Category: Not Games

#oneaday Day 83: Read The Gorram Manual

I bought a new Xbox headset a few months back because several years of accidentally standing and/or sitting on my old one had caused it to finally give up the ghost. I was excited to see that they're now made of black plastic and have a mute switch on the cable instead of sticking out of the controller. (I wasn't really excited.)

What I was a little surprised by, though, was this:

One of these must be useful for something.

Yes, those are six instruction leaflets. For a headset. A headset whose functionality can be summed up by telling the chronically stupid and/or non tech-savvy to plug it into their controller, attach it to their head and talk into it whilst making sure the switch is green, not red. And making sure their Xbox is turned on, obviously, and that they're in a situation where they are able to talk to people.

Actually, most of those leaflets aren't taken up with useful information on how to use the headset. A considerable proportion of them are spent making sure you don't spend your time jamming it up your arse or swallowing it or accidentally dismantling it instead of talking into it. In several different languages. Which is nice and Continental, but ultimately rather redundant.

Ironically, considering we live in an age where things are supposed to be so intuitive we don't need manuals, then, that even the most mundane things come with instruction leaflets designed to ensure we 1) don't kill ourselves with things that you'd have to work really hard to kill yourself with and 2) don't sue the manufacturers when we accidentally kill ourselves with things that you'd have to work really hard to kill yourself with.

Imagine, then, if literally everything had an associated instruction leaflet. Can you identify what the following three things are?

—

INSTRUCTIONS FOR USE

1. Remove from storage and place on flat, stable surface.
2. Ensure receptacle is empty.
3. Fill receptacle with liquid of your choice, ensuring to leave 1-2cm of empty space.
4. Grasp handle with dominant hand.
5. Raise, apply to front facial orifice and tilt back slightly, ensuring that liquid flows into orifice and not around.

—

IMPORTANT NOTICE

This device operates in different manners according to gender and required usage. Please follow the appropriate instructions.

1. Switch seat to required position. Ensure there is an open space available and receptacle is not covered.
2. If male and requiring usage (a) (see Appendix), stand in front of device. If female and requiring usage (a) or either gender and requiring usage (b) (see Appendix), sit on device, ensuring feet remain firmly on floor if possible.
3. If male and requiring usage (a), ensure clear line of sight is available between appendage P and device (see diagram 4.1) before commencing. For all other uses, ensure lower body is free of obstructions.
4. If male and requiring usage (a), activate flow from appendage P using muscle F (see diagram 6.9). If female and requiring usage (a), activate flow from region V using muscle F (see diagram 5.2). For all other uses, release safety catch on region A using muscle Q (see diagram 7.6).
5. Continue use until no longer required. Discontinue flow or return safety catch on region A to Regular position.
6. If usage (b) has been undertaken, use of accessory T may be required. Follow instructions in the Appendix for appropriate usage of accessory T.

—

NOTE

This device requires a compatible accessory. See Appendix B for suggested devices to use in conjunction with this one.

1. Ensure device is firmly attached to compatible accessory via smaller end.
2. Insert larger ends of device into aural cavities.
3. Activate compatible device. In the case of discomfort during use, refer to compatible device's instructions to minimise aural discomfort and/or ensure content compatible with local guidelines of taste and decorum is in use.

—

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#oneaday Day 82: Mind. Blown.

It's a really good thing that humans have the capacity to take things for granted. It's not always the best thing to do, but occasionally, it's quite fun to just step back (not literally, otherwise you'll bump into that guy behind you and he'll drop his fine china tea-set, making a horrible stain on the carpet and making him wonder whether or not he should ask you to pay for it because he's actually quite anxious about talking to other people and doesn't want to become acquainted with someone by yelling at them, but at the same time that tea-set was very expensive and belonged to his grandmother so he feels like he should at least say something so basically, don't bump into him) and think about how awesome "things" are.

Take cars, for example, and by extension most means of motorised transportation. Most of us use some form of transport every single day and don't give it a second thought. But think about it. You get into a car through a door, like a room. It has carpets and windows and furniture, like a room. But it moves. When you sit in a car, you're in a room that moves. When you're driving on the motorway, you're sitting in a chair that's going 90 70 miles per hour. That's pretty amazing, right?

And the Internet. Particularly wireless Internet. Walk into pretty much any coffee shop and the Internet is in the air around you. You can't see it, feel it, smell it, taste it, but turn on your iPhone (other smartphones and Wi-Fi compatible devices are available) and it's there, allowing you to watch videos of cats at your convenience while you enjoy a half-caff skinny tall frappucino with extra coolwhip spoogebang sprinklywotsits and a slab of cake. Cat videos from thin air! Amazing.

Or the fact you're reading this blog (which is amazing in itself) — I'm sitting here typing this in my makeshift study in Cambridgeshire while you could be sitting absolutely anywhere, even high in the sky on some airline services, reading this. Perhaps you're in the future right now, scanning back through my past entries to get a better picture of who I am and whether I'm the sort of person who likes bludgeoning kittens to death (hint: I'm not… although that's just the sort of thing someone who had a secret life bludgeoning kittens to death might say) — and you're reading this. You're in my brain, sucking up my soul. Stop it. But it's still pretty amazing.

Of course, if you take all this to its natural conclusion, the fact that we're here at all doing the things we do is pretty amazing, too. We are walking, talking lumps of chemical reactions that are reacting in such a way as to make us aware of our own existence and able to control our own destinies… or at least, so it seems, anyway. Chemical reactions who can write blog posts, talk to people who are 160 miles away, drink coffee and listen to music at the same time. Amazing.

I'll stop now before my head explodes at the fact we're on a big lump of rock hurtling through space that just happens to move in a nice elliptical orbit around a MASSIVE BURNING GLOB OF GAS and start taking everything for granted again.

#oneaday Day 81: Improv Theatre

[Preamble: We listen to stories when we're kids because they have a soporific effect. There's no reason why you should stop telling stories when you "grow up", particularly if you enjoy improvising. This is a story I came up with on the fly at the request of a certain young lady who couldn't sleep last night, given the stimulus words of "robots", "clocks" and "cheesecake". No preparation was involved, hence the total lack of structure and nonsensical, improvised nature of it. But I was quite pleased with the eventual result.]

There once was a robot. His name was Trundlebot, because he wasn't very good at moving quickly on the wheels he had instead of feet. Trundlebot didn't mind though, because he was a robot and didn't know any better.

Trundlebot was the only robot employee at the Grognak clock factory, the first of his kind and something of an experiment for the factory owners. He was made from leftover clock parts and a few electronic gizmos that old Mr Grognak had ordered from the Internet against the express wishes of Mrs Grognak.

The Grognaks' son, Jeremiah, who was five years old, was fascinated by Trundlebot, but Mr Grognak, still wary of the robot's unproven track record, didn't let him too close. But Jeremiah longed to see Trundlebot up close, to look at him, talk to him and see what sort of person he was.

Mr and Mrs Grognak indulged Jeremiah with fanciful tales of what Trundlebot used to get up to before he came to the Grognak clock factory, taking care not to disappoint Jeremiah with the sad truth that Trundlebot was an unthinking, unfeeling machine who knew nothing of human life.

But Jeremiah was unsatisfied with just stories. He wanted to know what made Trundlebot tick himself, so one chilly winter night, he wrapped himself up in the warmest clothes he could find, stole his way downstairs and crept out of the house door and into the grounds of the factory.

The chill wind battered his young face, but it wasn't far to go. He crept across the courtyard to the front door of the main building and knowing that his father always left it unlocked due to the big iron gates outside, pushed it open slowly and carefully. It was dark inside, but the faint glow of the power-saving lights was enough for Jeremiah to see by. He heard the familiar ticking of the clocks as he walked through the corridors, looking around for what he desperately hoped would be his new robot friend.

He found his way to a door, which he recognised from the times his father had shown him around as the staff's break room. It was eerily quiet inside, the ticking of the clocks outside a stark contrast to the gentle hum of the fridge that was the only sound in here.

Overcome with curiosity and not really knowing why, he reached for the fridge door and opened it. The bright light from within flooded out, and he shielded his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden change in ambience. The fridge was mostly bare, save for a single plate on the middle shelf which bore a cheesecake, topped with sticky sauce and sweet berries. Jeremiah reached for the plate, then paused for a moment. The cheesecake clearly belonged to someone, but it also clearly hadn't been touched. Who would leave a delicious-looking cheesecake like that just lying around? He extended a finger and took off just a tiny blob of the sticky crimson sauce atop the cake, and licked his finger. It was as good as it looked, but he knew he shouldn't touch any more.

He closed the fridge and was about to walk out, when he heard a clattering from outside the break room door. It sounded like someone was coming. Jeremiah didn't know what to do. The only way out of the break room was through the door he'd come in by, and that was where the sounds were coming from. He looked around frantically and eventually opted to dive under a chair and hope whoever was coming wouldn't see him. He heard the door open, and a ticking noise, along with what sounded like something being dragged along the floor.

Looking out from under the chair, he saw a familiar set of wheels. It was Trundlebot, but what was he up to?

The ticking robot trundled over to the fridge and jerkily extended one of its arms, yanking the door open rather forcefully. Jeremiah was fascinated. What on Earth was the silly little robot doing in the fridge? He heard the "clink" of metal on porcelain, and it was apparent that the robot was taking the cheesecake out of the fridge. Jeremiah heard the door shut again, and Trundlebot wheeled himself out, apparently oblivious to the young boy's presence.

Jeremiah followed Trundlebot back through the factory corridors at a discreet distance, to the building's front entrance and out into the courtyard. Across the courtyard, and into the Grognak household.

Jeremiah didn't follow the robot in straight away, because he didn't want to get caught. But after a moment, curiosity got the better of him and he crept in.

Inside, he was astonished to discover Trundlebot had not only set down the cheesecake in the middle of the dining table, but also set three places with plates, knives and forks.

"What are you doing?" said Jeremiah, unable to restrain his childish curiosity, and not even sure if the robot could understand him. The robot, apparently only now becoming aware of the child's presence, paused for a moment and turned around on his wheels.

"One year since activation," he said in a raspy metallic voice. "Operator Grognak efficient and kind operator. Protocol dictates giving of gift."

Of course, thought Jeremiah. Trundlebot had been a part of their life for a year from tomorrow, and he wanted to celebrate.

"Did you make the cake?" asked Jeremiah.

"Affirmative," said Trundlebot. "Internet recipe. Delia Smith."

Jeremiah smiled at the robot. He was sure this would be a big surprise for his mother and father, and he looked forward to seeing their faces.

There was a sudden "snark" sound, and a long strip of paper began to emerge from a slot on the front of Trundlebot. Jeremiah took hold of it as it came out, further and further. Eventually, the other end dropped from the slot and Jeremiah picked up the finished article.

It was a banner, printed in red and gold. "THANK YOU", it said in large friendly letters. Trundlebot raised his arms and Jeremiah, sensing what the robot was thinking, carefully laid the banner across so it looked like he was holding it up.

"Gratitude for assistance," said Trundlebot. "Now child-unit must engage sleep programme." Jeremiah nodded, and crept up the stairs to bed.

The following morning, the Grognak family rose early and went down to breakfast. They were astonished to discover Trundlebot standing mutely in their living room, holding a large red and gold "THANK YOU" banner, and a delicious-looking cheesecake on the table.

"Oh my goodness!" said Mrs Grognak. "Did you do all this, Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah peered at Trundlebot, who said nothing. He swore that one of the robot's eyes blinked on and off briefly, and he smiled.

"Yes," he said. "It's Trundlebot's birthday. So it's only fair we celebrate it, even if he can't, isn't it?"

So they all ate cake and had a lovely breakfast. Trundlebot and Mr Grognak made their way back to the factory and started their day of work.

Jeremiah didn't hear Trundlebot speak again, but he knew that the silly little robot was more than just old clock parts and mysterious electronics. He was alive, and that made Jeremiah very happy indeed.

The End.

#oneaday Day 80: I Swear, By The Moon And The Stars In The Skies

(If you are offended by swearing you may wish to skip this one. But then that's kind of the point of this post. So perhaps you should read it.)

Swearing's a funny thing. On the one hand, a well-timed expletive—particularly a creative compound one, such as "felchbastard"—can make everyone laugh. On the other hand, people who use the word "fucking" as verbal punctuation and/or a non-fluency feature are, well to be frank, complete arseholes.

It's curious how some swear words are more acceptable than others though, especially given the fact that many of them refer to the same thing. Refer to someone as a "twat" and that's generally seen as just fine and peachy (unless you're, say, talking to the Queen or your grandparents (assuming they're not the kind of grandparents who swear like sailors (possibly because they were sailors) or squaddies (ditto) and now I'm not sure how many nested brackets I've used so I'll just hope) or the local vicar) but call them a "cunt" and you'll quite possibly be the recipient of a stony silence, a slap in the face or a detention, depending on your age/social status and/or occupation.

But why should this be? "Twat" and "cunt" both refer to the female genitalia, yet some people feel more uncomfortable saying the word "vagina" out loud than "twat", yet "cunt" is still some sort of horrendous secret taboo. They all mean the same thing.

Oddly enough, no synonyms for the penis (of which there are many, as the back page of my Year 8 homework journal from secondary school will attest) appear to be regarded as anywhere near as taboo as words for the vajayjay. "Cock", theoretically the most offensive one, as it's (arguably) the one you're most likely to hear during pornography, is flung around with gay abandon (not literally) pre-watershed on Top Gear, while "penis" is still seen as somewhat awkward, despite being an anatomical term and not a swear.

"Fuck" and/or "fucking" are the words that gets a lot of people though. "Fuck/fucking" are, in themselves, rather multi-purpose words. They can be used as a verb meaning sexual congress ("He fucked her good and proper") or as a verb meaning "broke" or "beat up" ("She fucked him up good and proper") or as an adjective ("Cover that fucking bruise on your face, you big wuss") or as an intensifier ("That was brilliant." "No, it was fucking brilliant.") or just a an expletive ("Fuck!").

The trouble with "fuck", though, is that it's overused. First five minutes of Four Weddings and a Funeral aside, you just have to walk down any inner-city street in the UK to hear the word "fuck(ing)" used so frequently you wonder if the people uttering it are actually aware they're saying it quite so much. In theory, a lot of their usage of it is as an intensifier—but seriously, saying "I went to the fucking shops" is utterly redundant. Saying something is "fucking brilliant" makes it very clear that it's better than brilliant. However, saying you went to the "fucking shops" is useless, because the shops are the shops, and however much "fucking" you put in front of them, they cannot be any more shoppy than they already are, in that they are already 100% shoppy, and if making them into the "fucking shops" made them more shoppy than 100% shoppy, then that would defy all laws of physics, metaphysics, logic and possibly a few bits of theology, too. And no-one wants that.

The only exception to this is when you're annoyed at the place you've been. Then you can do that sulky teenage stroppyface and say "Yeah, I went to the fucking shops" as if it's the biggest hardship in the world that you had to suffer being dragged around New Look a little bit when all you really wanted to do was get home and masturbate/take drugs/yell at a gerbil that just isn't pulling its weight any more/watch Noel Edmonds (on TV, obviously, unless you live with him, which would be a hellish existence in and of itself more than worthy of using the word "fucking" at every opportunity).

Basically, cockweasel, stop being such a fucking prudish cunt, and enjoy the rich tapestry of bullshit that the English cocking language has blessed us twats with.

#oneaday Day 79: MeatMaid

BRISTOL, MARCH 19 2011

Käselichliebewurst Produktionen GmbH, makers of the hugely successful line of Cock-Hands products, today announced a revolution in morningtime routine technology. The MeatMaid line of products promise to do for fry-ups what the famous Teasmaid did for morning drinks.

"We are very excited about the possibilities that MeatMaid offers the discerning professional fry-up connoisseur," said Käselichliebewurst Produktionen's Associate VP of Marketing for EMEA, Helmut Wringer. "We believe that the provision of timely fry-ups on an automated basis is a gap in the market which has remained unfilled for too long."

The MeatMaid range of products will initially be launching in the UK with a lineup of three unique breakfast automation solutions to fit every budget and lifestyle.

MeatMaid Classic offers its users the unique opportunity to pre-prepare a fryup to be ready on schedule for their morning routine. Special compartments allow for the insertion of bacon, sausage, egg, tomato, mushroom and hash browns. Optional toaster, black pudding, juicer and hot drink attachments are available to customise the MeatMaid experience. Simply insert the ingredients the night before, set the timer for when you want your breakfast and MeatMaid Classic will take care of the rest, carefully cooking and preparing your fryup to be waiting for you beside your bed right on schedule. Available in 1, 2, 4 and House Full Of Guests-person models, starting from £250.

MeatMaid Express offers the perfect breakfast solution for busy professionals who don't have the time to cook things. Simply insert one of the range of MeatMaid Express capsules, set the timer and MeatMaid Express will take care of the rest, carefully preparing the ingredients from the capsule into a full breakfast within 30 seconds. Perfect for the fry-up connoisseur on the go. Full English, Veggie Breakfast and Big Breakfast capsules will be available on launch, with additional options available in the coming months. Starting from £350, with packs of 7 capsules costing £5 each.

MeatMaid On The Go provides all the benefits of MeatMaid Express in a handy briefcase-sized device that you can take anywhere, with no need to plug in! Load up the stylish carrying case with MeatMaid On The Go capsules, press the button when you're hungry and voila! An all-day breakfast on demand! Starting from £500. Packs of 5 capsules cost £5 each. Additional battery packs £89 each.

"We anticipate that MeatMaid will be a huge success, particularly in the United Kingdom," said Wringer. "We've been using it in our own offices daily and everyone appreciates starting the day with a good breakfast."

ABOUT KÄSELICHLIEBEWURST PRODUKTIONEN GMBH

Founded in 1999 by renowned German businessman Werner von Wellensittichschmerzen, this European company have consistently been on the cutting-edge of modern technology, always following their motto "Finding the answers to questions no-one is asking". Past successes include the popular line of Cock-Hands products as well as the Socialite's Friend range of customisable kebab-storage systems.

#oneaday Day 77: Updates Are Available

Remember when we didn't have to update things? I do. It was a good time. You could put something in to your computer or console, safe in the knowledge that it (probably) worked… and if it didn't work, it would probably get recalled and/or refunded. It was a binary state. In the world of consoles, this situation prevailed until the last generation ended—the era of the 360 and PS3 ushered in the Age of the Patch.

Of course, PC users have been dealing with this for considerably longer. Anyone who has ever used Windows will be intimately familiar with the incremental update process. It just used to happen slightly less regularly before we had the Internet there with easy access. You might get a disc (or huge pile of floppy disks) with an updated version on providing significant new features, rather than just plugging Security Hole Number 5,237,429.

Nowhere is "update culture" more apparent than in the world of smartphone apps. It's like keeping on top of your email inbox—you'll never beat it. Update everything on your phone and within an hour or two at least one app will have been updated with either "bug fixes" or "AMAZING NEW FEATURES". And people have come to expect, nay, demand these updates. Read reviews in the App Store (I know, I know) and you'll see products which have just been released with consumers demanding updates.

Of course, you don't have to update things when they come up. People who don't have an Internet connection don't, of course. And in theory, this shouldn't cause much of an issue—unless you own an Apple device.

I've become convinced with the past few iOS updates that Steve Jobs has a big magic "obsolescence" button in his office that immediately renders all iOS-based devices nigh-on unusable unless they're running the absolute latest version of the system software—even if they were happily working just fine the day before.

You may accuse me of paranoia at this juncture, and it wouldn't be an unreasonable assumption. However, let me cite the example of last night to you. Last night, Twitter for iPhone started playing silly buggers and decided to start crashing every five seconds. I deleted and reinstalled it and still it had trouble. So I downloaded Echofon instead. This ran, but slowly and jerkily. Given that I'm running an iPhone 4, supposedly THE MOST POWERFUL MAN IN THE UNIVERSE (Smartphone. I meant smartphone.) the word "slowdown" really shouldn't be in the vocabulary I use when talking about it. But slowdown there was. And lo, it was annoying.

It then occurred to me that I hadn't updated to iOS 4.3, which came out a few days earlier. So I quickly (ha!) updated my phone. And wouldn't you know, everything suddenly, magically ran the way it was supposed to. How about that?

So, the moral of this story, then, is update your shit. Otherwise the CEOs of the world will enjoy torturing you from afar.

#oneaday Day 75: Yar-Har Fiddle-De-Dee

Piracy is a crime. Most people are aware of this by now, but it still goes on. And as much as I'm not a fan of piracy per se, it's becoming increasingly understandable why people resort to less-than-legal means to get hold of digital content. Sometimes it's because said content isn't available where they live without paying exorbitant amounts of money to import things. Sometimes it's to get a different version of some content they enjoy. And sometimes it's because the legal versions of the content don't work in the first place.

Let's take YouTube as an example here. YouTube launched a service in the UK last year called YouTube Shows, which carries content from Channel 4, Channel 5 and various other sources, allowing viewers to catch up on programmes they've missed, rather like iPlayer. This is a great service, particularly considering it's available for free, thanks to the fact it's supported by advertising.

At least, it's great in theory. Until the advertising service breaks, rendering the content completely inaccessible. Because there's no failsafe to skip a broken ad, no means of reloading with different ads if they cause the video to fail and no means to report broken content, if YouTube decides that you're not going to watch something, you're not going to watch it.

This is obviously a Bad Thing, but of course it's not YouTube's fault directly. Computers fuck up, that's part of What They Do. But when the fact that Computers Fuck Up That's What They Do means that a service becomes unusable, that's when alternative means start to get 1) sought and 2) provided.

Take the various means of digital rights management that many PC games come bundled with these days, too. Several of Ubisoft's games won't run at all if you're not connected to the Internet constantly while you're playing, so if you have a dodgy wireless signal in your home, good luck playing Assassin's Creed on the PC, since it'll kick you from the game every time your connection drops. And now some console games are starting to take the same approach, too, with Bionic Commando Rearmed 2 on PSN being one of the first. Modern consoles are very much geared towards "always-on" connections these days, of course, but with the number of times my PS3 logs itself out of PSN with no warning every day, playing a game that depended on Internet connectivity would quickly become very frustrating.

It ends up as a vicious cycle, however. The pirates determine more and more inventive ways to circumvent the more and more inventive protective systems that publishers put in place to deter the pirates from circumventing their protective systems. And it never ends. At the moment, particularly when it comes to PC gaming, cracked versions often offer a more convenient, "better" experience than legitimate copies. And when it comes to DVDs, not having to sit through several minutes of unskippable bullshit every time you want to watch a 20-minute episode of How I Met Your Mother is always going to be a mark in favour of downloading the episodes rather than buying the DVDs.

Piracy is a crime. But buying a product isn't, and nor is tolerating advertising to make use of a free service. So how about the legitimate consumers stop getting treated like dirt, huh?

#oneaday Day 74: Fanfic

It was late, and dark, and cold. The air was thick with desire, and there was only one thing on his mind as he quietly descended the stairs in pursuit of the one thing he wanted. His bare feet made no noise as he descended the stairs towards the home of his heart's desire.

He reached out and opened the door to the land of forbidden pleasures and shielded his eyes against the light. He gently took his love from her prison and laid her down softly, tenderly, waiting for him patiently.

Two sheets of white, laid flat on a porcelain bed. He softly greased them up until they were slick, and smooth. Then, he picked up his love and slowly undressed her, removing her clothing a little at a time until she stood naked, unashamed, in his hand, waiting to please him, to make him happy.

He took out his weapon of choice and plunged it deep into his love, sliding through her easily, then back out again. He tenderly peeled off the edge, then plunged deep into it again, harder this time, jerking back a little more suddenly than he intended. He pulled off another, thicker piece, and thrust in for one final time. Now, he knew, it was almost time to enjoy the fruits of his labours, to savour the pleasures that his love had been saving for him. His mouth began to water at the prospect.

He laid one of the sheets over the pieces of his love, and split her down the middle with his tool. Satisfied, he stood back for a moment to gaze at that which he had wrought. His mouth was full of saliva now, and he longed to take that which he desired firmly in his hand and feel her rich, pungent bounty enter his mouth and fill his senses with the pleasure he so longed for.

He could wait no longer. Grasping her firmly, he slowly raised her to his mouth and parted his lips just enough to allow his love to enter. He felt the familiar pleasurable sensations as he let just the tip slip into his mouth, and his tongue tasted his love's familiar flavour. Desire overcame him quickly, and he bit down hard, sinking his teeth into his love, feeling her yield to his strength. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, enjoying every moment.

"Damn," he thought, "I really love cheese sandwiches."

#oneaday Day 72: Jam on Toast

The tail-lights of the cars in front of you brighten as they apply the brakes. Your collective speed drops. There seem to be an awful lot more cars around than there were a moment ago, and a few trucks, too. Your heart sinks.

Yes, you're entering a traffic jam.

At this point, you will do one (or more) of several things. You may suddenly wonder if you have enough music to cover the entire period this eventuality may cover. You may consider phoning someone at your destination to let them know you're likely to be late. You may decide that no, this jam couldn't possibly last for very long because it appeared out of nowhere, so there's no need to phone ahead, because you left the house with plenty of time to spare just in case this happened. You may emit a string of incredibly loud and offensive swearwords—this is considerably more likely if you're in the car by yourself and/or are an extrovert/sufferer of Tourette's.

Then you see the electronic signs warning you of the "recommended" speeds (or, if you're on the M25, the actual variable speed limit which you can be pulled over and/or caught on speed camera for.) You see it and you figure that hey, 40 mph may not be quick, but at least it's moving, right?

Wrong. What they don't tell you is that the "recommended" speeds are actually a cunningly disguised secret code. Fortunately, I have cracked it.

  • 20mph – You ain't going anywhere for at least an hour and probably more like three hours, plus.
  • 40mph – You will move, but very slowly. You will be lucky to break 20mph.
  • 60mph – You will move at a relatively comfortable speed but will be lucky to break 40mph and will often have to brake suddenly for no apparent reason.
  • End of speed limit – Theoretically, you are allowed to drive at full speed now, but the volume of traffic coming out of the jam means that this will be very difficult to achieve for at least another half an hour.

People have developed various coping mechanisms in order to deal with the stress and frustration of traffic jams. You could shout and swear some more. You could turn your music up. If you're a Mercedes driver, you could weave in and out of lanes in an attempt to get as far forward as possible. And if you're an asshole, you could use the hard shoulder and/or filter lanes for junctions to "jump the queue" and get as far forward as possible by barging in. But if you do this, you deserve to be scooped up by a gigantic super-powerful electromagnet (which picks your car up, obviously, not you, unless you're a robot) and fed to an ant-eater which has been inflated to unnatural proportions via the ethically questionable misuse of SCIENCE! and which has developed a taste for cars—so much so that the giant form of the ant-eater has in fact been re-dubbed the car-eater.

So yeah. Don't do that. Sit and wait patiently. Because ultimately, no amount of screaming, shouting, swearing, lane-weaving or driving like a dick is going to affect the fact that there are hundreds of cars stuck in place, just like you. And until the day when all cars have a button that allows them to take off and fly away like the DeLorean in Back to the Future (when, if you think about it, we won't really need roads at all any more) there's nothing you can do about it.

So sit. Wait. Suffer with the rest of us.

#oneaday Day 70: Waste Not

[The comics for the next few days are a little disjointed as I'm going away for the weekend. Fans of Rogue, if there are any, will be pleased to see he has his own utterly pointless mini-series.]

I'm sitting in my "study" (for want of a better word—it's the room I have with my desk and computer in) and despite staring at the screen enjoying the wonders of the electronic, digital age (such as this delightful blog) I am literally surrounded by pieces of paper. I don't dare throw any of these pieces of paper away because one day, one of them might be important for something I can't possibly predict. I have discovered this to my cost a number of times in the past.

This is annoying, though. I have one of those expandy box file things that has burst its seams because of the amount of shitty useless paperwork crammed inside it. Some of this paperwork is from houses I haven't lived in for five years. Some is from, I don't know, last week? All of it is completely useless, until you really need it, when it becomes the most important thing in the world and consequently is nowhere to be found even though you know you put it in that section of the file and can remember looking at it and thinking "I know this will be important some day".

Conversely, I know that if I have all these shitty annoying stupid bits of paper everywhere and close to hand that I will never ever need them ever again. And then I will throw them out to tidy up. And then I'll suddenly need them again.

Why? Why do we surround ourselves with such crap? The world is full of so many wonders and yet it seems that in order to just survive and go about our daily business we have to sign this, keep this safe, keep this secret, remember this handy 300-digit number that also includes letters just to be awkward, keep every single piece of paper that includes numbers and currency symbols just in case you need to show people that you understand what money is or something, and read 15-page long letters that make no sense but basically amount to saying "if you break something or have it nicked, you can have some money but only if we feel like it and by GOD we will investigate thoroughly for the best part of fifteen years before we even think of paying out".

And relax.

I should probably add at this point that I've never had to claim through an insurance company so haven't encountered the above situation before, but I did do some temping for a firm of "loss adjusters"—a profession I didn't know existed before I did that job briefly—and was alarmed to discover some claims had indeed been going on for a healthy number of years. I was also shocked to see quite how many pointless companies exist in the world. In one instance, an insurance company contacted the loss adjusters who contacted some surveyors (odd, since the loss adjusters had their own in-house surveyors, but never mind) who contacted some builders who contacted some architects who contacted some draftsmen… and then they all contacted each other back in the other direction again. This isn't an exaggeration for comic effect, there legitimately were that many people involved. No wonder we're drowning in fucking paperwork.

Please consider the environment before you print this blog post. And please consider the environment before you post me a metric shit-ton of paper I will never read.