195. Friends - please email me!

THE LAUNCH OF A NEW COMPUTER.

Afloat again.

 

With the good old Dell close to sinking (see Slightly Adrift last month) son Neil, the computer lifeboat captain, decided we had best scuttle her. He subsequently arrived and presented me (gratis) with a brand new Compaq class replacement powered by Windows 8. Following a valiant attempt to coax some updated know-how into my unreceptive head, he departed muttering that something would have to be done about “those fucking rectangles..” (The tiles providing access to the new system.) True to his word he was back in a couple of days and uploaded (downloaded? I'm never sure) a modification which has transformed the Windows 8 into something more like the 7. He then asked if there was anything else I would like transferred off the old Dell. That unearthed...Problem 1: My Leader, well aware that I am disinclined to part with clapped out mechanical favourites, had taken the scuttling advice to heart. The day after he installed the replacement she consigned my old Dell, powered by the beloved Windows XP, to the nearest refuse tip. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So to...

FRIENDS – PLEASE EMAIL ME!

Problem 2: With the departure of the old Dell went all my pictures and my address book – including short cuts to my Fw friends. So, dear ol' pal, if you were (and would like again to be) on my Fw list, I'd much appreciate an email from you carrying an up-to-date email address. Doesn't have to be a long communication. Just a one word message. “Balls” will do. All I have to do then is find the new address book and learn how to Fw on Bcc again. Simple ain't it?  Gawdblessyer...hope to hear from you soon.

ON THE BOX.

Wimbledon.

Been little else on the telly has there? Oh well, the weather's been good and, with the departure of all the favourites but the great Scot and Djokovic, I thought this year Andy Murray might...just... possibly?
So I settled back in my armchair. contentedly awaiting the start of the men's final. Then, to my dismay, the cat Shadow appeared and he was obviously hellbent on poetry.

“Wimbledon again,” he said brightly. “I have a poem.”

I tried to look encouraging, though I know I didn't sound it:

“Go on then,” I said.

He struck his poetic pose and emoted:

Tennis on ice.

For those who slithered and skidded and fell

Wimbledon this year has surely been hell.

Slipping and sliding on treacherous grass,

Spending less time on their feet than their arse,

Bemoaning the fact that they ever came near

S.W. 19 for this slipperiest year.

Nadal and Federer went out in a flash,

And Serina cut not quite her bold usual dash

None of them seemed to know what way, or which

To deal with obscure names that ended in 'itch.'

Lisicki beat Williams, shedding tears of relief

Then lost to Bertoli and shed tears of grief.

So to the men's final – this time there's no hitch:

It's the Scot Andy Murray and the Serb, Djokovic.

He eyed me expectantly.
I pondered: “Couldn't you have waited until after the men's final?”   
“That could go on for hours,” he said. “And Murray might not win.”

How do you reason with logic like that?

“Anyway, I'm off for a snooze in the sunshine,” he added. “It will be bedlam in here until that lot's over.”
He didn't come back until the bedlam was over; it was time for his dinner and, as the world now knows, Murray had won.

“See,” I taunted. “you could have got a historic moment into your poem.”

“I can't wait for the football season to start,” he said, “then I'll be able to sleep indoors again. Football crowds are quieter.”
He can be such a dismissive little bugger sometimes.

Rest of our viewing.

The Returned. French updated zombies in a beautiful location. I like it, in an 'admire the scenery' sort of way.

The Borgias. More medieval mayhem surrounding an indestructible Jeremy Irons.

Luther. Why do all tele heroes (Gibbs, Jo, etc.) finish up being investigated by establishment gits with nothing better to do? It started when remote – politically directed – interlopers were introduced into US television dramas to ride roughshod over maverick detectives and their doting acolytes. Clearly it is a recognised and understood thing in America.
Now it is happening to Luther. He's English. He should tell 'em to fuck off.  
Me? I'd tell 'em it's lazy scriptwriting.

READING.

Graham Hurley. I have finished reading The Perfect Soldier in which Mr. Hurley points an accusing finger at this - and every other - country involved in the manufacture and sale of Perfect Soldiers (i.e. anti-personnel mines). I have to admit the story left me in despair for humankind. Whatever happened to civilization? If the author is right (and I would never doubt his research) there are now more mines than people in Angola; in Cambodia there were so many anti-personnel mine victims they were running out of crutches and, in the final stages of the Falklands conflict, the departing Argentinians randomly scattered mines from helicopters so that islanders will forever be in danger from them: On East Falkland, the author tells us, there are beaches where it will never be safe for a human being to walk again. Over 100 million A/Ps are spread around the world, particularly in Third World farming areas, and 26,000 people a year, mostly civilians, are killed or maimed by them.
We are far from blameless. At the time this book went to print Britain was responsible for a fifth of the world market in arms sales.  Yeah, proud Brit...think on...

James Patterson.

Four Blind Mice is another Alex Cross yarn; this time Dr. Cross – think Morgan Freeman - comes up against the US army, represented by a kill-happy clique of rogue Vietnam war veterans. Mr. Patterson may seem to effortlessly produce these short-chaptered yarns (115 chapters/309 pages), but don't be fooled: the man is a craftsman and in Four Blind Mice his villains are horribly acceptable all-American buddies. Whatever did happen to civilization? Yeah, proud Yank...think on...

Ian Dillow.

Not a book from Ian, though he really should write one (perhaps with me) before it's too late (for either of us}. Meantime he has emailed me this little gem. I hope it will cut and paste. Well...you know me and modern technology...But If it does, I dare you not to smile.

Mendel's Defecatory Principle.

This is a deceptively simple philosophy that an exceptionally gifted friend has been slaving over and refining for most of his life.

I am delighted to report that he has fine-tuned the principle to its absolute quintessential essence.  This he has completed to a degree that it may now be shared with a select band of friends that may appreciate its elegance and simplicity.