Too Many Books....

Ever since I was very young I've loved reading. I'm quite good at it now and able to recognise most words I come across, occasionally even knowingwhat they mean.

I'm also a firm fan of the Kindle app on my ipad, something I blame squarely on divorce. You see I owned hundreds of books. Some were bog standard high street fiction, cheap in production and cheaper in quality, for I'm definitely no snob in my tastes either, and others were of the lovely coffee table variety, many about Sri Lanka.

When the divorce happened I was faced with book issues, amongst other far more serious matters too. I didn't have the space for all the books, didn't want to give away the nicer ones, but also knew that many of them I wouldn't read again.

And so I moved over to ebooks. I now have a sizeable library that is happily stored in the cloud. I can annotate them to my heart's content, carry the whole lot anywhere on any of my devices and don't have to worry about taking up many cubic metres of storage space at my office.

I'm not one of these evangelist types though. I like the Kindle app for most books; the coffee table ones are always (to me) better to read and feel as real books and I draw the line at sitting on the toilet with my ipad. A man must have standards. It's just me, if you like to read real books that's fine by me. I have no desire to convert anyone or get into some sort of argument over which is better. All reading is good I figure.
 
The thing is, I've realised that I'm currently reading too many books.

I used to be a one book at a time person, with very occasional forages (not to be confused with "Farage" - a British word for lying wanker) into two book territory. But that would be strictly one piece of fiction and one of non fiction at any time.

The trouble with ipads, tablets and probably computers in general is the whole switching thing. Chaps sell it as a feature; switching between tasks and functions easily and seamlessly, but I'm starting to think it's too easy.

And so I've drifted into an existence in which I read several books at the same time. I noticed it at first when I was reading two or three. No big deal I thought, I can handle it, I can give up any time.

But I glanced at my current being read books this morning and counted seven. Fortunately only one of them is fiction. I think my mind would struggle to keep track of more than one story at a time. But I'm not sure if six others is too many. Can I keep track of where I am in each one? Do I have to read a good chunk of words to get back into the swing of things every time I go to one?

Or is it good to be able to choose a different book according to my mood? To switch quickly if I'm not 'feeling it'?

Us oldies grew up listening to whole albums. We'd sit there for half an hour listening to a record, then turn it over for side two. We'd be familiar with the flow of an album, the sequence of tracks and how  one song led into the intro for another. I can't listen to the end of Breakout by the Foos now without expecting that snare hit and hearing Learn to Fly immediately afterwards.

But you kids can barely listen to a whole song, let alone an album, before you're looking for the next thing to treat your ears to. And I fear that I'm going that way with books.

Should I just focus on one at a time, digesting every word and chapter, or should I flick channels?

Hmmm...

Hanging and Influencing.

Recently I've become aware that these two words, as nouns, have become things. I don't know how they crept into everyday usage, but what the hell?

Maybe it's a muso thing, but every day I see muso type 'friends' of mine talk about what a great 'hang' they had with someone. And that someone is invariably a (slightly) famous sort, which makes me think that there's some kind of grovelling going on here.

It's that whole Facebook / Twitter narcissistic thing going on again. A desire to tell others that they spent some time with Tom Jones' guitarist or Will I Am's drummer, coupled with a need to let the famous person what a good bloke they think he is.

And influencers?? Seriously, I know it makes me sound old, which I am, but from what I can see an Influencer is someone who has a large enough following on some social media platform to influence their readers to buy something. That's it.

Said thing doesn't have to be good, said influencer often gets paid or gets a free house or something in return for their endorsement and said readers go off and spend money on a diet thing, a pair of trainers or an operation that they don't need and probably wouldn't even want were it not for one of those Kardashians telling them how good it is.

It's all gone a bit mad.

I don't Need No Invitations

Or reminders.

I don't want my reincarnated blogging life to consist entirely of mini rants, so I'll just write this one and slope off and try and think of something more jolly to publish for next time.

But seriously what is it with these people and institutions who insist on sending Outlook and Google calendar invites, followed by fourteen reminders as you approach the meeting time?

As far as calendar / meeting type stuff goes I reckon I'm pretty British. Despite my Lankan blood I am almost always early for things. And I mean properly early, like half an hour or more. The rationale is that by turning up early I avoid any chance of the loss of control lateness involves, that hustle and bustle of trying to rush and all that goes with it.

The non rationale is that I'm a bit obsessive about it, I just feel better for it.

Talking of calendars does anyone else have an issue with spelling the word? I always have a moment when I wonder if it should be "calandar" or "calender" before settling on the right way forward.

As I was saying, I reckon I'm quite well behaved and organised as far as my time management goes. I arrive early, I run my calendar on three different devices, all of which are synced (in theory), I play in three bands so have to make sure I know when I'm doing which gig with which band.

My life is totally governed by my calendar and task list. There are few things I have to do that aren't stuck into my task list and marked as completed when done.

I'm sure I could improve but I'm quite happy the way things are.

So, if you and I make an appointment, I put it in my diary and it stays there.

I don't then need you to send me a Google or whatever calendar invite. As the septics say; I've got this.

I don't need you, like my Chiro clinic and most places these days, to send me a reminder the day before. I know I've got an appointment with Nisha tomorrow at 3pm, I know I've got a hospital appointment on Friday at 9am too. They're in my diary.

Got to go, I'm running late for a meeting I'd forgotten about.

Those RIP People

I wonder if it's just me, or do you have any of these types as well?

I'm talking about the Facebook friends who are madly keen to spread the news that someone, famous or not famous, has died.

I've got two in particular, both musicians, who, usually within about half an hour of a death announcement, will put up a link to an article with a little post saying "so and so RIP".

I've surmised that they are desperate attention seekers, a conclusion that would tie in with the rest of their FB posts; all crap minutiae about the lives of their kids and dogs, kind of trying to turn their lives into some sort of sitcom.

And this is a continuation of that behaviour.

It's all a bit too desperate for me, thank god for the snooze for a month feature.

A Men Only Post - On Farting and Peeing

Gents,

I've noticed that the older I get the greater the likelihood is that I'll fart when I pee.

In my little experience of such matters the average ladies toilet is a place of calm, tranquility and perhaps even pleasant smells. I know, I've seen them on TV.

On the other hand the average gents convenience, especially in a good old British pub, is a shit smelling, urine riddled arse end of nowhere room that most men only visit if they're desperate.

Anything is allowed, from farting to drug taking, often at the same time and it's perfectly normal to see a chap standing peeing at the urinal whilst holding a pint in one hand and his equipment in the other hand.

If any ladies managed to slip past the warning then you should know that no man whatsoever comes remotely close to batting an eyelid on hearing another man fart whilst peeing, it's done, it's accepted and it's often encouraged.

Not so many moons ago I used to be far more sporadic in my pee farts than I am now. Regrettably I didn't actually do a full statistical analysis, with a spreadsheet or whatnot. But I reckon I used to drop one every once in a while when standing at the urinal, perhaps once every two or three visits.

These days I've noticed that I can hardly even begin to strain before I've emitted a burst of arse vapour. I confess the lack of control between the front and rear bits of me bothers me slightly. I might now be forced to do a more objective study but I fear that we're looking at a one to one ratio of farts to peeing. It's never two to one or higher though, you'll be pleased to know.

I reckon it's just yet another symptom of getting older. Are there any exercises one can do to stave it off?

It's literally a bummer. And you know I don't use that word lightly.

Waiting Rooms, Bells, Bands, Cars and Chocolate.

Have you ever seen that quite famous experiment?

The one where a chap goes into a waiting room. Said chap thinks it's a genuine waiting room, perhaps for a job interview or hair transplant consultation, but in actual fact it's a fake one.

So he goes in and finds three or four people already seated and he takes a vacant chair. After a few minutes a bell rings and all three or four of the others, who are all in on this, stand up for a few seconds then sit down again. Our chap looks on with interest, wondering why they're doing this.

Then, some minutes later the bell rings again and the same thing happens; the actors stand up and sit down after a short time. You've probably guessed the next bit. After a while our chap follows suit and stands when the bell rings with the others.

Then, one by one, the people who were in the room already start filtering out as they get called to whatever it is they are there for. And new fellows have started coming in too, all of whom have joined in with the standing for the bell thing. These are new fellows who are as ignorant as our chap, but have joined in because they think it's what has to be done.

Eventually we are left with our chap and a waiting room full of new people, all of whom stand up when the bell rings and then sit down a few seconds later. Yet none of them have the foggiest why they're doing it, they've all just been copying the people who were in the room when they arrived.

I've seen it used by Derren Brown, the very famous hypno / mind manipulation bloke, as a means of identifying people who are more likely to follow the herd rather than think independently, as there are some who don't join in and stay seated looking with bewilderment at the others.

But it's an age old demonstration of how humans and animals will often follow the herd or adopt a learned behaviour without knowing for themselves exactly why.

Why are many of us instinctively scared of snakes? I don't know about you but I shit myself at the thought of snakes. I've never been attacked by one, I've only ever seen a few, but my skin is slightly crawling even as I type this. Well take it from me, it's because of that waiting room with the bell, or something along those lines.

There's a band here in the UK that I'm quite keen on called King King. I came across them a couple of years ago and they're largely a good old fashioned Blues band who, in recent times, seems to have veered towards more middle of the road rock (think Whitesnake in their prime). I'm down with the kids me.

As with most music I discover my initial attention was grabbed by their drummer; a magnificent groover by the name of Wayne Proctor. And I've sought out lots of his other music and would go so far as to say he's influenced my playing rather a lot in the last couple of years. I've been trying to nick his blues licks and triplet based grooves as much as my meagre ability will allow!

King King are a 4 piece band, led by a guy who sings and plays guitar and woud appear to be the main man. And shortly after I got into them the keyboardist left, to be replaced by someone else. I really like the first guy, a rather brilliant Hammond player, but that seemed to be that.

Then, maybe a year later, the bassist, as far as I know one of the founding members, also quit. This was just after the announcement that the band had signed a big management deal for the US, and it looked like big things were on the horizon.

The talk on the forums and Facebook fan pages etc was that the bassist had left because he had family committments and didn't want to be going off doing stateside tours with everything else in his life. Quite understandable and he was replaced by another low frequency thumper.

Lo and behold a few weeks later and very surprisingly our man Wayne announces he's left. It seemed sudden and I know not what the story is but I suspect there may have been a falling out of some sort. A new drummer has yet to be announced.

So now we're in a situation where, out of four people who were in the band when I first came across them, three of them are different. And it got me thinking. If the singer / guitarist was to leave and be replaced (which I admit is almot unthinkable), would it be the same band?

Thin Lizzy, may all time favourite band, are currently out on tour. But there is not a single one of the original members in the current line up. Admittedly Scott Gorham, their longest serving guitarist who joined in the very early stages, is in, but he wasn't in the band to start with. They go out doing gigs, playing the same old songs that they used to play but as far as I'm concerned they're not Thin Lizzy.

If Brian Downey, the original drumer was involved, I'd see then happily, though probably accept them as nearly Thin Lizzy.

I was chatting to a friend about this last week and his response was that it's like branding. These days there are very few consumer items that contain their original heritage or product DNA. Sure you can buy Cadbury's Dairy Milk or a Mini Cooper, brands that are as British as The Beatles or Colonisation.

But they're not British are they? Cadbury is owned by Mondelez International, an American F+B Company and Mini is a wholly owned subsidiary of BMW.

Minis all over the world with Union Flags covering their roof and rear lights cleverly made to look like Union flags make all of us think of the swinging 60s and the Kings Road but it takes the Germans to rescue the ailing brand and make it profitable.

We support a football club yet everything about it may well be totally different to when we first started. Different players, different manager, perhaps different ownership or stadium. The name stays, but everything else moves on.

Where do your boundaries lie with this sort of thing?

The only thing I know for certain is that there are no objective rules. Except I suppose, there must be legal limits. I'm sure Scott Gorham somehow has the legal right to tour with the Thin Lizzy name, as Mondelez International is legally entitled to use the Cadbury name.

Is it as simple as that now?

If you own the name you can use it!!? It kind of makes me sad.

If you want my advice....

....ignore most people's advice.

I was browsing Facebook the other day, as most of us over 35s tend to do, and came across a FB friend wishing her Dad a happy birthday.

This friend is a muso who I know pretty well, as is the specific father in this story.

So said friend wishes the Dad, then goes on to tell people that her father gave her four valuable lessons in life as follows:

1. Everyone is stupid unless they prove otherwise
2. Most people that complain are fat and ugly
3. Don't look forward to a gig coz it will be shit if you do
4. The best gigs end in a fight.

I read this and thought 'seriously?'

Now I've met the bloke and he seems like a nice chap, but rarely have I seen a more cynical and negative set of parental tips.

For starters, assuming anyone is stupid until they prove themselves otherwise might well be your attitude. It might be the way many look at life and new people. But it's cynical as fuck and I don't want to approach newcomers to my life with that mindset.

Nor do I want to do the opposite; to assume they're NOT stupid until they prove otherwise. I just like to enjoy every new encounter with a positive and open minded mindset. Perhaps, within four nanoseconds, I will decide I think the person is stupid, but I certainly hope I give people a chance. On top of that the likelihood is that they will think I'm stupid also.

The next one; most people who complain are fat and ugly is hardly worth discussing. I just hope I have never instilled in my girls that anyone's worth or validity is based on their weight or attractiveness.

As for number 3, well we're back to cynicism and negativity. I suppose the word 'gig' can be substituted for almost anything. And it's basically saying that one should always have low, maybe zero expectations in order to avoid disappointment.

There might well be a grain of truth in this. How many times have you watched something that someone else has raved about and you've come away feeling let down? Or gone to your favourite restaurant expecting your taste buds to feel like they've, well been to your favourite restaurant, only to feel that perhaps a Big Mac might have been a better choice?

In my case I've played many a gig that I was looking forward to only for it to fail to fulfil my expectations.

But, I'd far rather approach gigs and events with a nice feeling of calm optimism. I suppose that means I may well run the risk of feeling a bit disappointed but it just feels better to me. If one does everything with the expectation that it will be a bit crap then why bother in the first place?

And the final nugget; that the best gigs end in a fight.

Yes that is very true. Particularly if it's a fight between band members.

Either / Or

Some months ago I read about the concept of using the words "either" and "or" as a tactic to get the behaviour you want from someone, or to frame a discussion or argument in order to win.

I'm sure we're all aware of people using either / or in everyday conversation and I'm equally sure we all use it ourselves.

"What are you, a man or a mouse?"

"You're either a lover or a fighter"

"Are you an optimist or a pessimist?"

"Are you pro Rajapaksa or against him / them?"

"You're either with us or against us"

Ad infinitum.

The point is that these force the unaware receiver into choosing between the two options and the smart user can choose his or her language to get a desired result. The "two types of people" statement is a powerful related method as well.

"There are two types of people; those go out and take action and those who sit around doing nothing and let crap happen to them."

I mean, faced with that sort of statement most people are going to take action just for fear of being branded as the doing nothing type.

As in life awareness is at least half the battle. Once I became aware that these sort of ultimatums can be used deliberately I have become much better at spotting them and cutting them off at the pass.

I saw a Twitter exchange between Stephen Fry and someone, in which the someone asked Stephen Fry if he was X or Y and Mr Fry responded with something like

"Gosh are those the only two choices?" which I made a mental note of to use in the future.

When I notice it being used on me I also like to just call out the person for it, saying

"hmmm..you've framed it as an either / or but actually it can be both."

This has been massive for me, as it can change the whole direction of the conversation and lead to a much more open and less aggressive type of conversation than how it might have been heading.

Just saying.

Have a good weekend out there!

A WTF Moment!

Ever have stuff happen to you, or perhaps just things you encounter, that make you wonder if you are getting old or whether the world is losing its head?

There I was, casually out with my brothers a couple of weeks ago, off to a rather pleasant gig as it happens.

Musicbiz bro gets something out of his pocket and puts in his mouth.

"Do you want one?" he said to me.

"Hmmm what is it?" I asked.

"It's a chewing gum" replied he.

"It's actually bubblegum flavoured chewing gum" he adds.

"What? Bubblegum flavoured chewing gum?" said moi.

"Yes"

"Erm, so it tastes like bubblegum, feels like bubblegum, only you can't blow bubbles with it? I asked.

"Yes that's about it" he responded.

What next?

Apple flavoured oranges.

WTF?

Maybe I'm getting old and the world is losing its head.

Hitting All My G Spots..

And by "G" I mean those spots that make me go "Grrrrr".

I'd like to ask you. my reader, if the email I'll chuck into this post, after giving you the background, winds you up as much as it does to me. Or am I just being overly pedantic and fussy?

I deal with one of those job agencies, the sort that supplies temporary staff as and when a company like mine needs them. Now I should clarify something here; as far as I'm concerned there are three specific groups of people that are as close to vermin as I can comprehend. And I've met many individuals within these groups who are genuinely nice, warm and friendly people, it's just, put them in their work environment and they act like wankers.

They are (in no particular order) car dealers, recruitment consultants (which includes temp agencies) and estate agents. The keen and intelligent among you will have already spotted that the aforementioned email, the email I mentioned before that is, was from one of my most disliked industry types to start with, not a good place to begin.

So why do you even deal with these people RD? I hear you asking. Well it's because I have to. My company needs a sporadic supply of temporary staff and one of my responsibilities is to organise it. Life is like that. I've had to buy cars and deal with estate agents too. I've dealt with this particular temp agency for some years. Their incompetence never fails to impress. They're so incompetent that they'd probably come last in an incompetence competition.

But I stick with them. Better the devil you know and all that. They may be incompetent but some of the staff they supply are good and know the work involved. It's a bit like buying the car you really want or the house you love from an imbecile.

On Sunday night, yes Sunday night, I receive the following email from my contact at this agency. At first my reaction was one of a niggling feeling, a sort of strain around my balls, just that slight discomfort. I paid little heed to it for, as a man, I'm used to uncomfortable balls, that constant need to adjust and move them around.

But the niggling continued. Yesterday I had to read the thing again and I felt myself getting wound up by it. It's strange, you know me, I'm as mild mannered and easy going as a Dairylea triangle with a dollop of mayonnaise on top, but this has affected me.

I've pondered on it, trying to work out the logic and rationale behind the feelings. It's a combination of a few things; first it's the fact that the chap has sent it to a load of people who I assume to be his customers and let us all see each others email addresses and names, something I consider to be a large breach of professionalism.

Secondly there's the fact that he goes along the "I work so hard, never having holiday and am so dedicated to my job" approach, something I really don't care about, as I don't know the guy that well at all.

Next is his poor grammar and generally appalling linguistics. Saying "there" instead of "their", randomly using a capital L at the start of the word "Leave" and total ignorance about sentence. Construction.

Lastly the way he's used the "Mr" titles in front of his colleagues' names. It seems to be some sort of in joke, one that isn't really that funny anyhow.

Terrible. Here it is, with certain bits omitted because I, despite my intense dislike, still have a sense of what I should and shouldn't put out for all to see:

Dear All,

I know its not very often but F.... has actually given me Leave for 2 weeks, I know it's hard to believe but trust me it is true so my colleagues I will be away from the 2nd July and will be back on the 16th of July and will be leaving you with the very capable hands of Mr C......... W.... and Mr D... B...... to deal with any staff coverage. There contact details are as follows:

D...@........  on xxxxxxxxxx or C...@.......  on .....................

Kind Regards

There it is. What do you think?

Pet Linguistic Hates

I'm quite fussy about my words I am. I'm not very good at them, nor do I proclaim myself to be some kind of authority on all things wordy (except in private of course), but there are things I like and things I abhor.

I like a good apostrophe, one thats' thrown in at the right place (did you see what I did their?), and proper and correct use of the words "there",  "their" and "they're". But, as Mr Wittekind, my rather inspiring old English teacher used to say, it's all communication and the point of it is to make people understand each other. So, as long as that happens, let's not get too anal about things.

Some things though just get on my fucking nerves. Simple. Here's a list of them, one that I reserve the right to change my mind about at any point in the future, or in the past, but only after, perhaps before, we've sorted out time travel:

"Can I get? / Can I ask?" - You know when someone says "Can I ask how old you are?" Well the only proper way to answer the question is to say yes or no. Perhaps "of course you can, go on then?" might also be used. And when you're in a coffee shop and say "Can I get a cappuccino, hold the tomatoes?" Well I'd just love the server to say "Yeah of course you can, it's over there, help yourself".

"It's a big ask" - The most frustrating thing about this phrase is that I've caught it creeping into my own language recently. Well I don't want it in my arsenal of phrases. It's not an "ask", it's a question, perhaps a request. As far as I'm concerned the word "ask" is a verb. Is it really that much more effort to say one more syllable and use "question"? I request you. And seriously, why is it that so many black people can't say "ask"?

"Is liking" - This is a dodgy one. Of course I blame that Justin Timberland and his McDonald's adverts, but that's another issue. I suppose, taken to extremes, if a person likes something but on an ongoing basis, like the weather at the moment or the pants I've been wearing for the last few days, then it's okay to use, as the act of liking has happened but is also continuing to happen. And, while I'm on the subject of the weather, it's bloody freezing here right now. But, if you "liked" something you saw yesterday, then just don't say that you're "liking" it. Why? Because it's wrong and we're not Americans around here now are we?

"International standard" - I reckon any Sri Lankan will understand why this fills me with strangely mixed feelings of frustration. It shouldn't be the case that some things made and / or sold in the motherland fall, or don't fall up to "international standard". The very use of the phrase implies that there is one standard for things sold within Sri Lanka and another for those sold outside Sri Lanka. Yet so often it's true and I wish it wasn't. I suppose it's entirely correct in terms of linguistics, I just wish it wasn't used, that's all.

"Safe haven" - A haven is a safe place. So why on earth is everyone's current favourite phase the aforementioned one?

"Overused cliche" - My dictionary tell me that a cliche is "a word or expression that has lost much of its force through overexposure." So, by definition a cliche is overused. Just say the word "cliche" then. The time you save in not using the word "overused" can actually be put to use when you start to use the word "question" instead of "ask". There's a thought.

What are your pet linguistic hates then?

On Decisiveness...

........or should that be "On Indecision"? I'm not sure.

I read a quote the other day from Brian Tracy, the less well known brother from International Rescue. It was a quote that struck a chord with me, enough of a chord for me to write it in my Barefoot notebook, on the newly created quote page. It goes like this:

"Decisiveness is a characteristic of high performing people. Almost any decision in better than no decision at all."

How true. Or is it? Which is ironic, I think.

You see, at first glance I fully agree with this statement. At a guess I'd say you do too. But then I go a bit deeper and think that "high performing" people, whatever they may be, aren't chaps or chapesses who go out and make quick and snappy decisions willy nilly. No, they're fellows who make quick decisions, but decisions that are also good ones, most of the time at least.

A fellow who makes quick decisions all the time but who makes bad ones won't usually be seen as a high performer. Unless he's a politician of course, when all logic goes flying out of the window.

Is a quick bad decision better than no decision at all?

It becomes a hall of mirrors type of question. It's perfectly legitimate and allowed by God and his cronies to make a decision not to decide, which counts as a decision. Dithering and faffing about aren't generally good. However, a chap who says "I'm going to gather some more information before I make my decision" or "I'm going to wait until next Tuesday, to let the facts mull over in my mind until then" is, in many ways, being far more decisive than the one who decides in half a nanosecond that he's going to invest all his money in Lalith Kotelawala's latest venture.

What do you think?

Is any decision better than no decision, or is a decision not to decide a decision anyhow?

Or are you like me on this one, a bit undecided?

All About The Numbers

I've been meaning to write a post about this for some time, but it was when I was filling out a form online a short while ago that I was reminded of it. Which is ironic, for it's a post that's largely to do with memory, the irony being that I'd forgotten about it.

There I was, filling out a form onscreen. I was required to input my driving licence number, my National Insurance number and my passport number, as well as a few others. I duly did as I was asked, then paused and thought.

You see, I know I can be a sort of anally retentive twat at times, just ask my kids, C or anyone who's spent time with me. And I'm not talking about anal retention of the sort that makes people highly successful, either commercially or academically. Ask me about Einstein's theory of evolution, Darwin's theory of relativity or the values of rests in musical notation and I'm about as much use as a riot policeman in Tottenham or Croydon a couple of weeks ago.

But, ask me what the registration of my parents' VW Variant in the early, perhaps mid 1970s was, or that of the Audi 100 (a GL model no less) they bought after that, and I sound like a mastermind competitor whose specialist subject is "useless number related things to do with RD's life and people around him".

Yes, the National Insurance, the driving licence and the passport numbers that were needed on that form were nesting firmly in my subconscious waiting to be used. Okay, I hear you say, a passport number is one that many of us have to write down quite often so it's natural. Yes, you have a point, but the registration of my parents' VW in the 1970s? That's different, though it wasn't needed on this particular form. In fact it's only ever been needed in conversations with my family.

It would appear that some numbers, those that I've had to repeat a few times, just sink in and sit there. It's not all of them and I just can't see the logic behind which numbers sit there and which get forgotten. There are phone numbers that are ingrained more firmly than the Sigiriya frescoes in my head. The office phone number of my grandmother who died over twenty years ago takes up valuable mind space even though I have no use for it.

The phone number of that same grandmother for her apartment before her last one, so from when I was about five to ten years old, still comes as easily out of my mouth as the VAT registration number for my company.

Of course the advent of telephone short codes, one touch dialling and memories in mobile phones has changed things dramatically, perhaps not so dramatically though, as I find myself easily recalling which short codes apply to which people on my work phone system. Normal people look at the phone list on their wall. Not me, I'm burdened with knowing that autodial 15 at work is a company that does some collections for us.

Or you could test me on my own car history. Every single registration of every fucking bloody car I've owned or used as a company vehicle sits in my memory banks as vividly as my bank account PIN number. It's actually something not that useless, all petrol heads can do similar.

It's a bit weird though. Can I recall the conversation I had with someone yesterday about something deep and important? Probably not.

Why is this? Do you do this too?

And, by the way, my parents' VW was JLM 929K, the Audi 100 (GL no less) was RKP 362M and my grandmother's office number was 828 2189, just in case you thought I was bluffing.

A Little Moral Dilemna

Regulars around here will know that I've got a Kindle and am a firm fan of the little ebook reader. You'll quite probably also know that I read voraciously, everything from fiction to, well, non fiction.

A few weeks ago I met a bloke. We were chatting and the matter of electronic book readers, Kindles specifically, came up. We discovered that each of us owned one and did some of that mutual praising thing that Kindle owners do, that iPad owners do to a factor of about one hundred and eleven and chaps who own Japanese cars never do.

Then the new found friend mentioned to me that he's got a CD. Nothing special there you may think, as did I at first. But, he continues, this CD is special, as it has about two thousand books on it, books that can be dragged and dropped onto a Kindle. Without thinking twice, in fact I probably didn't even think once, I said "oh cool, bung me a copy of it if you can". His reply was in the affirmative.

Two days later it appeared in a plain brown envelope on my desk. I opened the thing and threw it into my CD drive. I navigated my way through the windows explore tree, that one that seemed so intuitive until we got our first Mac. Sure enough the chap was right; there really were about two thousand books on this tiny piece of plastic, or glass, or whatever it is CDs are made of.

There were old classic books, there were modern ones by current authors, many in the bestsellers book charts of the moment, and there was everything else too. It would take me many years to read them all. Just to see if things would work I dragged a couple onto the Kindle. Things did work.

Then it happened.

My conscience woke up from a pretty long sleep and kicked me sharply in the balls. It told me that it's wrong to use the CD and load these books without paying for them, without the respective authors getting their royalties they should receive. I listened to the voice and asked a few people.

The advice spectrum was wide and unhelpful, from "why don't you just download the books that were published more than fifty years ago?" ( as I had a feeling these don't pay royalties to the author, though I'm not sure) to "how about you just read the ones written by mega famous authors who don't need the money?" to "just read them, the authors will never know anyhow".

None of it really helped me, except I postponed activity, pressing the pause button as it were. The CD is still in my briefcase, I've bought tens of books through the proper channels since. Actually there is only one channel for the Kindle and it's called Amazon.

So I put it to you. You seem like a sensible person with a mixture of morals and rebelliousness.

What would you do?

Friday Thoughts

Well, well, well. As I sit here typing this it's Thursday evening. On in the background is "World's Most Extreme Airports." It's most definitely a boys' programme. Full of footage of planes attempting to land on runways that look like dirt tracks in Yala, it's pretty much a sewn up compilation of those videos you can see in Youtube.

The last twenty four hours have been tiring and stressful, but I'll have to tell you more about that another time.

I was thinking about a specific type of person and I wonder if you know any. The sort who, when they're told a secret, can't resist telling a few people. Not so much because they're fundamentally untrustworthy, more because their ego is so big that they just have to let others know that they've been let into your confidence.

I know a few of these chaps. Once you identify and categorise them they can be used to your advantage. I've got one who works for me and he's perfect for when I want something spread around a little bit. The most important thing is that I don't tell him a real secret, that way I'm never disappointed.

And cranes. Hands up if you like cranes. Not the bird sort, I mean the mechanical marvels that lift things around building sites. They're great aren't they? I've always been fascinated by them. The other day I was parked up in central London about to go to a gig and I witnessed a crane operator climbing down from his nest to the ground. Seriously, I was fascinated, I loved it.

I've got a one off gig with a ten piece band coming up. A friend has got it all together, a mixture of musos from various other bands. The venn diagram for this venture would look like four or five big circles with lots of overlaps, something like the olympics logo on acid. It's all old soul covers, lots of Motown and dancey songs, a big, brassy and horny sound. And I don't mean "horny" like that either!

It's going to be huge fun.

I think my cleaner might be mad. Total fucking fruit cake, though I think we've come to some kind of plateau of understanding each other now. She does strange things though. Like, I've got three pairs of earphones, the iPod ones, each different. They sit on my bookshelf, separated so they're not a tangled mess. But, on Thursdays, when I return from work and she's done her thing, they sit in one pile, in a tangled mess. Why?

Lukla Airport in Nepal is officially the world's most dangerous airport. That's what they reckon. It's the only airport from which Mount Everest can be reached, I bet you didn't know that.

That's all for this week, enjoy your weekend wherever you may be.

Why Aren't There More Sri Lankan Jockeys?

Being short doesn't have many advantages. At five five I am however, significantly taller in Sri Lanka than I am in England, a weird phenomenon probably to do with the travelling and time zones I reckon.

If it wasn't genetic, if I had had a choice I definitely wouldn't have ticked the "so short that I get smaller as I walk towards you" box when filling out the form for my own specifications prior to being born. But life's like that and I count myself lucky that I've got my incredible good looks, my wicked sense of humour and ability to groove like a cat that's just been greased to fall back on.

Being tall gives a chap advantages. Things like being able to eat from tall trees, seeing at gigs when you're standing, easily changing light bulbs, painting ceilings (Michaelangelo was six foot eight you know!) and the fact that you can buy trousers without having to look for "short" sizes.

So far I've not come up with many advantages of being at the other end of the height spectrum. In fact I can think of only three.

First is the fact that you're a much needed and in demand team member whenever there's a game of hide and seek going on. Sadly this was only really useful when I was a kid, but in those days things were different and we were all short. I say we were all short, but I wasn't then, I was tall. In current times I find I'm rarely called on to play a quick game of hide and seek so it's a bit of a useless one. Though I'm partial to hiding under one of my business partners' desk and jumping out and surprising him and it's a useful asset then.

Second is when flying. I mean on a plane here, not when I actually try to spread my arms and flap, like a twat. Or a bird. And more specifically I mean when flying economy class, not business or first class. You see, as you're no doubt aware, economy class seats are made to fit short people.

Anyone approaching average height, let alone a tall person, has to squeeze into the seat as if he's some sort of Jack in the box, with the arms and legs folded awkwardly, risking blood clots and all sorts, and the head poking precariously above the seat where it can easily be shot by a legendary David Blacker type lurking at the back of the aircraft with a rifle or a rubber band with some paper folded up.

Then, once you've managed to squeeze yourself into the seat and if you have any awareness of personal space (sorry I may have lost the Lankans here!), you spend the next few hours trying your hardest to keep your knees tucked in and making sure your elbow is at the correct angle so it doesn't cross the invisible net that divides the armrest between you and your neighbour.

For the rest of us, the short people, we find our seat, get in, stretch our legs out and only very occasionally worry about the elbow situation. There have been a few times when I've been lucky enough to turn left as I get on the plane and sitting in one of those seats for me is like ambling casually around a sports stadium with no one else in it except a few muffled sounds from some staff somewhere over the other side. But the food is better and you're treated as if the airline actually wants your custom. Which is nice.

The final situation when being vertically challenged is a definite benefit is one that I only really became fully aware of last week. There I was, perusing through TV channels as one does, when I came across some horseracing, I thing it was the Epson Derby. That chap, Frankie Dettori was being interviewed. He's a famous jockey.

I was struck by his height, or not struck by it. Or struck by his lack of it. Anyhow I googled the chap to see where he stood on the matter. Turns out he's about my height. I googled a few related things like "average height of a jockey". I won't chuck a link here as I'm sure you know how to do it yourself but Wikipedia states that the average height of a jockey is under five foot six.

All of this has led me to think some things:

1. Why aren't there more Sri Lankan jockeys?

2. Perhaps I should get myself a horse. This jockeying thing can't be that hard can it. Surely you just sit there and whip the horse a bit, stroke it when it wins a race, that sort of thing. I might have to eat a bit of salad for a couple of weeks but that would be about it.

3. Do jockeys travel business class?

Receiver or Transmitter?

I was watching an episode of "Come Dine With Me" last night. It's a curiously addictive programme in which a group of four or five total strangers each hold a dinner party for the others on consecutive nights of a week. They then score each host and the winner gets a prize.

It's a bit about cooking, with some recipe sharing and kitchen adventures, and a lot about personalities and people, as we, the viewers, get to witness people arguing, becoming great friends, bitching about each other and everything in between.

It's also unusual in that it's not presenter lead. The presenter is purely done via a voice over, though the chap who does it has made his commentary an integral part of the show, with little witticisms and cutting remarks.

So there I was, watching an episode and along came a section in which a man was talking about one of his female fellow contestants.

"She's far more of a transmitter than a receiver and I wish she do a bit more receiving" said the aforementioned man.

It got me thinking.

Is everybody more of one than the other? What am I? What are you?

Well I reckon I'm usually more of a receiver, though there are situations and instances when I more of a transmitter.

The people I know, the ones I consider to have superb interpersonal skills, are the ones who seem to be able to balance and switch between the two. One minute they're a witty and engaging raconteur, the life and soul of the party, but the next they're the best and most intent listener I can think of, paying attention and hearing things, not just listening.

But these people with sublime interpersonal skills are few and far between, most of the people I can think of are either in one camp or the other.

What are you then? Transmitter? Receiver? Or one of the brilliant ones?

More On Wikileaks

This whole Wikileaks thing is good for us bloggers isn't it?

Let's face it, when the world ticks along nicely, when life is treating everyone well, something that happens infrequently I'll grant you, there's fuck all for us to blog about. Wikileaks, or the recent cablegate thing has given us all endless possibilities, with the promise of even more to come for Julian knows how long.

And, while we're on the subject, isn't it annoying that anything big these days gets the word "gate" bunged on the end of it. I hope there isn't some big event to do with Bill Gates in the future or the copywriters will have a field day.

The stories of espionage, of bumbling British Princes who should really keep their mouth shut, of Politicians exchanging favours for votes and votes for favours are seriously interesting and will almost definitely change the way many view the world of international relations.

But so far there's been one story, and one story alone, that has caught the RD imagination and is trapped, like a fart in a colander, in my head.

It's about Ahmad Zia Massoud the former Afghan vice President. You've probably heard it anyhow but it's about the fact that, in 2009, when visiting the UAE, he was caught carrying $52 million in cash. The fuss in the media relates to the probability that he was money laundering and that US and UAE officials stopped him then let him go with his cash and no explanation of where it came from.

I guess it's bad, bad that he was let off and all. But the simple fact is that this chap was carrying $52,000,000 in CASH, yes CASH. I mean how does a chap actually do that?

I've put quite a lot of thought into this, even doing a mind map which you can see here in front of me. When I began to think about it I couldn't comprehend $52 mill in cash. Would it be a suitcase full of sponds or a huge fleet of suitcases? Perhaps it would be a small bag containing a mere 52 of those 1 million dollar notes.

And how exactly does a chap go about carrying this on a flight? If it was just the one big bag I suppose old Ahmad would have bought himself a really good one, like one of the medium range Samsonites or perhaps even some top of the range Balrin Parris (sic) ones from the Pettah. If he could afford it of course. I've been wanting to write a sentence with (sic) in it for quite some time you know.

He would have faced the issue all of us have to face at times. Do you buy a hard case, giving more sturdiness, security and protection but also more weight, or a soft one, with less of everything including weight?

Would he have got one with a combination lock or a proper padlock with a key. When carrying around $52 million I think a combination lock is probably better and it's a good idea to use a number that no one will think of, like one of his kids' birthdays or perhaps his wife's. Had he gone for a soft case then I'm told anyone can open one by poking the zip with a biro. He'd have to hope none of the baggage handlers knew that cunning trick.

Then, once the luggage choice is sorted out, how would he have checked it in? It's probably fair to assume he went business or maybe even first class but it must have still been a nervewracking episode to check it in and watch it disappear along the belt at the desk. As you probably know I lost a case once when I went to Barcelona so I know how it feels.

My case only contained pants (Odel ones) and some clothes. I can only imagine the hassle in trying to fill out the lost bag form when you have to write "$52 million in cold hard dodgy cash" in the appropriate box. I hope Ahmad hadn't put his pants in the same bag as the cash. I had to wear the same pants for two days in a row.

All blokes know that it's perfectly normal and acceptable to wear pants for several days in a row when there's no woman around, but I was with C at the time so had to pretend it was something unusual, making that face as if I hated doing it. Had I also lost $52 million at the time I reckon things could have been a lot worse.

All the permutations and comedic possibilities were driving me mad so I did some googling and wikipediaing.

I found out that there has never been a $1 million dollar note that has been legal tender. Though there were some $100,000 notes that are not legal tender anymore, the highest in circulation now is the $100 note.

So old Ahmad would have had to use $100 bills and the weight of one of these is about 1 gramme. Therefore $52 million would have weighed about 520 Kg. That's a fair bit of weight and I reckon, allowing for 20 kg a suitcase, it would have meant 26 suitcases. Let's round things up a bit and say that he may have taken 25-30 suitcases.

Well that's a lot of excess luggage, even taking into account the extra baggage allowance (about 10kg) you get on business class.

It's all been kept quiet, even on Wikileaks.

I don't think we should accept it.

I demand to know who paid his excess luggage bill. I bet you it was the Americans.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Like most authors say at regular intervals, I started a new book the other day. The difference with me is that I'm not an author so I'm talking about the reading thing, not the writing part. It's called "Our Tragic Universe" by Scarlett Thomas and it captured me within the very first pages.

I think my reading, my appetite for all things literary and my sense of confidence in my own ability to appreciate books, has grown in recent times. So much that I find myself giving up on books that don't hold my attention. It feels like a reflection of my reader's maturity, gone are the days when I absolutely had to finish every book I began in order to judge whether I liked it.

It's kind of mad as well, the amount of time I, and you, must have wasted in reading books we didn't like. We spent those hours ploughing through only to get to the end and decide it was rubbish. If I could figure out a way of eliminating doing things in my life that I subsequently discover I don't like then I'll not only make some serious money but I'll also have total fun in spending it.

But would there be any joy without joylessness? Which came first, the chicken or the tree falling in the woods?

I digress, the thing is I had started another book a week ago. It was a book called "The Ask", in fact it still is a book called "The Ask", by a fellow called Sam Lipsyte. The reviews on Amazon led me to believe it's the funniest thing since The Inbetweeners or that story about no civilian casualties. I kid you not when I tell you that I wondered whether I'd feel uncomfortable reading it in public as I'd be laughing out loud so often. Sorry kids, laughing out loud means LOL, just so you know.

Halfway through this book I bailed. It just wasn't doing it for me. Yes, there were a few occasions when I'd lolled, albeit very quietly, but it seemed overcomplicated, as if the author wanted to come up with brilliantly wordy and sophisticated sentences the scholars would marvel at in years to come. The only snag being that old RD couldn't understand them.

I contemplated the abandonment for a few chapters, then did it when I was least expecting to. My sentiments, now at least, are that I might come back to the book at another time, one when I'm more intelligent and sophisticated, or I might just dip into it now and again to see if if grabs me. Such are some of the advantages of owning a Kindle.

Our Tragic Universe, which I've only just begun, isn't a ball grabbing tension filled fast paced page turner type. No, but it did get my attention, more in a gentle and sexy way, one that took a bit of effort then had me hooked.

The language is very British, the sense of self deprecating humour and understatement seems to be there and it's already flung several new and brilliant similes at me, ones I've forgotten straight away but may just be wallowing in my subconscious ready to spring out at a moment's notice. Like a thing, out of a whatsername.

I started this post because I wanted to share this one with you, it made me stop, gasp and think. It's really rather lovely and goes like this:

"Living forever would be like marrying yourself, with no possibility of divorce."

I'm off to the Motherland tonight.

Laters.

Panic Post

So I've never done this before but it's 3.56 PM here on Monday afternoon and I've given myself exactly one hour to come up with a post, one that you'll read in the morning. That is if I churn out anything even half worthwhile.

My currently active journal has a list of potential blog posts. There are twenty items on the list, though four or five of them are crossed through because the post has been written and published. None of them grab me at the moment, none are screaming out to be written.

Ah, here's something though; I'm not eating very well at the moment. Truth be told I'm a bit fucked off with food. This living on my own and cooking for one business has got me a bit pissed off. It's a lot of effort to cook when the only person eating is moi. Cooking when the girls are with or when C is with me is cool and fun. But they're not with me most of the time.

There's practically the same amount of time and effort involved in cooking for one as there is in doing it for three or four, it's only when one deals with the dinner party occasions that things get more serious. And a party of one is getting boring. You know, I can sit there and give myself compliments about the food. I can write a blog post telling you how lovely my chicken curry was the previous night. I can tell C or the kids about it.

But the thing is I might as well make up my reports. Whether it's you reading a post or anyone I tell personally there are no witnesses. I could be living on pot noodles every night and regaling the world with glamorous stories of sweetcorn and creme caramel with trifle.

So I've been eating lots of rubbish takeaways recently, rubbish in a tasty and unhealthy way. But I've even started to get bored of them. Take last night as an example. I was hungry, I was tired and it was a bit cold and miserable outside. I decided, after a discussion, perhaps more of an argument with myself, to make my own dinner. Only the contents of my fridge and cupboards would have made the average university student wince with pity.

There was French bread, some tins of Green Giant sweetcorn, some chocolate biscuits, a creme caramel thing and a one person trifle. I had been watching some Jamie Oliver earlier that day and was feeling inspired. What the hell I figured. I can make a meal out of these things, it can't be that hard if I set my mind to it.

I thought, I pondered, I browsed through the various smells in my spice cupboard and peered hard into the dark recesses of the other cupboard, in case I'd missed anything good lurking there. I hadn't. Stocks were that low and the situation was that desperate.

I started with the French bread. It was fresh and I had some nice French butter to go with it. I spread the butter on the bread, then ate it. Mmmm.... I thought.

Next I opened the Green Giant sweetcorn. It's important to get the "Green Giant" bit in there, for that branding somehow really does make sweetcorn taste that extra bit delicious. I poured it into a bowl and ate the stuff, being careful to eat those last few pieces. Revenge is a dish best served cold, which is how I'd opted to serve the sweetcorn, quite a coincidence I thought.

My French sojourn continued and I went for the creme caramel. They're clever these Frenchies and this one was the sort I could turn out onto a plate perfectly, with it's darker caramelly section on the top and that mouthwatering sugary juice floating around the plate. At first, when I upturned the container, the dessert stayed stuck fast but a quick snap of the little plastic tab attached to it and the contents get released as if by magic. I continue to be marvelled by the ingenuity of our Gallic cousins.

And then I ate it.

There is no better dessert than trifle. Ever. In the world. And I mean proper British trifle, not one of your Sri Lankan hotel buffet ones with everything tasting that bit too sweet. Definitely not one of those American ones that have mincemeat in them either. I realised recently that my problem with a trifle is that I like not only each individual ingredient, the fruit, the jelly, the cream, custard and spongey bits, but I also like every possible combination of each of the ingredients.

A mouthful of jelly with some custard is lovely. One of fruit and cream is delish, one of jelly, sponge and fruit is, well you get the picture.

So I wolfed down a trifle (individual portion) too.

That was it, that was dinner. And frankly I felt shallow and cheap and used, rather like a chap must feel after being seduced by Britney Spears and Lady Gaga. At least it was healthy, though Lady Gaga's average costume contains more meat.

For some time I contemplated nipping out and getting a takeaway. No, I was stronger than that. I mooched around a bit feeling sorry for myself then skulked off to bed with a good book, about thirty of them actually because it was my Kindle that I took with me.

Tonight I'll get a takeaway.