“Our logic is full of holes...
I can see the bubbles.”
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/* How are you gentlemen? All your James Joyce are belong to us! */
/* February 28, 2002 */
/* While waiting outside the Isle of Wight college, a worrying thought came into my head:

"...lightly seasoned with peppermint and just a hint of penis envy."

Where that came from I do not wish to know; from which crenellated crevice in this little twisted mind... but 'twas entertaining. */
/* ee to the eye pie is minus one.

this bit of the post will be made up only of valid, taken domain names, and thus intelligent discourse must absent itself.

Hells, I'm pissed off.

RIP Spike Milligan. Bad news comes in threes, this obviously includes deaths. It's been a hellish month.

{update} I have just had my knuckles rapped (metaphorically) for not specifying who it was having the microscope fixation... well, dear reader, the curtains of obscurity will be drawn back to reveal the somewhat shabby stage of... of... oh, I don't know, it's too early in the morning. The culprits in question were Ben and Chris. I'm sure you all feel much more refreshed for knowing that. */
/* February 27, 2002 */
/* Today.... was today. I didn't have any lessons, so I sat about and looked ornamental. I wrote a song about the Oile'O'Woight, that wondrous hole where I live, for a competition. It won't win. I may post lyrics as and when. Otherwise... nothing. Tried to talk to ppl about the Triplet game, but only suggestions were microscope simulators.

Not productive. */
/* February 25, 2002 */
/* Back to school today. Bad thing.
Started work on design for the Triplet Game... just ideas so far. Oh well.

Bedtime. */
/* February 24, 2002 */
/* I'm too tired to cope with life.

Wow, that's new. */

Which Chess Piece Are You?

Thankyou Ben.

I had a University Interview at York today. It went OK, but there's really very little to say about it. What was entertaining was the travel back. I wrote on my laptop:


7:30 pm (written in blood-red ink in my Rant book)

I'm sitting in Birmingham New Street station, sunk in a deep depression, in the coffee shop. I have no points of reference, neither tomporal nor physical; I trust nobody about me. There is nobody I know or who knows me, nobody I care about or who cares about me. It is at times like this that the distance between lovers can prove disadvantageous; February will be a bad month for Virgos to buy eels.

I can't even get depressed right; most people (even those completely eschewing modern manufactured "culture") drink vastly alcoholic beverages of an ilk more often used to pickle dead generals. Not I. Rather, I have a cappucino and un pain au chocolat. Pain with chocolate. I wish I was going home now. A fifty-five minute wait in Birmingham station. Not that I have anything against Birmingham per se, but it's dark. How do I know Birmingham exists at all? "This is Birmingham. The train at Platform 12 has disappeared. Would all present please look at it to ensure the continued existance of a shared quantum universe?" Nobody does. How do I know that the station exists even? All I know is that the coffee does. I approve mightily.

8:18 pm

Have just caught another train. It goes to Brighton, but stops at Reading. I hope. Well, put it like this, that's where I'm getting off.

To be fair, the three Virgin trains I have been on this weekend have been very nice. The first, Friday night, was so booked up solid I had to stand all the way from Winchester to York [4 hours on the train]. It's hard to revolutionise Computer Science with numb knees. However, I digress.

This one is one of their new ones, and it's very nice. Very stable, very new, very shiny, and has nice displays saying where it's going to stop and so forth. Lo! however, for out of the floorboards come 240v three-pin mains plugs with notices saying "Laptops and Mobile Phones Only". Richard Branson, I could kiss you. But I won't. Therefore, I can plug in my laptop and type up the previous entry, which was written in blood-red ink in my rant book. In addition, the caffeine and blood sugar have hit, so am happier. In fact, sitting in one of these trains, coding and watching the world go by would be brilliant. All they need now is RJ-45 ethernet and high speed internet access to go with the power connectors. Bliss, he said, exaggerating wildly.

So there you have it. My new PC arrived today. */
/* February 22, 2002 */
/* I slept a worrying amount today. In fact, I didn't get up until 2:30 pm, and only then because I'd have missed my lift into town. I bought a microphone and some chocolate. Lucky me.

Then I sat around and revolutionised programming (as one does), before deciding it was all rubbish. Oh well. */
/* February 21, 2002 */
/* Today I had an open day at Bath University.

It was very good. Very friendly, informal, and well organised; very sociable, playing up the sports and leisure side as well as the work side. Very open. Very nice people.

And this, of course, is where the problem lies. I am neither friendly nor informal, and by no stretch of the imagination could I be classified as "well-organised". Sociable? Don't make me laugh.

Thus, I rather feel I would not fit in. There seems to be little room in modern culture for recluses. A pity, really, since the course as such looked very interesting, if difficult. Actually, I doubt I could do it.

I'm going to look at York on Friday and Saturday. With a bit of luck, it'll be more reclusive, but I doubt it. Oh well. */
/* February 20, 2002 */
/* The cat is still alive. The tumour was removed. */
/* February 18, 2002 */
/* "Psst, psst, psst, whoo-woo! QUACK!"
"You've run over a duck with a steam roller? Doesn't that come under animal cruelty?"

Today was spent to a greater or lesser extent inquiring as to the whereabouts of topsoil, or rather watching Alison do it. That is to say she was interrogating the Yellow Pages as to possible sources of this elusive substance, and then phoning round. One company would only do it in twenty-ton loads, and then only loose; the vision of a pile of topsoil the size of the house was an unappealing prospect, so phoning continued. At least now we know what a Grabbit is.

It's been another one of those wonderful days. Now I am assured as to Sharlie's safety (:P) I am a good deal happier. Listened to Unkle. Fell asleep. Wonderful. Folliculous. Svartor is going to turn out to be an extremely odd language, what with some of the letters Toby and I have been adding to its repertoire.

One of the cats here may be being put down tomorrow, or may not be. She's got cancer, so it all depends whether the tumour can be removed or not. :-\

Not much more to say. But at least I want to talk, and that's progress. */
/* February 17, 2002 */
/* Feeling distinctly melancholy.

Sharlie, like Elvis before her, has left the building, although in her case the building is IRCnet. It's been a hellish month.

[Update] Ignore this post. It's all to confusing. */
/* It's either too late or too early to say too much now. So I won't.

Another death, unfortunately, too. And I don't mean that in any kind of derogatory way, as if the second is less important than the first; no indeed, but rather to emphasise the fact that it's been a really really bad indefinite time period. PeteFS - I'll miss you. Again, there's not much I know how to say.

There is no follicle. */
/* February 16, 2002 */
/* Apparently:

I Am A Fnord
Take the What Will Your Result To This Quiz Be? Quiz
by napoleonherself, if you are so inclined.

Are we surprised? */
/* February 15, 2002 */
/* "It's a rotary cat."
"Doesn't that mean it would rotate at high speed when turned on?"
"*laughs* Yes, I suppose."
"Wouldn't that make copulation difficult?"
"Yes, if one rotated the wrong way it could jeopardise the whole species..."

"Try disabling internal ethernet."

"Chicken Tika, French bread, and Sweet and Sour Noodles."

"Quis vult in terra stare
Cum possit velitare?
Parva Nubecula
Cantitat Carmina."

Those are snippets from conversations I had today. They sum it up rather nicely. */
/* "Vis me umbrellam expandere?"

It's Valentine's day again... that time of year when I find myself feeling like several of Shakespeare's more eccentric and excitable heroes with none of their dramaticism, and indeed sans any of their characteristics that made them worth writing about. Memories abound, none pleasant. Why on earth can't I do it the simple way, like most other people?

In fact, on reflection, most of the people I know seem to bugger it up just as thoroughly. I suppose at least I'm not alone. That really doesn't comfort me as much as it ought.

Thank heaven for early easter is all I'll say. If I weren't off school, I would be seriously depressed now. As it is, I'm merely mildly amused and fair-to-middling cynical. Other people get Valentine's cards... I get bills from BTInternet. There's an irony in that. I attempted to, as it were, drown my sorrows with the aid of the Pink Cyberbunnies' CD and a Linux install disc. It more or less worked.

I'm up at Dad's now, will be for the next week and a bit. Nothing more to say. Winnie Ille Pu is brilliant. Go and buy a copy.

But not if you don't speak latin. */
/* February 13, 2002 */
/* I wonder how difficult it must be to invent a life?

I wonder how much of mine I've invented.

Sure, lying to yourself is the sign of the madman, and lying to others is the sign of being an evil bastard. But so much of being human is in the interpretation, the reading of others' emotions... seeing through a glass darkly. There are two unwelcome possibilities: either I've just spent the last four years in misery I am even now slowly crawling out of for nothing (and, dear reader, do try to make that word echo dramatically inside the auditorium of your mind) or I've just spent it for a very good reason. Have I been kidding myself? And if so, then presumably I have been kidding others too... a horrible feedback loop of lies and misunderstandings.

Now there is a horrible thought. And is love then a fiction? If so, then it's only what many have long suspected. Falstaff lied. Lovers lie. I lied. I really ought to stop thinking like this. It's not good for my head.

On a lighter note, today I finally managed to produce the Pink Cyberbunnies' Galactic Blunder CD. That's about all I've done today. */
/* February 12, 2002 */
/* "PRICK and PRIG. If you don't know the difference, Worcester, you must be one or the other or both yourself."

An odd day today. The flavour, as it were, was set at the very start when I woke up with an itch in my other nose. I actually got my hand to my face before thinking: "What other nose?"

I think I'm going mad.

I spent most of the day alternating rapidly between Falstaff, which was at the same time one of the funniest and saddest things I've ever read, and DX-Ball. The combination of explosions, erotica, bad puns, and high-score tables cheered me up wondrous; it also fried the little that remains intact of my mind.

Finished my MOD. It's fairly rubbish, but never mind. That's allowable in a first attempt.

On the phone tonight (to Toby), the phone call was interrupted by a scream and a cry of "Long John Silver" from him; then purring noises. Apparently the cat decided to break into the impersonation market.

A word for the day is "Historicity". See the book for the definition. Thinking about it, I really ought to give it back. Oh well. And so, as that learned and prolific diarist Pepys regularly said, to bed.

/* February 11, 2002 */
/* Dr. Rozenboim has also had some success exciting male ostriches with female ostrich sex dolls.

Today I began to write my first MOD. It's not brilliant, but then again, it's not bad for a first one. Not so much a remix as a taking of an inoffensive tune from an odd tape of Israeli dance tunes and bringing it repeatedly into contact with MED until it stopped twitching. Not noticeably artistic. But that's OK, because nor am I. */
/* February 10, 2002 */
/* "However, they occasionally stopped for a snack off a dead crab, something I never saw a Colonel do." -- Gerald Durrell

A sleepy day today. Last night I finished the first draft of Chapter 5 of The Kevlar Bagel (a novella flavoured thing I am slowly writing), and this morning I finished Chapter 7. Only chapters 2 and 4 left. I also gave of my best regarding tsh2, a shell for Windows. Unfortunately, the way I'm having to force windows to the back makes them flicker horribly.

Today I looked at various other people's diaries... most of them either seem to document the minutiae of someone's life or taljk about how artistic and miserable their lives are. No offence, but I don't really want to do that. I'm not particularly artistic, and when I'm miserable I don't talk about it. However, thinking up a new philosophical insight every day is liable to be hard.

That was today. I didn't have cold feet; I am wearing socks. */
/* February 9, 2002 */
/* Important news just in:
<lidna2002> if it's purple, it can't b used

I'm sure we're all glad to know that. */
/* ' "Are you suggesting that prawns could travel by semaphore?" said the Chief Priest.' -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

It has been a day singularly empty of events, if truth be told. A friend has just informed me that Ostriches, if memory serves, can either be served covered in Yoghurt or Custard. As a statement this leaves little to be desired.

Yesterday Ben produced a spoon from his pocket randomly, then looked at it in some surprise; thus he neatly disproved my theory (scroll down).

I tried to compile a Pink Cyberbunnies' Best Bits (the Cyberbunnies are a sort of amateur comedy video making foursome, one of which is me) CD today. Alas, when I got it home it didn't work. The video is not great quality, and it's made on the real cheap (we're all skint) so it's 320x240 AVIs. I'll have another bash tomorrow.

A random link: http://ophelia.dogcow.org - especially relevant with St Valentine's day coming up. I think I understand it. Good luck. */
/* February 8, 2002 */
/* "My tale begins with Junior Tom
Who built his own atomic bomb.
He built it with a clockwork spring,
An electronic flashlight thing,
A generator, found at Chatham,
And a slightly bent uranium atom."

That's about all I have to say at this time. I've started working on a fun template for the blog... it's called Deep Blue C. I know, it's a geek joke, but *shrugs* wotthehell, archy, wotthehell. This is kinda on the beta version now. We shall see how it turns out. A voyage of discovery.

And if you believe that, you'll believe anything. */
/* February 7, 2002 */
/* I wish, O how I wish that I could write searing sorrowful words, words to burn and to break hearts, words to look on with pride and say "Yes, that's right." To say in writing what I cannot say in speech. To live and to love and to care just like everybody else. But I'm not, am I.

I am different and inward-turned and twisted up and I cannot admit to feeling. I need coffee and the company of nutters, to wash my sorrows away in a sea of punctuation, to dereference life firmly by the handles, to drown myself in wonders.

There is no love, or at least if there is it seems I am not allowed to feel it. Away from me, Pain-bringer! Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse the four horsemen of madness have ridden out on the burnished plane of "mind": Fear, Voices, Hairs on the Back of the Hands, and Love. They are interchangeable to a degree, and indeed any one of those four may be substituted for one of any number of others. But in my head these four have ridden out, and they will not be recalled. They invade my dreams at night, unseen presence in the light, but when I close my eyes to sleep they're there. There is no escape. There is no spoon.

Maybe coffee is a bright idea at this point. Oh, and a quote for the day: "Cromwell! Go and stand in the corner!" */
/* I want Mark Overy's guts.

These computers in school no longer have any icons on the desktop. Since many of us have passed the legal age of consent in this country, and can (in theory) be trusted with our own body, not to mention other people's, it would be safe to assume that many can double-click on an icon without causing global chaos or spreading disease. Not so.

Everything is now in the Start menu. There is a little banner running down the left hand side of the window saying "Click here" with an arrow to the Start button. I do not have a problem with this per se, if the icons were on the desktop as well. But they're not. He of the potential intestinal extraction (see above), our erstwhile sysadmin, has done a "Software Upgrade". When used in the context of this school, this means one of three things:

1) A new backdrop picture
2) He's pressed a button and isn't sure what it did or how to undo it, so he'll pretend he meant to
3) Another machiavellian moment is being enjoyed down in the bowels of the IT office. The power, feeeeel the power.

In addition the "intranet" has been redesigned. The word is in quotes because it is not a real intranet. You get the feel of this place after a while. What it actually is is merely a collection of HTML pages off a share. But, dear reader, worse is to come. These pages are done almost exclusively in bitmaps, with a clouds background and gradient filled blue and orange rectangles. Even worse, despite having a copy of DreamWeaver sitting in here on a shelf to my left, they did it in Publisher. Microsoft Publisher. That ought to speak for itself. Here followeth the evidence:

<meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Publisher 98">

lifted straight from the "intranet"'s INDEX.HTML. Had I but world enough and time, I would expose his other crimes, he said parodying wildly.

Time runs against me, however, and already I am meant to be somewhere else. This is cheesey of triplet... signing out. */
/* February 6, 2002 */
/* I have little to say. Something is rotten in the state of IRCnet; beyond that I will not go. */
/* February 5, 2002 */
/* Hmmm a first posting.

I've been kinda putting off getting one of these for some time. Today, however, I've finally signed up. One day I might have something worthwhile to say. When I don't, I probably won't post; as Tom Lehrer said, "I wish that people who can't communicate would just shut up," and I sympathise deeply.

I suppose part of the reason I've finally got around to posting is (by an admittedly circuitous route) that I've just found out that one of those I count as very good friends on IRC died on Thursday. I'm no good at tributes, so all I want to say is: I'll miss you.

On a slightly lighter note, the word for the indefinite time period is "Uniciform", meaning "in the form or style of UNIX". By this token, Linux and BSD are both Uniciform OSes; I prefer this to UN*X, which is difficult to pronounce.

I think it's been one of those days. My feet are cold. I'm going to bed. */
return 0;

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