am about to describe, unfenced) drop to the right, and a very steep hillside rising to the left.

It was about 06:20 and pitch dark as I rounded one of the blind bends near the top of Blackstone Edge doing about 40mph. Suddenly, five or six sheep lit up in the headlights directly in front of me. They were standing in the middle of the road where they didn't belong, the stupid twats! There was no way I could swerve around them (deadly drop to the right, rock cutting to the left). There was also no way I could brake in time before hitting them. But what the hell, I thought, and slammed on the brakes anyway, putting the car into a controlled skid…

Suddenly, everything went into hyper-slow motion. The sheep blinked stupidly at me as I calculated there would be fewer fatalities if I aimed the car at the sheep on the left, then yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. Jen bellowed something along the lines of golly gosh! Startled, motionless sheep passed either side of the car, as I skidded through their midst and out the other side. No crunches. No blood. No gore. Not even a glancing blow. Jen and I have absolutely no idea how I managed to avoid hitting a single one of the daft sods.

It was like a bullet-time sequence from out of The Matrix.

Only with sheep.