Saturday, 10 December 2011

Bernice II. Back with a vengeance!

I know, I had promised to do a little series of Oxford blogs, but a situation has arisen today of sufficient ridiculousness to postpone them. I'll tell you all about it.
Today, I had my driving theory test. Because of various things, the internet told me that I had to do it on 8 o'clock on a Saturday morning, and go to a location in town, to 'Pearson's Professional Test Centre' to take my test. Getting up was difficult, as you might expect, but I managed it, and my wonderful father agreed to take me, through the frost and cold, to said location. I gathered my documentation bits and bobs I thought I might need, and arrived at arrived at 'Pearson's Professional Test Centre', which turned out to be a couple of rooms on the second floor of an unattractive office block.
Having navigated the corridors and stairwells and things, I arrived at a desk. Behind this desk, an overweight man was sat looking pleased with himself. I should explain that on my way through the corridors, a girl had walked past me in tears, saying 'He wouldn't f***ing let me take the test'. This didn't bode well, but I was not too unnerved. Anyway, I presented this man (we will call him Terry. He looked like a Terry) with my provisional license, my letter confirming my test, and an official looking piece of paper the DVLA had sent with my provisional. He looked over them and asked where my counterpart license was. In truth, I had no idea what this was, but pointed at the official looking piece of paper.
But Terry was not happy with this. He said 'This is not a counterpart license. This has nothing to do with your license' (By now I had realised that I should have brought the other official looking piece of paper with me, which came in the same envelope)
'Isn't this one proof enough?' I pleaded.
'No,' replied Terry, 'this is nothing to with it.' Oh really? Nothing to do with it, you say? Well it came in the same envelope, its from the same organisation, its the same colour and is signed by the same flipping person! If I had brought the results sheet from the last time I played laser quest, that would be 'nothing to do with it. This, on the other hand, is definitely something to do with it.
Next, he told me to sit down in the waiting area whilst he checked that I 'actually had an appointment'. I'm sorry? Checked I had an appointment? Did he think for a second I would have got out of bed for 8 o'clock on a Saturday morning, wandered through the minus goodness knows what temperature, through the world's fifth worst city, to this dismal office block, so I could stand in front of the likes of him with his receding hairline and his official lines, his booking system and his identification lanyard, pretending to have a driving theory test, in the hope that I will slip through the net, and get to sit in front of a computer, and decide what colour reflective studs indicate a slip road on a motorway?! OF COURSE I 'ACTUALLY HAVE AN APPOINTMENT' YOU STUPID MAN!
But, being British, I said none of that, and sat down in the waiting area, whilst he poked my name into his computer with his podgy fingers. 25 seconds later, I was summoned to my feet, so he could tell me that I was on the list, surprisingly, but without 'correct documentation' it was a 'legal requirement' that he could not 'permit' me to sit my test, and I would have to re-book. This could 'be done online for the cost of £31, and should take no more than 5 minutes, thank you very much, have a good day'.
At this point, even after he had reeled off his recorded message speech about legal requirements, I was retaining my calm. It was only 10 to 8, I might be able to stall him, whilst I sent for the 'correct documentation'. 'When is the latest you could have the license by?'. 'Not a moment after 8' he replied instantly and smugly.
Instead of reason with this idiot, I rang my dad, told him what I needed, and asked him to bring it as soon as possible, in the sure knowledge that common sense was not something Terry was acquainted with.
To cut a long story short, I got it in time by the grace of God, and ran back up to Terry's desk. Terry, looking rather disappointed with my success, did however seize the opportunity to lecture me. 'If your dad had to go through any red lights I bet you'll be paying the fine' and 'I bet you'll be washing up for the rest of the week' were his 2 favourites, I think. I somehow managed to ignore him, mainly because I was too out of breath to tell him what an unreasonable, pernickety, not funny, jobsworth I thought he was, and simply carried on to the 'test area'.

I'm pleased to say, I passed the test, and will hopefully never encounter Terry again. As I was leaving, he was on his mobile, which he had told me was 'strictly prohibited' talking to his 'mate' about their arrangements for that evening. He did look up to shoot him a glance, similar in nature to the arrow that took out King Harold's eye in 1066. Bulls eye.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

You're from WHERE?

Good day readers. I have recently returned from 4 days of interviews at Oxford University. I know, I thought I was too thick as well! Before I embark on this blog, I should say that I did come across some thoroughly wonderful people, who were nothing but friendly and warm, not to mention ludicrously intelligent.
I went with the expectation of meeting a group of Etonians and Harrowians (what actually is the term for them?), gilet wearing, Bullingdon Club members, do-you-know-who-my-father-is, Tory voting hooray Henrys. And whilst such people were in the minority, they were present.
I think what I shall do is a series of posts examining, in minute detail, as I tend to, the more quirky experiences, but this first one will be a tribute to the plot and sub-plot of a standard conversation.

Right, so the big writing is the actual utterance, and the little writing is the meaning behind it.

Person A: Hi there. What are you applying for?
I am now asserting my superiority over you by ensuring that I am the one who is brave enough to start conversation. Whilst I respect you sufficiently to acknowledge your existence, I consider myself superior enough to address you in this overbearing manner. However, you do look rather intelligent, so please don't be applying for my course.
Person B: Oh hi. I'm applying for PPE. How about you?
My use of Oh hi shows your talking to me is an inconvenience. I want you to go away, but I will do the decent thing and reply. I wonder if you know what PPE actually stands for. If not, you are stupid. I pause between PPE and How about you to make clear that I am not remotely interested, I just know the formula of conversation.
Person A: Geography
Phew! And I do a proper subject with a proper name. Onus now on you to extend this conversation or appear rude.
Person B: Oh wow, how interesting. Whereabouts are you from?
That is not interesting, and I have nothing to ask about your subject. I don't care where you're from, but I hope its a Labour seat so I know I am richer than you.
A: Preston. Yourself?
Oh no, he's played his trump card there. I will never be able to save face. I must get out of this conversation at once.
B: How lovely. I'm from Tunbridge Wells
Wonderful, I am better than you after all! I bet you go to a Comprehensive school and live in a slum and eat baked beans out of a trough with the rest of your disgusting family, garnished with a couple of dead dogs, on your hands and knees surrounded by vomit and flies in a slum. I, however, am 78th in line to the throne.
A:I went on holiday there once
I'm not a complete sad case! Honest!
B: Oh...
I knew we should have tightened border control. Keep the riff raff out.
B: Well I'd better be off now, see you soon. Good luck with your interviews
I need to go before I lose my hygiene by osmosis. I hope your interviews are a disaster and I never see you again.

I will once more stress that I was engaged in no conversation with a sub-plot even remotely similar to this one. Both the candidates I met and the undergraduate helpers were wonderfully kind, friendly and welcoming. But the imagination does wonder, doesn't it...

Monday, 14 November 2011

Polite, helpful, friendly shopkeepers? No; Bernice

The other Friday, I wanted some sweeties, so I went to the shop. It was lunch time, so myself and a very dear friend of mine made the short journey to the shops. It all looked like being a very enjoyable period of my life; all good friends and jolly good company 'n' all that. We made pleasant chit chat on our little afternoon constitutional, ranging from the very idle (the virtues of cheesy chips over classic salt and vinegar, which, when balanced with the fact that they charge an extra 30p to melt some pretend cheese onto your chips, are precious few) to the slightly more deep (God stuff- you don't wanna know). That's just the way we are.

So we walked along the relative calm of the road that goes to the shops, taking care to avoid the puddles, the sweaty men emerging from the gym in the midst of a mid life crisis and realisation that they are no longer very attractive to the opposite sex, and middle class, Range Rover driving, Aga owning, mumsnet-using women dropping off PE kit that their little daaaaarlings have managed to forget and need for show-jumping that afternoon at the posh Preparatory School. 'Oh you aaaare so forgetful Henry! Don't forget to give Lucas and Oscar a kiss from mummy. And make sure Tabitha has her Cayenne Pepper, or her Brined Roast Pheasant Outdoor Wisconsin Style she's making in Food Technology won't be nearly so Wisconsin Style will it? There's a good boy. Kiss for mummy. Mwah! Okay goodbye my daaaaarling. Mwah mwah.'
You know the sort.

Anyhoo, we walked past them before hearing the dull roar of the main road that the shops are on, and our brief period of quietness was over. Sam (he's the dear friend) had decided he would go to the chip shop, so we parted ways whilst I went into a store of an un-named multi-national shopping corporation. For the purposes of law and stuff, I shall not use their real name. I shall call them the No-op. So I went in, and a very strange atmosphere greeted me. There was nobody in there, save for an ample looking woman stacking the shelves, which is unusual for a shop in such a prime location. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
Now this woman, her name badge revealed, was called Bernice... I know, I thought it was weird too. Now Bernice and I may never have had our paths cross to such an extent, but for the fact that she was stood in the sweetie aisle (where I wanted to be), stacking bars of Snickers. On account of Bernice's girth, combined with No-op's narrow aisles, I had no way of bypassing her, and getting to the Kinder Happy Hippo I desired.
In this situation, one would have expected Bernice to perhaps stand up or breathe in or something to let me past. After all, it's not as if there was much rush for those Snickers. But no, Bernice did not, so we stood there awkwardly, each aware of the others' presence but unable to do anything about it. Well the awkwardness became too much for me, so I decided I would make a light-hearted, polite comment to relax the situation, whilst reminding Bernice that I was in fact there to buy stuff. 'I probably should have decided what to get before I got in your way.' was my best effort. I was under pressure! Had I been Bernice, the minimum I would have done here is let out one of those little snorts that says 'that's not funny, but you spoke to me in a light hearted way so I shall acknowledge it with this noise and a small forced smirk in your direction'. If we still lived in the old days of Arkwright, G-G-G-Granville etc., Bernice would have suggested some of their finest confectionery, and knocked threpence off the price as reward for my politeness.
Given the usually high standards of the No-op, I expected Bernice's reaction to be towards the Arkwright end of that scale. It was not. It was not even on that scale. Bernice didn't even acknowledge me. No look up. No smirk. No snort. No nothing. Bernice carried on stacking Snickers without even recognising my existence. I was livid. I considered- no, seriously considered- leaving. Only a glance into the eyes of the Happy Hippo, longing to be bought and eaten, convinced me to stay. So I stayed and silently fumed in the direction of Bernice. (I just realised, that sounds like I farted. Oh how immature I am!)
Eventually, Bernice stopped stacking Snickers and, still without looking at me, ambled over to the till, allowing me to get to my Hippo. As I went to pay, I had resolved to give Bernice a second chance. I decided that I would make a mess of finding the correct change, so I could apologise to Bernice, and give Bernice chance to tell me it was fine. Perhaps to snort, perhaps to tell me not to worry, perhaps to smile, perhaps to apologise for her past sins. Phase 1 went well, it took me forever to find my 39p. Phase 2 went well, I did one of those giggling embarrassed apologies. Phase 3, Bernice's bit, was a disaster. Bernice did react this time, but only by sticking Bernice's hand out, and continuing to gaze out of the window and chew Bernice's gum. I could have hit her. Instead, I paid and left without my usual word of entirely gratuitous but polite thanks. It seemed such a concept did not exist there.

Conclusive proof, then, that the age of the friendly corner shop owner, of the Arkwrightian and G-G-G-Granvillian ilk, is over. Instead, Bernice and her breed of rude, unhelpful, unpleasant little people have taken over the world of shops. Next they'll take over the world, mark my words.

Monday, 7 November 2011

Oh, there's a bird perched on the shower curtain rail

Last Saturday morning, I was running late. I had a driving lesson at 10 o'clock, a foolish arrangement, I know, and by 5 past 10, I had only to brush my teeth and I would be ready (however, this can be quite an ordeal when one has braces to negotiate). I stepped into the bathroom, and my eyes deceived me. They, specifically the corner of them, told me that there was a bird perched on the shower curtain rail. Needless to say, they were talking nonsense, birds do not live in bathrooms, therefore there could not be a bird perched on the shower curtain rail, and I should continue on my bearing towards the sink, and live my life without worrying for the presence of birds perched on the shower curtain rail. So reasoned my partially awake brain.

About 0.64 seconds later, it became apparent that my eyes had not being lying. A bird, disturbed by my intended use of its new home, dislodged itself from the shower curtain rail, and decided that it would assassinate me. It flapped at me and squawked, and generally did everything in its birdy power to kill me. A daring kamikaze dive-bomb attempt saw it zoom past my face and hit the mirror a little harder than looked comfortable. Rather than stand and fight, I decided my best move was to take the Ross Kemp course of action, so I got out of there... FAST! Once I had slammed the door shut behind me, I paused, breathing heavily, before deciding that I should call in re-enforcements. I ran down the stairs, trying to look normal as I passed my ornithophobic (fear of birds) mother, before entering into the lounge and dramatically shutting the door. In my best hushed-because-something-ground-breaking-and-unusual-is-happening-which-you-must-take-seriously-but-mother-must-not-find-out-about voice, I told him 'There's a bird perched on the shower curtain rail'.

To my sheer delight, he believed me! His first response was, as Basil Fawlty would say, to state the 'bleedin' obvious': 'Don't let your mother find out'. At that moment, she walked in, and her spidey sense was tingling. She asked what was going on. 'Nothing!', my Dad, brother and I replied in unison. That is man speak for 'something important that I don't want you to know about.' By the look on her face, she had already translated, and she wanted answers. It was I who broke the painful silent stand-off which ensued. 'There's a bird perched on the shower curtain rail.'
Panic. All hell broke loose. She flew into a terrible flap (pun very much intended), and reeled off her plan of how we were going to solve the problem. 'MARK! GET RID OF IT!'
Simple, but effective.

Now readers, you know me by now, and you know that I would not hesitate to remove the thing in place of my father, vendetta against me or no vendetta. But you see, the bird-perched-on-the-shower-curtain-rail had already crossed swords with me. It knew my moves, the way I liked to parry its blows, and how I shifted my weight in attack. So I decided the noble, brave, gallant, heroic thing to do... would be to let my Dad get rid of it.

Instead, I took on the 'Q' (out of James Bond) role, and supplied him with weapons. My recommendation was a tennis racquet and a bin, but apparently that was nonsense and a tea towel was far preferable.

So in he went, like a black country Rambo. My brothers and I gathered by the door and listened to his Attenborough style commentary, which opened with the words 'Oh, there's a bird perched on the shower curtain rail', but as he got more and more into it, became less wordy and more promising. 'Come on, you little git' being typical.
Eventually, he emerged with a tiny, thrashing bundle of tea towel. Despite my abstention from this battle, I took it upon myself to open the back door to let the bird go free. And off it went, having survived its brush with civilisation, more or less free from harm.

So there we are, a brave attempt from nature to colonise the Skidmore household is beaten back by its residents. The subsequent investigation has still not revealed how the bird got in, but I will let you know when we work it out. Any suggestions are welcome.
Finally, my Dad reckons it was a Blue tit (no giggling at the back please), but I think he's wrong. I think it was an eagle. Or maybe a Pterodactyl.

Monday, 31 October 2011

'Oxymoron' redefined by world famous moron

Many silly things have been said in the history of the world. Alan Hansen said "You'll never win anything with kids", George Bush claimed he had been "misunderestimated", and Sarah Thomas once asked "Where is Cornland?" after hearing that Peter is Cornish.
However, one man has blown them all out of the water, and utterly monopolised the ridiculous-quotes industry. His name is Professor Richard Dawkins. He said in an interview with the Guardian that (and I'm not making this up):

"Jesus was a great moral teacher: Somebody as intelligent as Jesus would have been an atheist if he had known what we know today."

That's not a typing error. Have you ever heard anything so absurd? After I had had chance to fully absorb this statement, I immediately started to dismantle it in my head with a view to blogging about it. Then I had a period of thinking that it was simply too daft to merit refute. But in the end, I realised that a disproportionately large quantity of people take Dawkins' frequent wild assertions as fact because it's what they want to hear, and he has letters after his name, so perhaps refute is necessary.

Dawkins starts off his article by conceding that Jesus was obviously a theist, but says that 'this was the least interesting thing about Him'. This bears a classic Dawkins hallmark, in that he has cast a cursory glance over that which he challenges, and assumed the rest. The trouble is that Jesus was not just a theist, He was and is God. Dawkins gets as far as acknowledging that Jesus believed that God is real, but then stops short of the fact that Jesus went round saying and proving that He was God. There are 2 explanations for this. Either RD didn't know Jesus made these claims, which would make him rather ignorant and ill-informed, or he just chose not to mention them because they don't fit in with his argument, which is irresponsible and invalidates just about everything he has ever said.
Either way, Jesus said He was God. If this is true (which I believe), I can say pretty confidently that Jesus would not ever be an atheist. If it wrong, then Jesus either made a spectacular miscalculation, which would suggest that calling Him 'intelligent' is absolutely false, or He was a nutcase with the most inflated ego since Johnny Vaughan. If it's this one, then to call Him a 'great moral teacher' is also false.
It's an oxymoron. Not everything in this statement can be true at the same time. If Jesus is a great moral teacher, and intelligent, then He must be right that He is God. If he is God, then He can't be an atheist. The problem is that, according to Jesus' teachings, we can essentially swap the word 'Jesus' in this statement for 'God':

"God was a great moral teacher: Somebody as intelligent as God would have been an atheist if he had known what we know today".

Sounds pretty thick if you ask me.

Whilst I'm here, I want to take a closer look at the rest of this article RD wrote. To say that His theism 'was the least interesting thing about Jesus', makes another ill-informed assumption that, to Jesus, God and religion were just another 'thing'; that they could be put into little compartments like every other aspect of one's life. But you see, this was not the case for Jesus, and according to His teaching, nor should it be for any of His followers (Christians). For Him, and for us, God permeated every aspect of His being. Dawkins makes the assumption that 'Theism' could be put in one sphere and 'Everything else' in another, and ne'er the tween shall meet. This is not the case. For a person who rejects God, everything truly can be kept separate if the will to do so is there, but if a person is serious about God, then this is not possible, because He demands everything of His followers.

So not only was His 'theism' inseparable from every other aspect of His life, it governed everything Jesus said and was. Dawkins says his favourite bit about Jesus was his 'radical teaching'. He insinuates that Jesus rebelled against the God of the Old Testament, of Abraham with His teaching. This is perhaps his most shameful claim. Far from this, Jesus once said when having a rant (at the Jewish leaders, regarding their own claims, not those of the Old Testament) 'You study the scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life, but these are the very scriptures that testify about me'. (John 5v39) Far from challenging and rebelling against what the Old Testament said, they were the basis of everything He said. In fact, He quoted the Old Testament 78 times in the Bible, and quoted the books that RD says contain Shariah-like cruelties 26 times. And yet Dawkins is trying to say that Jesus in 'advocating generous forgiveness' rebelled against this stuff, and against 'God's vengeful nastiness'. If you ever have such an intellectual collapse deep enough to believe this description of God, read Ezekiel 16, which explains it all from God's point of view. Look into it, and you will find that 1 John 4v8 rings true: God is love.

I can't help but wonder whether a modern, atheistic Jesus with His radical teachings on which Dawkins is so keen, would have had any more effect on the professor than the first century theistic one. I doubt it. RD cites his 'niceness', but if you cast your mind back to the visit of the Pope to Britain, and there was certainly no niceness on show from Dawkins, rather 'hatred' might be a better word for it. For me, this means that he must stand trial as a hypocrite too. The charges mount up, professor.

There are other issues with the article he has written, but I suspect that if you're not bored now, you soon will be, so I'll stop now. Comment if you want and we shall discuss it. I just hope that this makes people stop and consider what professor Dawkins says a little more in future before we accept them as truthful.
As for this claim, if Jesus walked the Earth today, He would not be an atheist, of course He wouldn't. When He does, I suspect RD might be a little red-faced about this article. Haste the day.

Pope Benedict sums it up nicely; he calls the claim 'an absurdity'. Exactly.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Trees: watch out for them

Before I get cracking on this return to the blogosphere, I would like to stress that I did not actually think up what is written in this blog, but paraphrased it from a theologian called FJ Sheed in his book 'Theology and Sanity', which was bought for me by a particularly wonderful person. But I think it's important enough, relevant enough, and accessible enough for it to be communicated in ways Mr. Sheed would probably have been all over.

So many people, and you may well be one of them, are not interested in God, and deciding whether He is real, and what He is like because they 'aren't into religion'. I'm afraid this is a very narrow and short sighted view.
Imagine you are sat in the passenger seat of a car (For any readers in S. Peters' year 13, imagine it's Joe's car), and you see that you are heading straight for a Tree. You call out to Joe (for this is what we shall call the driver from now) that he needs to swerve or he will hit It, but he answers 'It's no good talking to me about Trees; I'm a motorist, not a botanist'. Obviously, you would think Joe has gone utterly mad, and that he is carrying the rights of a specialist too far.
Well those who ignore God because they are not 'into religion' are making the exact same mistake as Joe. You see, the problem is that a Tree is not just a fact of botany: It is simply a fact.
In the same way, God is not just a fact of religion: He is simply a fact.
You don't ignore the Tree's presence just because botany bores you or turns you off, so to ignore God because religion does the same is pretty daft.

So look into it, and this website is an incredible place to start: It might even save you a hefty garage bill.

I might end up with a few blogs based on Sheed's book because it is absolutely stunning, so if fancy a look, you can read it all here:
I apologise to anyone who ever hears me preach, because I will probably use a fair bit of his stuff in it. I also apologise to Joe, I'm sure he is very very good at negotiating trees.

Tuesday, 19 July 2011

A mouthful of abuse

Well, I have just returned from an orthodontist appointment, feeling thoroughly battered, bruised, torn and beaten. I hasten to add that no physical changes were made to me, no teeth out (no, that is still to come, fivefold), no brace attached, no nothing. Rather, I spent the entire time feeling like I was at the mercy of a playground bully.
I am referring to the 'nice orthodntist man', as my deceived mother called him, himself. Oh yes, he flashed his pearly white smile, he shook her warmly by her hand, he mixed togther his chiselled stubbly features with a convincing air of trustworthy-ness, which left her only to happy to watch her son taken into his lair. But I was not taken in. No sir, I knew that once that door closed and I was in solely in his, and his evil Debbie McGhee assistant lady's charge, things would change, and so it proved.
'Sit down for me' was his brusque introduction. (Why is it that dental types add 'for me' as a suffix for everything? Why should the fact that it is they who are asking make me any more willing to obey? If Nelson Mandela asked me to do something 'for him'; but of course I would Mr Mandela. If an unpleasant orthodontic surgeon whom I have never met before today uses this buy out clause on me, well, he can jog on. Except he has sharp drills and things).
Then, he whipped out his tools with a forbidding eagerness. Mirrors and proby things and those latex gloves. Hideous. 'Open wide', he said. Reluctant but polite, I obliged. And this, dear readers (maybe plural is optimistic), is when the bullying started. He proceeded to tell Debbie everything wrong with my mouth in some sort of code language nobody else can understand. I did manage to translate the odd bit into layman's terms though. On 3 occasions, he did that thing plumbers do when they see a rather severe problem, where they suck in air in a shocked way, and the word 'severe' cropped up regularly.
'What is the problem?' I hear you ask. Well, I'll tell you. It was the sheer delight and glee with which he went about telling Debbie everything that was wrong about me. This wouldn't be acceptable for anything but teeth. No slimming class leaders look at their members and say 'Oooh there's a good few chins on this one Debbie. Sit down for me, sir. Right, there's six rolls of wobbling flab. Got that Deb? Good, now raise your arm and wiggle it around for me. Okay, quite severe bingo wings here, surprised he's not taking off. Actually, with a belly like that, I'm not.'
No, in any other walk of life, this is wrong, and plain mean. In an orthodontic surgeon, it is 'professional'. Worse than that, I needed him to think my teeth disgusting, so that the NHS would agree to pay for my treatment. So, though it is free in terms of money, national health treatment is payed for with damaged pride and ridicule. And smug smug orthodontist man knew it too, this is what gave even more license to him and evil Debbie to snigger and the repulsive spectacle of my mouth.
So, bring on the removal of my teeth then, for beyond that particular horizon lies deliverance from this terrible twosome. And it can't hurt any more than today did, surely...

Saturday, 9 July 2011

Well how does that happen?

So I'm sat here on my laptop, somehow connected to the internet. How on earth has this happened? The fat of the matter is that I am not connected at all. My bum is connected to the sofa, my feet are connected to the floor, my laptop is connected to my thighs, and nothing else. How then, can it be that this machine is connected to the tinterweb?

Now, clearly there are boffins out there who could explain this to me (Or are there? I have never met them; have you? Perhaps we place too much trust in these so called 'experts'. Do we not attribute absolute factual status to a notion, when we hear that Dr Suchandsuch or Professor Bloggs has arrived at a certain conclusion? It seems to me we attach almost superhuman levels of reliability to the words of men with some letters after their name. I can categorically confirm that such letters do not liberate a man of his mortality, or fallibility. Why should we treat what they say with any less scepticism than something said by, say, a vicar? One for the atheists there... I have digressed, but I imagine I will return to this at some point)
Anyhow, it remains a fairly safe assumption that there are people who know what is going on around me provide me with the old double-you double-you double-you, but I shall remain in blissful ignorance.

Perhaps there are websites whirling round my head like flies around a tramp. Perhaps that faint whirring I can hear is the internal combustion of a search engine. (Is there an actual engine making them work, boffins?) Perhaps that quiet giggling I can hear is the lying, deceitful Wikipedia, fluttering by my left ear, gleefully lying to a researching student, earning them a stern 'I told you so' from the teacher, and robbing Johnny student of his marks. Perhaps.
Anyroad, I'm off to make a cup of tea now, hopefully I won't bash my head off BBC iplayer on the way.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Full home debut

Well here it is then, the beginning of a glorious generation of sparkling word smithery(I like to think that's a real phrase), content, insight and perception. That's the theory anyway. In reality, it is probably more likely to be a load of rambling rubbish that nobody agrees with, and makes me sound like an idiot, but there we are.

I was at a university open day in a talk about theology, when the lecturer mentioned that the 3 areas of study would be God, the world, and the self, which more or less covers everything, I think. And as quite an interested, if not interesting, person, all 3 of those things utterly fascinate me. Therefore, that shall be the subject of this blog.

I get that virtually nobody will read this, and quite rightly so, but on the slim chance that you do, enjoy it.
God bless