X-Factor

Dear Reader,

Onward, ever onward. Here we are at the letter X. Given the relative sparsity of words available X-Factor has proved convenient subject matter. It is also a Dear Lady Wife suggestion so I can always blame her if this goes horribly wrong.

X-Factor then, where do you start? Well, if you haven't seen it then I guess I better explain. It is, on the face of it, a talent competition. It is judged by pop svengali Simon Cowell, accompanied by which ever group of pop luminaries are currently in favor.

The X-Factor plays out in three phases, the auditions, judges houses and finally, the ultimate prize, the live shows. Let us deal with each phase in turn.

The Auditions.

Auditions take place across the UK or US, depending on which one you are watching but follow a similar formula. There are good auditions, OK auditions and bad auditions.

Good auditions first, these will either be really good or OK. Good auditions are delivered by people who have a shot at the live shows. A good audition example:

Not too shabby, Danyl was good enough to make the live shows, but did not win. A good audition does not guarantee success.

The OK auditions are normally accompanied by a story. A story can get you a long way in the X-Factor. The story normally involves misfortune, the type of misfortune that is guaranteed to get an emotional response from people watching. If Kayla is doing it for her recently deceased mother or father then she has a shot. If Kayla is doing it for her recently deceased father and her very much alive mother who is in the audience tonight but doesn't know that Kayla is auditioning because they became separated at the age of four by social services and only made contact again last week and her dog has got cancer and her cat saved the lives of four hundred people by dragging them all from a burning building using nothing but his tail, then, you have a guaranteed audition. That, is a story.

The other side of the coin is the bad audition. Bad auditions are the car crash moments that allow Simon to give full rein to his wit and biting sarcasm. Bad auditions are normally attended by people who have an over-elevated view of their ability, quite often they are also a little bit mad. This combination makes good telly apparently.

Beware the holistic vocal coach bearing gifts!

Much wittling of this nature happens over a four to five week period. Two-three weeks is spent travelling around the host country, followed by a more focused set of auditions which eventually leave us with the acts that move on to next significant stage.

Judges Houses.

The acts that have reached this stage are nearly all competent. During this phase the judges have been allocated their mentoring categories. The categories are as follows:

• Girls - Regularly win.
• Boys - Regularly win.
• The Overs - I call them the overs as the age range for this category is fluid. It could be over 35's, the over 30's, so on and so forth. Never seen a winner in the UK anyway, but commercial success can happen for one who reaches the latter stages.
• The Groups - Rarely win but, commercially are one of the strongest categories.

There are normally between 5 and 10 acts per category. You would think that by this time everyone in the competition would be able to hold a note and this is largely true. There are however, a couple lurking (normally in the Overs category,) who can only hold a doctor's note. These observations are UK specific, I have not had the pleasure of witnessing another competition unfold.

During the Judges Houses stage of the competition contestants are apparently shown a little bit of the celebrity lifestyle, and perform to the judge allocated to their category. What they are not shown, however, is the judges houses. These are very nice pieces of property rented for the show.

The hook with judges houses is the decisions. Each judge must sit down with each act in turn and tell them the good or the bad news. There will be many, many tears. Tears will often come from the judges (not Simon obviously, he is above all of this.) Tears will always come from the acts though, story or not.

Astonishingly, once this final wittling is over there will be still at least one basket case left in the competition. They will be able to sing a bit, have some charisma and can entertain. They will, quite clearly never win. They are normally in the Overs category. They do however give the live shows some comedy moments, where we shall go to next.

The Live Shows.

So, the X-Factor moves into the final phase. This is where the judges/mentors can only influence the outcome with the help of song choice, styling and production. No matter what they do, it is the public who decide.

In the UK each live show is played out over approximately 5 hours spread evenly between Saturday and Sunday. Filling that time clearly gets more difficult as time goes on. The live show has a host, who is really peripheral but sort of necessary. What this stage is all about is the story. Every week, every artist has a story. It may be a re-hash of a previous story or it may be an illness. It could be that the contestants' cat can't stop coughing up furballs. The contestant may have lost his / her voice for six days. The mentor is with them all the way through all of these mini-traumas if the story is to be believed. They might even be catching those furballs.

Each live show is also played out in the press. All contestants are now under the microscope, their past and present laid out for all to see. If one of them falls out of a nightclub at 3 in the morning with a lady on his arm, the public will know about it. If there is a lot of press coverage, you can be sure that their story for the next week will include this.

It is a perilous weekly journey that finishes with the public vote. Eventually there will be a final three and someone will win. That someone will sell records, without a shadow of a doubt. The someone who has sold the most to date is a diva. This return to the stage for a results show proves that occasionally these shows find someone amazing. Leona Lewis is proof of that.

So when the show is over, some will win and some will lose. It is supposed to be a singing competition, sometimes it is. In reality once you get to the live shows it is a popularity competition, pure and simple. This competition gets played out over the newspapers, forums and the web of the participating country.  

All of this is good for Simon. Many participating acts end up on his record label Syco, a fifty-fifty partnership between himself and Sony, who just want to sell records, as many as possible. Any arriving act who has just spent the last twelve to fifteen weeks on prime-time telly touting their wares is in a good place to start a recording career. This is good business.

I could spend a bunch of words being negative about this show, which begins as a circus and ends being something more akin to a money making machine. It's a guilty pleasure though, at least the latter stages. For the Dear Lady wife, I don't think there is any guilt at all. 

Onto later Dear Reader, as I attempt to yield all of the mysteries of the letter Y.

xx

Video

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my third attempt at writing a post about V. The first two live in a metaphorical dustbin along with my first attempt at B and some other nonsense. This metaphorical dustbin is not full to overflowing but it's getting close. I wonder if I can recycle?

When I think about video I am actually thinking about two things, the first being video cassettes. For those not old enough to remember some explanation is required. Video cassettes were ubiquitous devices which came in the pre-recorded variety and also provided the ability to record television. These abilities were completely new to lounges and living rooms across the world. It was quite simply a technological revolution.

Bless.

I remember as a child coming home one Christmas Eve to find the gleaming silver machine sitting under the TV. There was much excitement in the house. We spent most of the rest of the evening trying to work out how to schedule the recording of a television program. It was hellishly difficult, almost as difficult as finding a Higgs-Boson particle. Going off topic a smidgeon, whilst searching for stuff on the Higgs-Boson, or God particle I found a Higgs-Boson joke. As it is possibly the only particle physics joke I have ever heard I have to share... 

A Higgs Boson particle walks into a church...

The preacher says, "Higgs Boson particles aren't allowed in here! You call yourself the God-particle, that's sacrilegious!" 

To which the Higgs Boson particle replies "If you don't allow Higgs Boson particles in here, how do you have mass?"

So, being Christmas Eve, suffice to say we didn't work out how to schedule a recording. We were still getting it wrong three years later. It was hard. The other thing that the video recorder did was playback video. Dear Papa had been to the video shop and hired some movies. Hiring videos at this time was the only way forward as films, when first released were prohibitively expensive, as much as £70 pounds. As a consequence there were video shops everywhere, which brings me to the second part of my ramble about video, the video shop.

The video shop was a special place, like comic shops and record shops, where the geek shall thrive. The geek may not inherit the Earth, but it will inherit a small, dusty part of high streets and malls all over the Earth. The assistant in the video shop was king or queen of all he or she surveyed. They were also the font of all knowledge regarding everything on the shelves. 

Mere mortals like you and I would browse the shelves looking for some entertainment to brighten a dark winters' evening. Once you had worked your way through the popular titles, (which may or not be available by the way) you would find yourself wandering through the budget sections hoping to find something. This is where the video shop assistant held sway. They knew everything about the less frequented part of the store. If you were lucky they might share this information, or they might not.

You wander to the checkout with your copy of "Ninja Assasins on Acid 4" or something equally ridiculous and wait to be liberated of the rental fee. The video shop attendant would look at the chosen title and, depending upon the perceived quality of your choice react in any of the following ways:

• Catch the attention of a colleague in the near vicinity, roll eyes and nod in a negative way. Geeks work well in pairs apparently.
• Catch the attention of a colleague in the near vicinity, run over and high-five said colleague and then return solemnly to the checkout. It was never made clear what this meant.
• Giggle, smile, hand the video over saying "it's your funeral, dude."
• Giggle, smile, hand the video over saying "you should try "Assasins of the Ninja on Acid 4, it's genius, but on hire at the moment."
• Smile, hand the video over saying "Fine choice, this is Inky Marunichi at his best." This didn't happen very often.

There were many more scenes played out which basically said in a number of ways that you weren't cool enough. You suffered this though, because you had to if you wanted to watch a video. 

On that long gone Christmas Eve Dear Papa must have had to endure this for the first time. Not knowing how best to deal with new and challenging retail situation, he asked for assistance. As a consequence the video shop assistant will create a playlist. What a playlist it was. We watched three movies on the shiny box of moving dreams that Christmas Day. It was certainly a bit of a departure from the norm, when it comes to Christmas Day telly.

So, we watched Dirty Harry, Death Wish II and Dawn of the Dead in that order. 

What else would you open presents to?

Better that the Queens' Speech

It was either this or Coronation Street

I imagine the video shop assistant would have felt his work was truly done, having come up with this Christmas Day playlist. Suffice to say it was a Christmas that I would never forget. 

More soon Dear Reader,

xx

Tea

Dear Reader,

Another day, another letter. Having managed to distract the Dear Lady Wife from another riveting episode of Judge Judy, we have our daily conversation regarding the subject matter for todays' post.

DLW: What letter is it today?

Moi: The letter T.

DLW: You should write about tea.

Moi: I know, the letter T,  that is what I am going to write about. I just told you that. But what exactly?

DLW: TEA! As in a cup of tea and you can make me one while you're up.

So, here I am writing about tea, after visiting the kettle to make some.

Although tea has been around for a long time, (evidence of tea consumption appears in Chinese history dating back to 10000 BC) it didn't find itself introduced into Britain until 1660. The great unwashed didn't take tea to their collective hearts until the middle of the 19th Century.

Nowadays, in Britain, tea is the cure for all ills. This may not be medically accurate or legally defensible, but bear with me. I remember, as a small child, falling off my bike in what seemed like spectacular fashion at the time. There was pain and a subsequent trip to the doctor as I had sprained an ankle. At the time of the accident, though, there was a cup of tea (with an extra sugar to help with the shock.) I have no idea whether it helped or not but it was very sweet. The subsequent trip to the doctor did not occur until it was quite clear that several gallons of tea were having no effect on the golf-ball sized lump that was emerging from the side of my ankle.  

The Dear Lady Wife hails from the North of the country, where the healing effects of a cup of tea in the most inappropriate of circumstances is common-place. If neighbors come round for a chat and deliver some bomb shell along the lines of  "My wife, Sheila, can't make it today, on account of being diagnosed with cancer of the thumb." The host would inevitably reply, "hmmm, would you like a cup of tea?" 

No scenario, no matter how shocking, can deflect the believe that a cup of tea will make it all better. "My wife, Sheila, can't make it today as she is a he called Charles and has eloped with the milkman." There may be some pursing of lips from the host. "You'll be needing a nice cup of tea, then."

"My wife, Sheila, died as a result of a tea overdose yesterday. It is a rare disorder, which I have also been diagnosed with. Just one cup of tea can trigger a catastrophic seizure." Lip pursing. "Just one sugar then?" Like I said, nothing can deflect the tea offering reflex.

In the British workplace along with tea, came the tea lady. A fantastic invention which, unfortunately, has largely died out. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon a trolley would be pushed around the workplace, delivering tea, with cakes if you were lucky.  

All tea ladies looked just like this, allegedly.

The spirit of the tea-lady lives on in Father Ted, in the shape of Mrs Doyle. She is the housekeeper who will not take no for an answer when it comes to tea and cake, as this snippet attests.

Included in the snippet above are these immortal lines:

Mrs Doyle: Now, what would you say to a nice cup of tea, Father?

Father Jack: Feck off, cup!

There is no doubt the Mrs Doyle character embodies the British relationship with the cup of tea. In the world of Mrs Doyle, everyone needs a cup of tea, all of the time, as demonstrated below:

Mrs. Doyle: There's always time for a nice cup of tea. Sure, didn't the Lord himself pause for a nice cup of tea before giving himself up for the world.

Father Ted Crilly: No, he didn't, Mrs Doyle!

Mrs. Doyle: Well, whatever the equivalent they had for tea in those days, cake or something. And speaking of cake, I have cake!

[She holds up a cupcake]

Father Ted Crilly: No, thanks, Mrs. Doyle.

Mrs. Doyle: Are you sure, Father? There's cocaine in it!

Father Ted Crilly: WHAT?

Mrs. Doyle: Oh, no, not cocaine. God, what am I on about? No, what d'you call them. Raisins.

It's getting late and I am starting to get a little worried that a number of my recent posts end up talking about some television program or another. Perhaps I should have posted about television, an opportunity missed.

Tomorrow, Dear Reader, I will be undulating around the letter U.

xx

Sloth

Dear Reader,

I began this post yesterday, when it should have been published. It didn't feel right, and it was hard to see where I was going with it. So I slept on it, (not literally, that would be silly.) Next morning I began to see what the problem was. I wasn't happy with the word. Seventies (the decade, not the age group) would have been the subject, but, it didn't feel right. Today I came up with something much better, let the sloth begin!

Starting with the sin, sloth, which is a bad one, apparently. Along with lust, gluttony, greed, wrath, envy and pride it is classed in certain religious circles as deadly. I imagine posting Saturday's post on a Sunday could be considered slothful so that's me sunk. Looking at the list I could see all of those happening in an average weekend, with the exception of wrath. I try to keep my wrath in check. Regular readers of this blog will note that I don't always succeed.

There is another type of sloth who isn't deadly and certainly isn't a sin. These sloths (two or three-toed) are residents of Central and South America jungles. They eat leaves and move very slowly. There are reasons for this which I will explain. 

I like it this way up.

Sloths are in fact specially adapted to be lazy. Leaves are tough and difficult to digest. When a leaf is swallowed by a sloth, it may not complete the journey through the sloth digestion system for twenty days. Leaves do not provide much energy, to cope with this sloths have a low metabolic rate and like to keep their core body temperature down. One of the tricks to achieving this is being lazy. Don't move too much, and when you do move, move slowly.

Sloths have adapted significantly and as a result have become one of the more successful animals that inhabit the rainforests. It would appear that being slothful is not that deadly after all.

Not only are sloths well adapted, they are also YouTube superstars, courtesy of the only sloth sanctuary in the world, Aviarios Del Caribe, located in Costa Rica.

   

I so need to get a job at this place, but the waiting list for employment is very long. You can see why.

Sloths can cross the road all on their own, but they are slow, so sometimes a little help is required. 

Actress Kirstin Bell LOVES sloths. Apparently an emotional character at the best of times, the thought of meeting a sloth for the first time proved a little too much. 

That's enough sloths I think, until tomorrow, Dear Reader, when I shall be tantalised by the letter T. 

xx

Quantum Leap

Dear Reader, 

I always knew that Q was going to be a bit tricky... Any letter of the alphabet that attracts a double score in Scrabble all on it's own is a force to be reckoned with. This one has had me in a bit of a quandary for most of the day. I even have a dictionary next to me which I was going to open if an idea didn't come by the time I had finished dinner. Finally it arrived, like a bolt from my TV young adulthood.

So, Quantum Leap. This little gem of late 80's TV had a slightly strange premise, which was helpfully explained at the start of each episode. This titles clip below may help clear things up.

If you prefer reading the words here is that voice-over in all its glory.

Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own, and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer from his own time, who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home.

OK, that's all cleared up then. My memories of the program are a little more specific. The lead character Sam, played by Scott Bakula, often leaped into historical characters who were women. Consequently he was often in drag.

Very fetching.

Photographic evidence is a little sparse on this, although I counted at least seven instances of this in the title sequence from YouTube so I didn't imagine it, or worse, dream it. Maybe I should type something else into Google apart from "Scott Bakula in drag". No doubt when these usage statistics are collected and shared with I will be offered all sorts of interesting stuff at Amazon. Moving swiftly on...

Dr Beckett got to wear all manner of interesting outfits in the series but it still seems to me that the majority of the wardrobe budget went on Al, Sam's best friend who regularly in each episode in the form of a hologram. Al is from the future, which gave the costume department carte blanche to smoke some dope and then run up some truly natty threads.

Nice.

Nicer.

Nicest.

Yep, that's pretty much how I remember it, crazy like a fox. Mad clothes and a premise that meant every episode was fresh ensured that Quantum Leap has become a cult classic. It has also saved me having to write about quantum physics, I was seriously considering it.

Until tomorrow Dear Reader, when I will be respectfully regarding the letter R.

xx

Llama

Dear Reader,

Once again on a deadline, fishing for anything that inspires me and I came up with Llama. I have always liked the animal, without ever touching one but also the word. So I googled it. Apparently it wasn't just me. The word llama will yield a number of interesting and some what bizarre results.

We have to begin with my first exposure to all worlds Llama. This happened when I was first exposed to a computer and the special talents of a man called Jeff Minter. Those of a non-geek mentality might want to bail out for a paragraph or so. Jeff Minter eventually, ran Llamasoft, provider of some very fine computer software, first for the ZX81, and later for the Commodore 64, Atari ST and others. One of the things that attracted about the games were the titles. Revenge of the Mutant Camels, Metagalactic Llamas Battle at the Edge of Time, and Sheep in Space still make me chuckle. I note Llamasoft lives still and is currently reproducing all of is classic stuff as i-Phone apps. I will be downloading once space becomes available on my rather clutttered phone. Also on the site is a rather entertaining biography of Jeff, by Jeff. 

Then there is the nice people at Llamas with Hats whose YouTube animations are a joy to behold. Judging by the number of hits, it isn't just me...

So we have two llamas, one mild-mannered and the other a little psychotic and they both wear hats.

Then there is the song. If you have recently recovered from an irritating song related addiction DO NOT click the link below...

Then there was my honeymoon. I didn't go to Peru, (or wherever this particular animal hails from) because I didn't need to. The Llama's close cousin, the Alpaca had a herd in the UK in Devon, where we spent a couple of days on our mini honeymoon before our full-gas run through South-East Asia. I picked this location for two reasons, the alpacas and the private jacuzzi. So, first the jacuzzi... It was certainly private as it was housed in an outhouse / private building a significant distance from the rest of the accommodation. It was in fact, in a field. It did everything it said on the tin, I just needed to look at the tin more closely. 

The main reason for the trip, was the Alpacas who were friendly, allegedly. They were in fact cute, but only from a distance. More stand-offish than friendly. Oh well.

See what I mean? Cute.

The more astute and regular visitors to this blog would know that this is an A-Z challenge post. It should have been posted yesterday. I am late. Perhaps slightly too far under the influence of wine last night I did publish this to my test blog, but not the live one. Better late than never I suppose. Normal service will be resumed later when I will be munching on the letter M.

Till later Dear Reader.

xx

Knights

Dear Reader, 

Here I am again, scratching around the alphabet looking for something beginning with K. Downstairs, the Dear Lady Wife is knitting A-Z widow jumpers in a variety of sizes. I can hear the irritated clacking from here. Knitting, now there was something in my thin book of notes from many months ago when I was allegedly preparing for all of this. What I didn't think of back then was knights.

So, knights. Knights are noble folk, with a predisposition to heavy metal. Clothing, as opposed to the musical genre. There are many shining lights of Knighthood I could talk about. The Knights of the Round Table, for example. The Knights Templar also spring to mind. But there are far more important iconic Knights under my beady eye.

Let me begin the Knights who say Ni. This band of knights surface during one of the finest comedy movies ever made, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The film charts some of the higher and lesser knights of the round table as they attempt to find the Holy Grail. Specifically, King Arthur, Sir Bedevere the Wise, Sir Lancelot the Brave, Sir Robin the not-quite-so-brave-as-Lancelot and Sir Galahad the Pure.

Arthur and Bedevere do their best to satisfy the requirements of the Knights who say Ni, the foremost of which is a shrubbery. Using the the same weapon as the Knights who say Ni (saying the word Ni repeatedly to cause pain to anyone in earshot) to torture a crone, they eventually stumble upon a shrubbery seller. Upon return the Knights have re-branded. Thy now require a second shrubbery a little taller than the first one so they can put a path down the middle. None of this will make sense to anyone who hasn't seen the film and certainly isn't supposed to make sense to anyone who has so don't worry. Watch it, you will not regret it. The specific scene I describe is played out below:

There is one other Knight that struck me as noteworthy. That would be Knight Rider. As 80's TV goes, everything was just right. We have the now legendary David Hasselhoff as Micheal Knight and an intelligent car called KITT, see below.

The Hoff, back in the day.

KITT, or Knight Industries Two Thousand.

For me, it's the car, but others may disagree. They fought crime, the car talked and occasionally made jokes. Micheal flirted with a technician in a white jumpsuit. That was it pure and simple, but it was brilliant, well I thought it was anyway. Everything you needed to know about this program was in the titles which are a lesson in themselves...

It's all there, the hair, the teeth, the astonishingly contrived stunts, the voice-over, the token girl and the music, don't forget the music. You can't but love it.

So that is me done with Knights. A history lesson it may be, but not, perhaps, the one you expected. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Tomorrow, Dear Reader, I need to lasso the letter L

xx

Judge Judy

Dear Reader,

On a typical day when I return home from work I find the Dear Lady Wife on the sofa working. She is either on a conference call or between conference calls. If she is between conference calls a courtroom drama is being played out. If she is on a conference call, the TV is paused and the face of a judge peers out into my lounge.

This face...

The face of Judith Shiendlin aka Judge Judy, undisputed queen of US small claims court drama. It does pretty well in the UK as well judging by the amount of episodes the Dear Lady Wife has consumed.

Although I have done my best to resist its' charms, there is something about this program that draws you in. JJ, as Dear Lady Wife refers to her, is quick-witted and amusing. The defendants, quite often, are not. You can learn a lot from JJ and the show as a whole. If you are a defendant, the most important lesson has to be go to a small-claims and not a circus, just because it pays you. Thankfully, for the many who enjoy this circus, there are plenty who don't learn lessons well. A fact which ensures the show continues into it's sixteenth season with a steady stream of victims, sorry, defendants to be judged and probably humiliated.

If you are reading this and thinking of appearing on the show, think of this post as a survival guide. Having watched some of JJs' work I have some tips. A bullet-point list is required, so remember;

• She is smarter than you. 
• She can smell baloney from a distance and will be the first to inform you that you are spouting it.
• She knows when you are lying.
• You better know where the money is.
• Don't drink.
• Don't take drugs.
• Don't expect it to be easy, it won't be.
• Um, ah, hmm, well, ehh and any other monosyllabic conversational holding noises will be pounced on like a cat playing with a mouse.
• If a sentence uttered by JJ begins with the words "You know what my Father used to say to me?" You're lying and she's onto you.
• Flattery will not help you.

This list won't save you, but it might at least prepare you.

Going back to "You know what my Father used to say to me?" This is a preface for a number of home-spun sayings which are often rather amusing. "Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It doesn't work and it annoys the pig" is a personal favorite. If only I'd known, all those years ago, I swore Bessie could have been a alto-tenor. Sorry, went off-plot for a moment.

It shouldn't be brilliant but I am starting to realise that it is. A little selection of highlights follows...

Hope you enjoy it. That's it for today Dear Reader, tomorrow we kick the letter K

xx

Internet

Dear Reader,

I am becoming a little flaky now. This A-Z challenge has been going on for days. I have been posting every day at breakneck pace. I work for a living, but was hoping to get ahead of the game during the Easter break. Regrettably this is my first attempt at that lofty goal. I am hoping to finish this today and do my first (and probably last) scheduled post. Today is Monday, so this should fill Tuesday.

Meanwhile the Dear Lady Wife is starting to get annoyed too. I seem to be spending my entire life in front of the computer. This in itself is not a departure. The fact that I have a sanctioned, supported reason is, however. She may start her own protest blog. Not unlike ladies who proclaim themselves to be World Cup widows during the four yearly football extravaganza, I fear DLW may be getting A-Z Challenge widow t-shirts printed as we speak. Oh, that's just great, two paragraphs in and not a word about the subject for today. Deep breath...

I is for Internet. But what is it? Is it a public service or a public menace. Hmmm. This is deep, for deep thinkers to think deeply about for days whilst locked in a hotel in Deep Deep, Indiana. Yep, this is deep. Or is it?

My favorite definition of the internet comes from a TV comedy program called the IT Crowd. This is one of the funniest comedy shows ever written, certainly the funniest about IT.

So that definition, if you couldn't be bothered to watch the video... This black box with a small flashing light on the top is the internet. Nope, sorry, can't do it justice, watch the goddamned video. From the same episode is an important health warning regarding the use of Google...

Don't do it kids.

Assuming the IT Crowd may have got it slightly wrong, what is the Internet? Can we touch it? Well, yes, in a sort of very fragmented way. Can it touch us? Yes, absolutely, in a million unexpected ways. Look at me, before computers I spent a short time being a journalist at a magazine which reached less than 20,000 people. Reach is the most important word in that sentence. Back at that magazine the most I could reach was 20,000, based on a huge assumption. That assumption was that everybody read it, and as a consequence, read me. 

Now I can publish to my blog, this blog, whenever I want. There are no looming deadlines, apart from this month, of course, when there is one almost everyday. As for reach, well my potential reach has grown just a tiny amount. Back in the day my potential reach was 20,000, the circulation of the magazine. Now my potential reach is every computer, tablet, internet-enabled game console, smart phone and not-so smart phone in the world. Well that's increased my reach a lot, my reach is now [licks finger and then plucks figure from the air] 1,000,000,000. Such is the wonder of technology.

Technology, of course, brings it's own woes. Back at that magazine I could kid myself that every copy of that magazine had been read from cover-to-cover. I just hadn't met any of the people in the catchment area who had read my piece. Now there are stats. My reach may have been estimated, but my stats are depressingly accurate. I know in depressing and mind-numbingly dull detail how many people I haven't reached. I even know how long the people I have reached have been reached for. There is, I must confess a small gap between reached and reachable which I must close. No matter how mind-numbingly dull those stats are by the way, I check them every day.

Back to the Internet, which has set new standards for reaching out to people. Whether what they were reaching out for was my blog is largely irrelevant. The internet being what it is, there is something for just about anybody, also there is a whole bunch more stuff which shouldn't be for anybody. It is like the whole world, but closer. Remember though, not to shake it or drop it.

Well, I've just made the Internet a little tiny bit heavier, so I shall sign-off until tomorrow when I shall be japing with the letter J

xx

Fraggle Rock

Dear Reader,

Bouncing around the rather disordered universe that is my brain, for some reason, F is for Fraggles. For those who don't know, Fraggles come from Fraggle Rock, another wonderful TV program from the mind of Jim Henson, who of course brought us the Muppets, for which the entire planet Earth is eternally grateful.

Fraggle Rock caught my eye firstly because it has possibly the most uplifting theme tune ever. If you have any doubt about this listen again (or for the first time).

Having begun this thinking the Fraggles would just be one of many childhood programs I would talk about I then read some of the very detailed Wikipedia entry. A snippet needs digesting...

Fraggles are humanoid creatures, about 18 inches tall, with fur in a wide variety of colors and a tail like a lion’s, with a tuft of fur on the end. They live in a network of caves called Fraggle Rock, populated by a variety of creatures, and seeming to connect to at least two different worlds in separate dimensions of time and space. Fraggles spend much of their carefree lives in play, exploring their worlds, and generally enjoying themselves. However, at the same time they maintain a complex culture and society, with each individual having rights and responsibilities. They have basic skill with tools and with crude machinery, and the concept of war is known to them (although wars between Fraggles are very rare). Fraggles live on a diet of vegetables, especially radishes. If individuals touch their heads together before falling asleep they can “share dreams.”

So, Fraggles are humanoid creatures. Really? Where did we discover those 18 inch tall humanoids covered in fur in a wide variety of colours with tails, like a lion's? Surely Wiki is a little confused here. Maybe, it was down at Fraggle Rock, down at Fraggle Rock. Oops, sorry Dear Reader, I was being sucked into the theme tune, which is dangerously hypnotic.

Back to the facts; Fraggles live in a network of caves which connect to at least two different worlds in separate dimensions of time and space. Surprisingly, unlike the humanoid bit, this is actually true. If you have never watched Fraggle Rock Dear Reader, you must be intrigued by now.

Finally, they live on radishes and if they touch their heads together they can "share dreams." I like the fact that Wiki only puts "" around the share dreams bit, because all of the rest is perfectly normal and acceptable.

This is only paragraph one of a highly detailed post about Fraggle Rock. I suspect more words have been published on Wiki about Fraggle Rock than Shakespeare. I say this because it is true, subject to me checking.

So on to the Doozers...

Within Fraggle Rock lives a second species of small humanoid creatures, the pudgy, green, ant-like Doozers. Standing only 6 inches (150 mm) tall (knee-high to a Fraggle), Doozers in a sense represent anti-Fraggles; their lives are dedicated to work and industry. Doozers spend much of their time busily constructing all manner of scaffolding throughout Fraggle Rock using miniature construction equipment and wearing hard-hats and work boots. No one but the Doozers themselves seem to understand the actual purpose of their intricate and beautiful constructions.

So, the Doozers are 6 inch tall pudgy green ant-like humanoids. They build stuff, it is what they do. The stuff they build looks like scaffolding, of the transparent plastic variety. Oh, and it tastes of radish, otherwise Fraggles wouldn't eat it. Those reading this who haven't seen Fraggle Rock, I hope you are keeping up.

Now the Gorgs...

On the outside of another exit from Fraggle Rock, through a well, live a family of Gorgs, giant furry humanoids standing 22 feet (6.7 m) tall. The husband and wife of the family call themselves the King and Queen of the Universe, with their son Junior, as its Prince and their heir, but to all appearances working as simple farmers with a hut and garden patch. The three main races of the Fraggle Rock universe — Fraggles, Doozers and Gorgs — are all dependent on radishes for different reasons. 

There we are, 22 foot tall furry humanoids. I thought it only fair that I reveal myself why Gorgs are dependant on radishes. Anti-wrinkle cream! So they won't disappear! Everyone still on-board? It's quite straight-forward.

And finally Marjory the Trash Heap...

The Trash Heap, a wise being (referred to as an "oracle"), serves as the garbage dump of the Gorgs. She and her heckling heralds live near the Gorg's garden, and she gives the Fraggles guidance and advice, which the Fraggles regard with reverence, although they do not worship her. She also appears to have some magical abilities (specifically telepathy and the ability to teleport items or Fraggles), although she does not often use them. Sometimes she knits to pass the time. She has an uncle named Maximillian, whom she refers to as "Uncle Max"

How can you not like an oracle called Marjory who knits to pass the time? All of a sudden the whole program comes together in a wave of complete normalness, NOT! If, like me, you watched this as a child you probably find the world as we know it rather mundane and dull. I know I do.

If you find the world around you weird, surreal and confusing then you obviously haven't seen Fraggle Rock. I suggest you do so now. The leading Fraggles will always be there to guide you through their slightly odd world. I give to you the leading group...

Gobo, a fine humanoid!

Mokey, just one moke too many?

Red, who is in fact a friend of mine. If she ever reads this she will kill me.

Wikipedia seems a little over-indulgent about Fraggle Rock, the post comes with a caveat...

Some caveats. Click to enlarge.

Awww crap! Was the whole thing made up? No. Jim Henson and his buddies really came up with this and thought people would like it. You know what? They did. They still do. If you have not seen it before dear reader, I am hoping you will like it too.

More tomorrow, grappling with G.

xx

Emergency / Escapology

Dear Reader,

Emergency...

So, I have spent some time mulling the letter E and some nice sounding words that may make a post. Elephant, endoscopy, emu, I could go on. I have come up blank, nothing feels like a post. Consulting my preparatory notes, (a tome so thin I can't see it when it turns sideways) under E there is one word; emergency. In desperation I have taken to just writing how I feel about this emergency in the hope that inspiration will strike. I have no idea what sort of verbal escapology is going to get me out of this hole. Escapology, interesting...

Escapology...

Let's start again, Dear Reader. When you look at the history of Escapology, inevitably two names seem to draw your eye. At the start was Harry Houdini and in recent years there was David Blaine. There have been notable others in-between but this is enough to be getting on with.

Another fine pickle Houdini had got himself into.

Harry Houdini, well the mere name seems to suggest magic and mystery. Much better than his birth monicker, Ehrich Weiss, a family name he did well to escape. Houdini is without doubt the Father of escapology and also (not by choice) the Father of mass tie-in advertising events. The concept collaboration between advertiser and performer, where the performer stuns and the advertiser funds a mass audience event plastered with the advertisers' wares. It is probably hard to understand how Houdini escaping from a barrel of Budweiser (or whatever the beer of the day was) would influence modern marketing thinking so profoundly, but, a modern example follows, look away if you're scared of heights:

The performer, the stunt and the advertiser may have changed but the concept remains the same. Unfortunately little film remains of the the feats accredited to Houdini, but as long as his memory lives on in such spectacular fashion, I'm fine with that.

So to David Blaine, a more than commendable street magician who revolutionised the way that close up and personal magic would be portrayed on television. The method relied more on the reactions of the stunned audience than the magic itself, a trick that has been used by TV cameramen filming magicians since 1997 when David Blaine: Street Magician  first aired.

Like Houdini, Blaine obsessed with endurance related stunts which were (of course) mass tie-in events, with mixed results. As Mr Blaine's feats are more recent and well documented some commentary may be required...

April 1999 - Buried Alive

After spending seven days buried alive in a confined space with minimal supplies of food David said "I saw something very prophetic ... a vision of every race, every religion, every age group banding together, and that made all this worthwhile" Well that's nice.

November 2000 - Frozen In Time

Not to be put off by being buried alive, David now choosed to have himself encased in ice in New York's Times Square for 63 hours. Apparently he looked chilly even before he got in the ice block. When released, all he could say was "Brrr" before he was hauled into an ambulance. Of the sentences that precede this one I will leave it to you, Dear Reader, to guess which one was made up.

May 2002 - Vertigo

An ailment which he clearly doesn't suffer from, otherwise why else would you hoist yourself up 30m high and 0.5m wide pillar and then stand there for 35 hours. David then threw himself off, out of sheer boredom presumably.

I was just kidding, bring the ladder back!

September 2003 - Above the Below

David on this occasion tried the stamina and patience of the British public. He spent 44 days in a plexiglass cage suspended above the South Bank of the River Thames in a cloud of British apathy. He apparently survived on nothing but 4.5 litres of water and insults from drunken party goers every day. He is quoted as saying "I love you all." as he emerged before once again being rushed to hospital. This maybe true, but whoever arranged for a hamburger to be flown round his plexiglass cage suspended from a remote control helicopter was not, it seems, sharing the love.

The media  feeding frenzy that accompanied the start of this stunt had subsided into apathy after three days or so. The eventual end of the stunt was greeted more with relief than anything else.

David may have learned something from this experience, either that or his psychiatrist finally talked some sense into him. The duration of his more recent public stunts can be measured in minutes rather than centuries, which is what our modern You-Tube based world desires. Perhaps David watched Robbie Madison in the video above and thought that's the way to entertain.

David will allegedly be returning this year with a new TV series where he returns to street magic. Good, even shorter sequences for an audience with increasingly short attention spans.

I will absolutely be returning tomorrow with something a little less tenuous from the frantic letter F

Laters Dear Reader.

xx

Why did I go to Ikea, Why? The Sequel

Dear Reader, 

I recently (last post actually) blogged about a visit to Ikea to purchase a sofa and chaise lounge. This post covered the horrors of a visit to Ikea right up to eventually escaping to the car park with your portable purchases stowed and deliveries organised. This should have been the end of the story. Regrettably, that is not the case, hence this second post on the subject.

A timeline is required I feel.

06-11-11:  Purchases made, already been covered previously, I won't go on about this again.

08-11-11: Delivery day. When delivery was arranged it was made clear that the delivery person(s) would be in contact by phone approximately one hour before the delivery was due to arrive. This did not happen. My delivery was first on their run hence it was early. I was on holiday, so I was asleep. A rude awakening by a knock on the door forces me to throw on a motley collection of clothing which was to hand and run to the door. So, clad in a paint covered t-shirt (I have been decorating) and equally paint covered jeans I answer the door.

Packages are transported into my lounge. The first large package is clearly a sofa. Followed by boxes that contains sofa and chaise lounge covers. A long rectangular, but rather skinny package arrives, then nothing. I explain to the driver that this does not look like my complete order. He looks at me in a manner that suggests I am from another planet. Apparently he is not used to such customer facing situations. He waves a delivery note at me, explaining that they have delivered everything on the delivery note. Usefully the Ikea Customer Services number is also on this note.

Before contacting Customer Services we thought it would be a good idea to work out what we had got. The assembly process begins. After much swearing, grunting and incredulous looks at some of the most ridiculous instructions ever written, a sofa appears, fully functional and surprisingly comfortable. 

What remains is a rectangular wooden frame and some cloth. Perhaps this is a minimalist interpretation of a piece of furniture? Well whatever it is, it's time to call Customer Services. To be fair this was less painful than expected, surprisingly few choices were offered on the phone number when dialed, which suggests the number in question had a single purpose which is good. Although initially eighth in the queue I rapidly progressed to a human voice. The human voice assessed that this was a picking error, everything was OK with the original order, but unfortunately all the elements of the order had not been grabbed from the warehouse. The human voice apologised and said the remaining items would be with us on 11-11-11, an auspicious day as the figures attest.

11-11-11:  Another delivery day. On this day I was not awakened by a knock on the door, or a phone call. I am still on holiday and slept in again. I was awakened by a hungry cat licking my nose. Time passes...

At approximately 2pm I am phoned by Ikea Customer Services again. The lady sounded a little confused. "Have I phoned you already?". "Erm, no" I reply. I am now a little off guard. I am speculating she may have been to the pub at lunchtime. "I've had so much going on I couldn't remember if I had phoned you or not.". Yep, definitely been to the pub. "Your delivery will not be arriving until tomorrow." Ah.

Apparently 11-11-11 is not an auspicious day for us after all. The doomsayers will be devastated.

12-11-11: Yet another delivery day. This time a new phenomenon is observed - the prior to delivery phone call. Only because they are lost. Never mind, at least they are coming. Within forty five minutes come they do. Complete with packages. The packages look suspiciously similar to the packages delivered the first time round. On closer inspection they are PRECISELY the same stock items delivered the first time round. Thankfully there was a shortage of blunt instruments and shotguns in the near vicinity. I merely sent the minions of Ikea on their way with their packages.

Back to Customer Services. The dear lady wife Smiffy had to step in at this point. I was a little emotional . So I went into the garden and spent a little bit of quality time with an Ikea catalogue and a crossbow. Meanwhile Smiffy dealt with the second call. Apparently getting in contact was a little bit more painful than my first experience. A queue was encountered, which Smiffy began at 20th. This news was delivered quietly, in a measured voice. Hold music, in the interim, was delivered at a volume that made the house shake. That music was Abba, Dancing Queen. 20 seconds of DANCING QUEEN, followed by "you are 20th in the queue". 20 seconds of DANCING QUEEN followed by followed by "you are 19th in the queue". Then the music changed. 20 seconds of WATERLOO followed by followed by "you are 19th in the queue". Oh you appear to be stuck in a Swedish music/on-hold hell. But then a ray of hope...  20 seconds of WATERLOO followed by followed by "you are 12th in the queue". Eventually, at some point during MAMMA MIA Smiffy gets to speak to someone. A transcript is required...

• IK: Hello, Ikea Cutsomer Services.
• S: Hello. I had a piece of furniture delivered, it was not complete. We phoned your good selves, who told us the error was clear, a warehouse error. 
• IK: Oh, ohhhhh, that is very unfortunate.
• S: Yes it is.
• IK: Erm.
• S: So what are you going to do about it?
• IK: Can I put you on hold for a moment. I just need to double check this situation.
• ABBA: MONEY MONEY MONEY, IT MUST BE FUNNY IN A RICH MAN'S WORLD.
• IK: Hello, Mrs Smiffy, are you still there?
• S: Yes
• IK: OK, I see what has happened here. You haven't actually bought the piece of furniture that you were expecting to be delivered. That is why it was not delivered.
• S:. WHAT?
• IK: Yes, I am afraid that appears to be the case. If you want this piece of furniture then the cost will be xxx
• S: I wanted it, I ordered it, I was told I would get it, I still want it, I will pay for it.
• IK: Great! We can certainly arrange this for you. 
• S: When?
• IK: Ooooh, not for ages. We can have someone call you at some point next week and take payment. Then we need to organise delivery.
• S: Oh dear god, NO! Give me the product code and I will send my husband to you.
• IK: There is the small matter of the piece of frame you have, which is of no use to you and should never have been delivered. When will you be returning this?
• S: Never.
• IK: Right. Shall we pick that up then when we are next with you?
• S: I would advise that. It's the only way you are ever going to get it back. By the way, we threw away the box, instructions and all the packaging and put the thing together. I even peeled off the un-removable price labels. I hope that doesn't affect my consumer rights?
• IK: Not at all Mrs Smiffy. We value your custom and hope we have provided a quality purchasing experience.
• S: *hollow crazed laugh*

Didn't think I would be back so soon.

So after all that I return to IKEA to make the amended purchase and sort out the chaos that has occurred, thinking this should be straight-forward. How wrong could I be. First I return to the Sofa department to explain the situation. They, like the delivery people before them, look at me like I was from another planet.  At least five members of this team have different and conflicting views as to what the solution to this conundrum should be. There is much hammering of computer screens, head-scratching, wringing of hands and general confusion. Eventually a consensus is reached, which can be summarised thus: "We don't know, go to Customer Services". 

My heart sinks, as Customer Services is also Customer Returns. Some people never come back from Customer Returns. I am sure I saw Lord Lucan there once.   

Missing, presumed in Ikea.

I do not have three days drinking water and energy snacks. I do not have a torch, a blanket or a tent, prerequisites for such an ordeal.  I go there anyway, with heavy heart to begin what could be a very long wait. Upon arrival, much as you would at the deli counter at your local supermarket, you collect a ticket. Mine says 69, they have just called 59, this can't be so bad can it? I spot a drinks machine, thinking at least I could get some water so I head over. It won't take my money. If there is such a thing as karma I must have annoyed a Swedish furniture maker in a previous life. I return to my seat to wait. A couple of life-times elapse. My number is called! Deep breath, here we go.

I relate again my sorry tale, again I am met with the alien from another planet look. Do they teach that look in staff training? Computer keyboards are hammered again, heads are scratched again. After some deliberation a member of the sofa department is summoned. More wringing of hands and puzzled looks.

Having seen what is going on with the computer I am beginning to have some sympathy with the staff in question. My stock item is not a single thing, it is an umbrella name for a line items of which there are 557 of in total. Sofas, chairs, chaise lounges, cushions, cushion covers, sofa covers, bizarre wooden frames and a small breed of dog all in different colours and fabrics.

Eventually a solution is found, as identified by the previous phone conversation. I have indeed been sold the wrong item. An order for the right item is processed, which I can pick from another warehouse a short distance away from the store. I emerge from the store older and greyer but triumphant.

Hopefully this is the end of the saga.

More soon dear reader xx

PS, whilst searching for images for this post I stumbled across this video, allowing me to tenuously link cats to my post. Hope you don't mind...