The pounding of tiny feet

Now that I no longer have to warily toe the line between racism and homophobia, I can share my darkest thoughts and be straight with you. I present the final solution to the world's ills.

Welcome lucky readers to a bumper edition of this shit.

The hike I went on last weekend was with a local outdoor society I joined (to general applause from both parents who fear that I will die cold and alone). It was nice, but followed the standard format of
"So what do you do?"
"I'm a theoretical physicist."
The health of such conversations then starts a terminal decline, leading to an awkward, silent death, unless I quickly start asking other people what they do. This is partly because I don't like explaining my 'calling', a consequence of having spent eight years trying to figure it out myself, and partly because the human race is staggeringly ignorant of esoteric quantum phenomena.

It snowed lightly early in the week and finally covered the words 'vagina', 'glee' and 'rush' scrawled in chalk on the paving slabs near work. The accompanying 'monologues', 'club' and 'week' had already been worn away by feet. In case you have managed to survive without the precious knowledge, 'rush week' is apparently when the desperate to belong get the opportunity to go to keg parties (dude) and prove their worth to fraternities and sororities by performing noisy initiation rituals. One such ritual seemed to involve a screaming stampede of eighteen year old children charging at a colleague's car as he gave me a lift home. I wouldn't have told anyone if he'd just rolled over a couple of them, but I guess he's got a family to feed and can't risk prison.

I'm fairly sure that 'hazing' used to consist of a more effective selection process whereby only those who didn't die of alcohol poisoning got to join their 'frat' or 'sore' of choice. I might have made that last abbreviation up. Apparently sororities are mainly for fascist dictation of fashion to junior girls and hiding unwanted pregnancies, while frats are where to get beer and pretend to watch sport while pursuing a poor bodily hygiene regime.

I've been using the bus again. I'm often impressed by just how short a distance people will refuse to walk. Some individuals prefer to sit on the bus for a further ten minutes while it does an unnecessary loop through a car park (stopping three times within a hundred metres) in order to get off right in front of their enormous car, than to leave the bus at an earlier stop and walk for a minute. As always the persistent offenders are those most in need of the exercise, heaving sides barely fitting through the doors as they leave the bus (and themselves) panting.

A friend from work had to change his license and plates for state ones (every state issues these things separately to achieve maximum inefficiency and to support a malignant population of bureaucrats), so I hitched a ride up to the DMV with him to apply for a learner's permit. The DMV itself sits on top of a hill in the midst of a bleak commercial zone with the best view of the blue mountains in town. Shame really. There was a huge queue inside for the information desk and then a numbered ticket system to enjoy. Brandishing my fourteen required proofs of identity I finally reached the front of queue one and received the necessary form, with attached clipboard and pen. I industriously pissed away some of my life filling it in, and was surprised when my number was called fairly quickly. The lady at the desk gave me some information that didn't make sense and while I tried to decipher it the Michelin man in his new role as security card shambled past and muttered something about an "explosion of children". He was spot on. There was more screaming and hooting coming from the waiting area than one would expect to hear in a central African jungle. Over the territorial and mating calls I suddenly made out something I didn't want to hear from the lady in front of me:
"Are you ready then?"
"Uh?" Monosyllables work best when communication is difficult.
"For the knowledge test?"
I don't like tests much and suddenly realising that I had to take one caused my entire digestive tract to spontaneously straighten, for maximum throughput. I had assumed (with minimal available information to the contrary) that I could take the theory test at a later date. The expression on my face must have been telling, because I was told "don't worry about the colours too much, it's mainly the shapes that matter".

Moments later I found myself waiting in a new seating area for my name to be called, so I could take a test I knew nothing about. Before I knew it, I was sent over to a booth with a touchscreen and told to turn off my cellphone, then I embarked on a journey into the unknown. Except I didn't, because apparently in a multiple choice test with four answers three are required by federal law to be absurd (unless they are about numbers in which case you choose the lowest one for speeds and the biggest one for distances). I didn't rush, to be on the safe side, but after a little while the computer decided I had passed, so I went back up to the main desk. The lady in charge of testing seemed astonished. "I only just put you over there!"
As I payed for my permit she came over again and said to the woman fumbling with my dollar bills,
"He did it very fast, it's good to see, we should have more people do it like that".
"Well", came the reply, "he obviously practised".

I then had to wait while my friend had a second copy of his license printed (they spelt 'physics' with a few too many "i's" the first time round). In the midst of talking to him, I suddenly felt hands on my knees.
"Hello", I just managed utter to the small child looking gleefully up at me.
Her mother and a woman sitting a few seats along both seemed to find it very funny. But I was terrified. I will never forget the little Irish gypsy girl on the tube, who tried to pull my moustache off when her mother wasn't watching. Thankfully the moment passed, the girl wandered off and I didn't get arrested (or killed by a mob) for kicking a child across a packed waiting room.

I think my next half-sister is due next week, so my potential for harm at the hands of children just continues to grow.

Yaws sincerely,

Lizards.

Anistoriceevent

This week has been momentous on many counts. Starting as it did, with Obama's inebriation and the troublesome misspeaking of the Presidential Oaf. I watched some of the ceremony in the department at lunchtime, including the speech. I was impressed by his cunning use of repetition to keep points fresh in the memories of the most easily distracted people in the world, the promise to "restore science to its rightful place" (labelled as witchcraft and hounded out of every God-fearing American's home and the school system) and his closing remarks reminding his fellow citizens (and other watch brands) of their enemies, the British. Later, at a caffeine emporium, I benefited from CNN's live coverage of Barack and Co. looking at a painting.
Use of "an historic" reached a historic high. Why I don't know. People seem to get along fine with "a happy person", "a horrible thing", "a hideous monster" or even "a heinous crime", but "a historic" suffers discrimination to this day.
The BBC helpfully pointed out that more African-Americans turned up to this particular party than to the last one four years ago. They deserve every penny of the license fee. Statistics on other needlessly labelled ethnic groups such as Welsh-Rwandans, Icelandic-Indians and Pembrokeshire-Corgis went sadly unmentioned.

There was excitement closer to home, with the continuing outage of the laundry. I can now safely say that if you care about the environment and your health there is absolutely no need to ever go to a gym. Just try hand washing all your clothes instead. It is probably more effective for increasing upper body strength than steroids, and saves electricity.

Around the middle of the week I received the accolade of "most negative person I have ever known" from a man who has travelled far and wide and is now in his seventies. A fantastic achievement I think you'll agree.

At a lunchtime discussion I discovered the words "flavorful" and "healthful". I hadn't really been aware before that words could cause me physical pain. "Burglarized" is another favourite.

On Thursday I went out for dinner, where one of my companions revealed an unusual hobby: taking a photo of everything they eat. I tried to assure her that it wasn't weird at all. Later someone returning from a 'bathroom break' (this is freespeak for disposing of bodily waste, not slipping in the bath and fracturing their spine as it might appear) to hear only the end of a conversation was given the impression that I had children. Their horrified shock was heart warming.

Children? Good God woman, can't you tell I'm university educated? I won't have children until I'm at least 40 and my partner requires expensive IVF treatment, else I shall be cast out as a heretic.

Colder than a Witch's Brass Monkey

Last diary entry from Under Seamen Percival Canned-Peaches' expedition to the frozen waists:

It is bitterly cold outside and bitter inside. Last night the internet told me that the mercury stood at -16°C which is 3.2°F if your prefer your temperature scale calibrated relative to the sublimation point of a cow's rectum or whatever. This is cold enough to dramatically reduce the numbers of the elderly, homeless and naturists. Elderly homeless naturists are pretty much staring death in the face. And death isn't very pleased to see them I expect.

Certainly it is cold enough to freeze the pipes in the laundry room solid, which means I'll have to wear towels until I've hunted enough woodchucks and groundhogs to make a decent set of furs.

Cycling to work a few days ago made my ears so numb that I nearly went back to look for them. The next day I tried taking the bus, which was definitely warmer and the nice lady driving even said "good morning". However, this bourgeois comfort sickened me, so it's back to walking next week.

I hope we all payed attention to the birth of a new hero (and archenemy of birds) this week on the Hudson river. Described as an "unqualified hero" by someone who probably doesn't realise most people will think it's an insult, for some reason the pilot's risk management business seemed to come up a lot. I suspect it was the years of flight training that helped, but maybe his flipchart presentation skills really did come to the fore during the crisis.

Anyway, sometimes in between glaring at my work that doesn't and lamenting my lost youth, I browse the British Barechested Communists' website and it was there after watching a video of people worrying about their hand luggage while standing on the wings of the plane/boat that it struck me that there hadn't been any adverts. You see children, cowering there in your boxes, when viewing the BBC website from Freedom one often gets to experience demands that you buy a diamond ring for your love, because otherwise she won't love you. However it appears that someone has enough taste to prevent adverts from playing before certain news items. It simply wouldn't do to hear just how affordable Spanish lessons are before viewing the latest tragedy in the war between Houmous and Isriled in Plasticine. Thank God for common sense. God shave the Queen and all that.

Sesame Street was brought to you today by the word 'shitbiscuits' and the number' 1-800-seagulls'.

Returning to the womb

Part 1: Look out mum
Having escaped the formative towel cupboard that was once my old room at my mum's house, I made my way to the airport and the myriad joys that large numbers of idle fools about to go on holiday bring. The flight was notable mainly for the lack of any decent films and the approach to landing, when the plane jerked about like a convict being served with justice of electrical furnishing kind, making small children cry.

US customs like (as in "require") you to fill out a form on entry explaining if your trip is business or pleasure. I'm pretty sure I don't belong to either of these categories, but then I always was a rebel, defying categorisation (excepting "rebel" of course).
They (that's US customs in case you got lost) also ask if you are transporting disease agents. This is stupid. Of course you are. Everyone is. Especially when the girl sitting next to you for seven hours has told you that she has a cold so bad that she is taking prescription antibiotics.

After splashdown we queued to undergo the ancient rite of form stamping in triplicate. The nice man from Disneyland Insecurity, after noticing I was returning on a long term visa, actually said, "Welcome home". It was great to get out into the arrivals hall and force my way through blank faced meanderers to the bus stop.

Part 2: Getting your feet wet
On arrival at Union station I found that Obama's historical achievement had been embraced fully by the American Dream (TM), with numerous stalls hoping to profit by selling mass produced quality inauguration memorabilia. Most exciting of all was the photographer who using sophisticated techniques could superimpose you onto a photo of the prescient-elect so that he appeared to have his arm around your shoulders. Truely a unique keepsake to show the grandchildren.
Of course everyone here is really excited about the inauguration and the big question that all the critics and commentators keep asking was emblazoned across most news magazines: what will Mrs Obama wear?

Waiting for my train and eating a sandwich, I was kept entertained by a student at the next table communicating her holiday plans, opinions on work scheduling ("You might have to work during the day.") and underwear purchases to her chosen victim via cellphone.

My train journey was far from dull, because the lady sitting next to me on the train was kind enough to regale me with her, and her family's, medical history.
By this time I was feeling lazy, so I got a taxi home from the station. For the duration of the ride the taxi driver held a conversation on her phone. I will leave you to guess the subject matter from this snippet:

Do you want me to give you a lift to the hospital early tomorrow... If they really hurt you might want to try alternating hot and cold towels... If that doesn't work you should use the pump, but you know, the more you pump, the more you produce.

Queen Elizabeth's Merkin and other Children's Stories

It had been looking like a lean 2009 for the media demons. The coming of the Shining God of Change had sent the self-designated intelligentsia into paroxysms of pleasure, glee pouring from their smug organs. HE would save everyone. Gloom no longer captured their imaginations.

Even the blossoming misery of the World Peston Crisis appeared to have been tempered. Only the slow death of the car industry provided sustenance, but when the Shining God declared that he would halt that too, all seemed lost.
John Simpson crawled back to his cave to feed on his meagre supply of book deals and Jon Snow curled up into a ball in his nest of reports from Iraq, waiting to die. The river of Woe, so recently a ferocious torrent, had reduced to a trickle, fed only by suffering too long running to be interesting or associated with parts of the world that Westerners had short attention spans for.

Santa was generous to the journohounds though. He brought them a new war and the beginnings of massive job losses. The great beasts sniffed the air tentatively, before pulling back their heads and howling, maws dripping with saliva.
Soon they were feasting again, producing huge stools of repackaged pain and grief. Once more the citizens of the information society fell on the excrement, driven wild by their addiction. They chewed the torment second hand, desperate to entertain themselves by sparking an always too brief sympathetic emotional response. And now in HD.

It's going to be a good news year.

Arbitrary demarcation of solar cycle joy!

Yes that's right, the first day of the Gregorian calendar 2009 was a day just like any other. People were still ugly and life was still cheap. Get over it.

The 'holiday' stressfest is nearly finished and I'm looking forward to some quality time that involves not having to travel all over the country (and across the Atlantic) on public influenza incubators. Also it would be nice to be able to relax by doing some work.
Today I have instead had to push a pram around Marks and Spencer's under the critical gaze of people who probably don't think I look like a suitable parent for anything other than a wire haired terrier.

Being back in the Old Empire has been useful for researching my theory that people are in general no better here than they are in Freedom. Superficial details clearly differ, but the undercurrent of self interest, greed and hormones remains the same.
For example, today in Swansea (the city so Welsh they named it twice) the shopping experience was very different to that in A-merryka. First the shops were in the town centre. Two, you could walk between them. C, there were almost no baseball caps, with young men generally opting for the subterranean-transport-sexual look instead. Nice cardigan fat boy. VIII.4 it's filthy.
But as I said, these are meaningless distinctions. In both countries one may see the same slack jawed expression on the cattle as they crawl about, burning borrowed money, and dragging useless lumps of plastic and bags of pre-faded jeans behind them. Unity in indolence is also evident, though here it takes the form of not bothering to use dustbins/trashcans/pockets/mouths, rather than driving right up to the front of the shop to load easily carried groceries (from a trolley).
The squealing between two bottle blonde student tarts in leggings on the train from Liverpool was also highly reminiscent of the squealing between the jogging clones that infest the streets of my new home.

Anyway, change is gonna come because of wind turbines and hope and shit so it's all gonna be ok.