Carrots help you see in the dark.
Well, this is not strictly true as it turns out. According to Ben Goldacre, in his excellent book, Bad Science, carrots were the source of one of the most successful disinformation campaigns of World War Two.
It was during the Battle of Britain (in which our chaps were outnumbered four to one). The German High Command could not understand how the RAF pilots could see the planes of the Luftwaffe coming from such huge distances. This was because of a fancy new British invention called Radar. To stop the Germans trying to work out if we'd invented anything clever like that, the British government instead started an elaborate and entirely made-up nutritionist campaign. The basic premise was that Carotenes in carrots are transported to the eye and converted to retinal (the molecule that detects light in the eye) and the entirely false conclusion was that carrots make you see in the dark.
So, went the story, doubtless with much chortling behind their excellent RAF moustaches, we have been feeding our chaps huge plates of carrots, to jolly good effect.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Monday, 1 November 2010
Movember
It polarises opinion like marmite, but for one month of the year, whether you love it or hate it, males across the globe will have the opportunity to sport the kind of facial hair usually reserved for the Starsky and Hutch, Hulk Hogan, BBC period dramas – and porn movies (so I’m told).
And it’s all for Charity.
The craze of Movember started, predictably enough, in Australia. In 2003, a chap called Justin Coghlan and some close friends decided to grow moustaches. Now, seven years later, more than a quarter of a million chaps from around the world (and possibly some South American women) will be raising awareness – and money – to help fight prostate cancer.
Despite the fun, the disease itself is no laughing matter, with more than 36,000 men being diagnosed with Prostate Cancer in the UK alone last year.
The rules are easy. Start off with a clean shaven face and you have 30 days to groom yourself the moustache you know you’ve always wanted. And try and earn some money to help fight prostate cancer at the same time by logging onto www.movember.com
And it’s all for Charity.
The craze of Movember started, predictably enough, in Australia. In 2003, a chap called Justin Coghlan and some close friends decided to grow moustaches. Now, seven years later, more than a quarter of a million chaps from around the world (and possibly some South American women) will be raising awareness – and money – to help fight prostate cancer.
Despite the fun, the disease itself is no laughing matter, with more than 36,000 men being diagnosed with Prostate Cancer in the UK alone last year.
The rules are easy. Start off with a clean shaven face and you have 30 days to groom yourself the moustache you know you’ve always wanted. And try and earn some money to help fight prostate cancer at the same time by logging onto www.movember.com
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
. The most persuasive argument for any activity is that everyone is doing it – and here everyone is shopping
An Extract From - The Age of Absurdity, by Michael Foley
This is a fairy land, never buffeted by wind or lashed by rain, without clocks, closed doors, beggars, litter, graffiti, garbage, vermin or dark alleys, where the temperature is always pleasantly constant and the light evenly bright and the Pipes of Pan vie in sweetness with the tinkling of euphonious fountains at the intersections of the broad esplanades. On all sides shining emporia display garments, shoes, lingerie, creams, lotions, fragrances, chocolates, toys, mobile phones, games, televisions, flowers, music players, jewellery, sports gear and digital picture frames restlessly changing content every few seconds...
...everything about a shopping mall is designed to encourage the feeling that not to want anything would be atrociously churlish. Firstly, a mall eliminates distractions such as depressing weather and accusing clocks. Then, if it is a multi-storey building, a soaring atrium or central well makes an immediate, profound impression. Planners, from the architects of Gothic cathedrals to those of contemporary corporate headquarters, have understood that the key to inspiring awe is redundant space, especially overhead. Any structure with its own firmament must have been created by God.
To enhance the religious atmosphere there may be background piped music as soothing as organ chords. And there will certainly be many fellow worshippers to provide reassurance. The most persuasive argument for any activity is that everyone is doing it – and here everyone is shopping. The company of the faithful is immensely comforting but, as in church, there is no need to engage. The real engagement is with the icons in the window displays, promising to confer distinction, enhanced status and sexual attractiveness. These material goods even enhance the religious feeling. Brain scans have shown that high end brands evoke the same neural response as religious images; that, shocking and lamentable as it may be, an iPod has the same effect as Mother Teresa. Also, the window s displaying these material icons extend from floor to ceiling, completely exposing the bright interiors, and the entrances are wide and doorless, so the instinctive fear of entering an unfamiliar space is overcome. Inside, young, attractive sales staff approach, seeking eye contact with friendly encouraging smiles, creating the illusion of youth and attractiveness in the shopper. The loud soul music suggests a bar or club where mutual attraction can blossom but, unlike the brutally competitive bars and clubs, here there is no possibility of rejection. Spending money is the easiest orgasm.
This is a fairy land, never buffeted by wind or lashed by rain, without clocks, closed doors, beggars, litter, graffiti, garbage, vermin or dark alleys, where the temperature is always pleasantly constant and the light evenly bright and the Pipes of Pan vie in sweetness with the tinkling of euphonious fountains at the intersections of the broad esplanades. On all sides shining emporia display garments, shoes, lingerie, creams, lotions, fragrances, chocolates, toys, mobile phones, games, televisions, flowers, music players, jewellery, sports gear and digital picture frames restlessly changing content every few seconds...
...everything about a shopping mall is designed to encourage the feeling that not to want anything would be atrociously churlish. Firstly, a mall eliminates distractions such as depressing weather and accusing clocks. Then, if it is a multi-storey building, a soaring atrium or central well makes an immediate, profound impression. Planners, from the architects of Gothic cathedrals to those of contemporary corporate headquarters, have understood that the key to inspiring awe is redundant space, especially overhead. Any structure with its own firmament must have been created by God.
To enhance the religious atmosphere there may be background piped music as soothing as organ chords. And there will certainly be many fellow worshippers to provide reassurance. The most persuasive argument for any activity is that everyone is doing it – and here everyone is shopping. The company of the faithful is immensely comforting but, as in church, there is no need to engage. The real engagement is with the icons in the window displays, promising to confer distinction, enhanced status and sexual attractiveness. These material goods even enhance the religious feeling. Brain scans have shown that high end brands evoke the same neural response as religious images; that, shocking and lamentable as it may be, an iPod has the same effect as Mother Teresa. Also, the window s displaying these material icons extend from floor to ceiling, completely exposing the bright interiors, and the entrances are wide and doorless, so the instinctive fear of entering an unfamiliar space is overcome. Inside, young, attractive sales staff approach, seeking eye contact with friendly encouraging smiles, creating the illusion of youth and attractiveness in the shopper. The loud soul music suggests a bar or club where mutual attraction can blossom but, unlike the brutally competitive bars and clubs, here there is no possibility of rejection. Spending money is the easiest orgasm.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
A piece of the past
Mum and Dad first ran into each other in the summer of 1966. She was a girl called Christine Jane Emery, a former pupil of St Paul’s school in London and the daughter of a City gentleman who had a large say in the world’s copper. He was a journalist, working for the Evening Post, the fiercest anti-government newspaper in the country.
She was also secretary of the Defence and Aid Fund, which supplied cash for the defence of political prisoners in South Africa.
So this seemed to both parties like a reasonable match.
My mother would return from work and tell my father all about her day, and the next day he would pass the message on exclusively to the readership of the Evening Post.
By the time he had promised not to write about her anymore, it was too late. The Defence and Aid Fund had become too successful, foreign contributions allowed it to hire the top lawyers in the country and the top lawyers were getting too many non-whites acquitted.
These were good deeds, indeed, and in South Africa no good deeds went unpunished. The organisation was banned and BOSS – the Bureau of State Security – moved in.
A week later Garth received a tip off that BOSS were going to arrest Christine under the 90 Days Legislation and had evidence that could keep her in jail for up to 5 years, which was plenty long enough. He immediately dispatched her to London.
Sure enough, Boss agents called at four o’clock the next morning. They didn’t knock on the door of the flat in those days. ‘Where is Christine?’ they said.
‘Oh, her mother has taken ill and she had to fly home.’
A few looks convinced my Dad he should leave, too, and he flew to London to work for Reuters, who wanted to send him to Vietnam. Just before he was due to leave the then Anglo American asked him to help start a national newspaper in Zambia and train African sub-editors. They offered him a lot more money than he would have got in Saigon. And, anyway, the guy who went to Vietnam in his place was killed within a week of arriving - on an official assignment with other journalists. Lucky for him. Lucky for me, too.
They loved the country and lost no time in meeting anti-South African government groups and attending meeting after meeting. One day she complained: ‘You know I wasn’t paid for those last few weeks at the Defence and Aid Fund.’
‘You should write to Mr Vorster (the former Minister of Justice) and demand your money,’
She did and amazingly enough was sent a cheque drawn on the official government bank, the South African Reserve Bank.
That night she attended another meeting in Kitwe. But she opened her bag and the cheque fell out, on to the table. The others at the meeting looked at the cheque and then at her with their mouths open.
She was in tears when she got back. ‘They think I am a spy for BOSS,’ she said. They ostracised her from that moment on. Dad tried to talk to them, but they wouldn’t budge. I guess they were scared too.
Mum found other interests and other friends but years later, before she became extremely ill, she said she often wondered if the African National Congress had been falsely told she was once a spy for the Afrikaner government.
‘I don’t really care,’ she said, ‘but I would hate Nelson Mandela thinking I wasn’t on his side.’ She died, without ever knowing the answer.
She was also secretary of the Defence and Aid Fund, which supplied cash for the defence of political prisoners in South Africa.
So this seemed to both parties like a reasonable match.
My mother would return from work and tell my father all about her day, and the next day he would pass the message on exclusively to the readership of the Evening Post.
By the time he had promised not to write about her anymore, it was too late. The Defence and Aid Fund had become too successful, foreign contributions allowed it to hire the top lawyers in the country and the top lawyers were getting too many non-whites acquitted.
These were good deeds, indeed, and in South Africa no good deeds went unpunished. The organisation was banned and BOSS – the Bureau of State Security – moved in.
A week later Garth received a tip off that BOSS were going to arrest Christine under the 90 Days Legislation and had evidence that could keep her in jail for up to 5 years, which was plenty long enough. He immediately dispatched her to London.
Sure enough, Boss agents called at four o’clock the next morning. They didn’t knock on the door of the flat in those days. ‘Where is Christine?’ they said.
‘Oh, her mother has taken ill and she had to fly home.’
A few looks convinced my Dad he should leave, too, and he flew to London to work for Reuters, who wanted to send him to Vietnam. Just before he was due to leave the then Anglo American asked him to help start a national newspaper in Zambia and train African sub-editors. They offered him a lot more money than he would have got in Saigon. And, anyway, the guy who went to Vietnam in his place was killed within a week of arriving - on an official assignment with other journalists. Lucky for him. Lucky for me, too.
They loved the country and lost no time in meeting anti-South African government groups and attending meeting after meeting. One day she complained: ‘You know I wasn’t paid for those last few weeks at the Defence and Aid Fund.’
‘You should write to Mr Vorster (the former Minister of Justice) and demand your money,’
She did and amazingly enough was sent a cheque drawn on the official government bank, the South African Reserve Bank.
That night she attended another meeting in Kitwe. But she opened her bag and the cheque fell out, on to the table. The others at the meeting looked at the cheque and then at her with their mouths open.
She was in tears when she got back. ‘They think I am a spy for BOSS,’ she said. They ostracised her from that moment on. Dad tried to talk to them, but they wouldn’t budge. I guess they were scared too.
Mum found other interests and other friends but years later, before she became extremely ill, she said she often wondered if the African National Congress had been falsely told she was once a spy for the Afrikaner government.
‘I don’t really care,’ she said, ‘but I would hate Nelson Mandela thinking I wasn’t on his side.’ She died, without ever knowing the answer.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
The Tale of the Missing Cat
Hi
I opened the screen door yesterday and my cat got out and has been missing since then so I was wondering if you are not to busy you could make a poster for me. It has to be A4 and I will photocopy it and put it around my suburb this afternoon.
This is the only photo of her I have she answers to the name Missy and is black and white and about 8 months old. missing on Harper street and my phone number.
Thanks Shan.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 9.26am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
That is shocking news. Luckily I was sitting down when I read your email and not half way up a ladder or tree. How are you holding up? I am surprised you managed to attend work at all what with thinking about Missy out there cold, frightened and alone... possibly lying on the side of the road, her back legs squashed by a vehicle, calling out "Shannon, where are you?"
Although I have two clients expecting completed work this afternoon, I will, of course, drop everything and do whatever it takes to facilitate the speedy return of Missy.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 9.37am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Poster
yeah ok thanks. I know you dont like cats but I am really worried about mine. I have to leave at 1pm today.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.17am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
I never said I don't like cats. Once, having been invited to a party, I went clothes shopping beforehand and bought a pair of expensive G-Star boots. They were two sizes too small but I wanted them so badly I figured I could just wear them without socks and cut my toenails very short. As the party was only a few blocks from my place, I decided to walk. After the first block, I lost all feeling in my feet. Arriving at the party, I stumbled into a guy named Steven, spilling Malibu & coke onto his white Wham 'Choose Life' t-shirt, and he punched me. An hour or so after the incident, Steven sat down in a chair already occupied by a cat. The surprised cat clawed and snarled causing Steven to leap out of the chair, slip on a rug and strike his forehead onto the corner of a speaker; resulting in a two inch open gash. In its shock, the cat also defecated, leaving Steven with a foul stain down the back of his beige cargo pants. I liked that cat.
Attached poster as requested.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.24am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
yeah thats not what I was looking for at all. it looks like a movie and how come the photo of Missy is so small?
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.28am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
It's a design thing. The cat is lost in the negative space.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.33am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Thats just stupid. Can you do it properly please? I am extremely emotional over this and was up all night in tears. you seem to think it is funny. Can you make the photo bigger please and fix the text and do it in colour please. Thanks.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.46am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
Having worked with designers for a few years now, I would have assumed you understood, despite our vague suggestions otherwise, we do not welcome constructive criticism. I don't come downstairs and tell you how to send text messages, log onto Facebook and look out of the window. I am willing to overlook this faux pas due to you no doubt being preoccupied with thoughts of Missy attempting to make her way home across busy intersections or being trapped in a drain as it slowly fills with water. I spent three days down a well once but that was just for fun.
I have amended and attached the poster as per your instructions.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.59am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
This is worse than the other one. can you make it so it shows the whole photo of Missy and delete the stupid text that says missing missy off it? I just want it to say Lost.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.14am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.21am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
yeah can you do the poster or not? I just want a photo and the word lost and the telephone number and when and where she was lost and her name. Not like a movie poster or anything stupid. I have to leave early today. If it was your cat I would help you. Thanks.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.32am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Awww
Dear Shannon,
I don't have a cat. I once agreed to look after a friend's cat for a week but after he dropped it off at my apartment and explained the concept of kitty litter, I kept the cat in a closed cardboard box in the shed and forgot about it. If I wanted to feed something and clean faeces, I wouldn't have put my mother in that home after her stroke. A week later, when my friend came to collect his cat, I pretended that I was not home and mailed the box to him. Apparently I failed to put enough stamps on the package and he had to collect it from the post office and pay eighteen dollars. He still goes on about that sometimes, people need to learn to let go.
I have attached the amended version of your poster as per your detailed instructions.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.47am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Awww
Thats not my cat. where did you get that picture from? That cat is orange. I gave you a photo of my cat.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.58am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Awww
I know, but that one is cute. As Missy has quite possibly met any one of several violent ends, it is possible you might get a better cat out of this. If anybody calls and says "I haven't seen your orange cat but I did find a black and white one with its hind legs run over by a car, do you want it?" you can politely decline and save yourself a costly veterinarian bill.
I knew someone who had a basset hound that had its hind legs removed after an accident and it had to walk around with one of those little buggies with wheels. If it had been my dog I would have asked for all its legs to be removed and replaced with wheels and had a remote control installed. I could charge neighbourhood kids for rides and enter it in races. If I did the same with a horse I could drive it to work. I would call it Steven.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.07pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Please just use the photo I gave you.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.22pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.34pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
I didnt say there was a reward. I dont have $2000 dollars. What did you even put that there for? Apart from that it is perfect can you please remove the reward bit. Thanks Shan.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.42pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.51pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Can you just please take the reward bit off altogether? I have to leave in ten minutes and I still have to make photocopies of it.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.56pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 1.03pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Fine. That will have to do.
------ End of Forwarded Message
I opened the screen door yesterday and my cat got out and has been missing since then so I was wondering if you are not to busy you could make a poster for me. It has to be A4 and I will photocopy it and put it around my suburb this afternoon.
This is the only photo of her I have she answers to the name Missy and is black and white and about 8 months old. missing on Harper street and my phone number.
Thanks Shan.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 9.26am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
That is shocking news. Luckily I was sitting down when I read your email and not half way up a ladder or tree. How are you holding up? I am surprised you managed to attend work at all what with thinking about Missy out there cold, frightened and alone... possibly lying on the side of the road, her back legs squashed by a vehicle, calling out "Shannon, where are you?"
Although I have two clients expecting completed work this afternoon, I will, of course, drop everything and do whatever it takes to facilitate the speedy return of Missy.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 9.37am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Poster
yeah ok thanks. I know you dont like cats but I am really worried about mine. I have to leave at 1pm today.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.17am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
I never said I don't like cats. Once, having been invited to a party, I went clothes shopping beforehand and bought a pair of expensive G-Star boots. They were two sizes too small but I wanted them so badly I figured I could just wear them without socks and cut my toenails very short. As the party was only a few blocks from my place, I decided to walk. After the first block, I lost all feeling in my feet. Arriving at the party, I stumbled into a guy named Steven, spilling Malibu & coke onto his white Wham 'Choose Life' t-shirt, and he punched me. An hour or so after the incident, Steven sat down in a chair already occupied by a cat. The surprised cat clawed and snarled causing Steven to leap out of the chair, slip on a rug and strike his forehead onto the corner of a speaker; resulting in a two inch open gash. In its shock, the cat also defecated, leaving Steven with a foul stain down the back of his beige cargo pants. I liked that cat.
Attached poster as requested.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.24am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
yeah thats not what I was looking for at all. it looks like a movie and how come the photo of Missy is so small?
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.28am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
It's a design thing. The cat is lost in the negative space.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.33am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Thats just stupid. Can you do it properly please? I am extremely emotional over this and was up all night in tears. you seem to think it is funny. Can you make the photo bigger please and fix the text and do it in colour please. Thanks.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.46am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
Dear Shannon,
Having worked with designers for a few years now, I would have assumed you understood, despite our vague suggestions otherwise, we do not welcome constructive criticism. I don't come downstairs and tell you how to send text messages, log onto Facebook and look out of the window. I am willing to overlook this faux pas due to you no doubt being preoccupied with thoughts of Missy attempting to make her way home across busy intersections or being trapped in a drain as it slowly fills with water. I spent three days down a well once but that was just for fun.
I have amended and attached the poster as per your instructions.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 10.59am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
This is worse than the other one. can you make it so it shows the whole photo of Missy and delete the stupid text that says missing missy off it? I just want it to say Lost.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.14am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.21am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Poster
yeah can you do the poster or not? I just want a photo and the word lost and the telephone number and when and where she was lost and her name. Not like a movie poster or anything stupid. I have to leave early today. If it was your cat I would help you. Thanks.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.32am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Awww
Dear Shannon,
I don't have a cat. I once agreed to look after a friend's cat for a week but after he dropped it off at my apartment and explained the concept of kitty litter, I kept the cat in a closed cardboard box in the shed and forgot about it. If I wanted to feed something and clean faeces, I wouldn't have put my mother in that home after her stroke. A week later, when my friend came to collect his cat, I pretended that I was not home and mailed the box to him. Apparently I failed to put enough stamps on the package and he had to collect it from the post office and pay eighteen dollars. He still goes on about that sometimes, people need to learn to let go.
I have attached the amended version of your poster as per your detailed instructions.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.47am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Awww
Thats not my cat. where did you get that picture from? That cat is orange. I gave you a photo of my cat.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 11.58am
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Awww
I know, but that one is cute. As Missy has quite possibly met any one of several violent ends, it is possible you might get a better cat out of this. If anybody calls and says "I haven't seen your orange cat but I did find a black and white one with its hind legs run over by a car, do you want it?" you can politely decline and save yourself a costly veterinarian bill.
I knew someone who had a basset hound that had its hind legs removed after an accident and it had to walk around with one of those little buggies with wheels. If it had been my dog I would have asked for all its legs to be removed and replaced with wheels and had a remote control installed. I could charge neighbourhood kids for rides and enter it in races. If I did the same with a horse I could drive it to work. I would call it Steven.
Regards, David.
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.07pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Please just use the photo I gave you.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.22pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.34pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
I didnt say there was a reward. I dont have $2000 dollars. What did you even put that there for? Apart from that it is perfect can you please remove the reward bit. Thanks Shan.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.42pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.51pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Can you just please take the reward bit off altogether? I have to leave in ten minutes and I still have to make photocopies of it.
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 12.56pm
To: Shannon Walkley
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
From: Shannon Walkley
Date: Monday 21 June 2010 1.03pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Awww
Fine. That will have to do.
------ End of Forwarded Message
Monday, 19 April 2010
Every Ash Cloud has a Silver Lining
I was in a Dubai hotel room at my computer trying unsuccessfully to check in online for my flight the next day, when I noticed a Facebook update from a friend in Italy who was stuck at the airport. His flight to the UK had just been cancelled due to a volcanic eruption in Iceland which has sprayed a cloud of ash containing shards of glass that could wreck the engines of airliners. This cloud was floating towards the UK and all airspace had been closed.
I dialled the number for Emirates airlines and got myself in a never ending voicemail loop.
I was at the Sheraton Dubai Creek, which is only a short taxi ride to Dubai airport. So I took one, and made my way to the Emirates ticket desk where I was informed that my flight to Gatwick was scheduled to leave at 8am 15th April, as planned.
I was told to come back at 5am, 3 hours before the flight was due to leave.
But don’t check out of your hotel, they said. Just in case.
I turned a circle at the airport with that afterthought running around my head, and found another Emirates employee at the ticket desk. I reassured him that I was not in a hurry to go anywhere, but I wanted his opinion on when I’d get back to the UK. He looked me up and down and explained that it was the end of the Easter holidays and flights going back to the UK had been pretty full before the eruption. As every plane they cancelled added another 300 passengers to the next, and no airlines have planes hanging about waiting for this sort of situation every cancelled plane needs another 30 planes to carry its stranded passengers.
What did this mean? It was unlikely that I’d be flying anywhere in April. I looked at my watch. It had just turned midnight. Today was now the 15th April.
I went back to the hotel and packed my bags. I didn’t know what I was going to do then, but I knew I had to get moving. The hotel concierge had just received a fax from Emirates. It was a list of about twenty cancelled flights. One of them was the 8am flight to Gatwick – my flight.
But there were a few airports that were not on the list; Madrid, Milan, Nice, Rome; I went back to the hotel and changed my status on Facebook to
“Is heading to the airport to get the next plane leaving for anywhere in southern Europe. And then overland it back to the UK. Fuck you, volcano. Let the adventure begin. “
As I was on my way to the airport a comment came back., from a friend of mine called Cara, in Miami. It read;
“and here I am, safe and snug in my little house, glass of wine in hand and contemplating what to do for the rest of the evening... I wonder how long it's going to take you to get home --48 hrs? 96?”
OK, so the gauntlet had been thrown, and now the clock was ticking. I updated my status:
“It's Madrid, Milan, Nice or Rome. But I wanna go home.”
I dragged my luggage – a large suitcase with an extending arm that lets you drag it along on wheels, two shoulder bags and a suit holder - and headed back to the ticket desk. It was now 3am. I told the desk that I had been informed of my flight cancellation (which still had not been officially announced) and was eventually booked on a flight to Nice leaving at 0925.
“It's Nice.” I told Facebook. “Which is nice.”
A half hour later that flight was full, with 30 people on the wait list. And that half hour was the difference to me being on that plane and being in Dubai.
But the easiest part of my journey was done – the worst was yet to come.
Rather than prepare for my arduous journey ahead I landed at Nice airport the wrong side of several bottles of chardonnay and stumbled into an early afternoon airport bus terminal packed with wailing tourists surrounding an uninterested uniformed information clerk.
The people were desperate. The man at the front was crying ‘But I need to get to Marseilles tonight!’
Good God man, I thought. Pull yourself together; Marseilles is about a hundred kilometres away. I suggested rather loudly from far away that he take the train and get the queue moving along.
Collectively the group turned towards me and appraised me of the situation, which I updated to my profile.
"In Nice. There's a train strike. The French are doing their bit to help us all through a crisis once more"
I took a moment. Only the French could go on strike at a time like his. I turned to an official, the crowd still watching me and asked him in French what the situation was. He confirmed that there was a rail strike, that there was no chance of any train.
Apart from maybe the odd one or two.
One to Paris perhaps?
Perhaps, his shrugging vaguely interested shoulders told me. Perhaps not.
I thanked him for this wealth of information and headed outside to hail a cab.
‘Excuse me’ a voice called out behind me. ‘I noticed that you speak French?’
I turned. Behind me was a group of about a dozen people, who had followed me out of the airport.
‘Yes’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Paris. I’m going to the train station’
‘There’s a rail strike’
‘I know’ I said, ‘I’d like to see that for myself
The group looked at each other and then back at me.
‘Can we come?’
‘Sure’ I said. We crossed over to Nice - an empty station, and walked over to a bored policeman who directed me to a guard who said, "yeah, sure the train over there is leaving in an hour for the Gare Du Lyon". This was the Paris terminal, in the south of the City Centre. The Waterloo of Paris, if you like (and no pun intended)
The train was a double-decker, 200 metre long TGV. The first time you see a TGV it’s quite a site. The letters stand for Train Grand Vitesse, which means high speed train, which is a pretty good description.
We climbed aboard. It did not escape me that while Nice airport was a chaos of passengers trying to get north, almost all to Paris, we were sitting on an empty train that could have accommodated a thousand of them without breaking sweat.
The situation changed rapidly as we moved from station to station. And once we had passed Aix-en-Provence the train was full – but it still moved like a bullet, shooting towards Paris at 200 miles an hour.
I swapped ideas with fellow Facebook friends and then turned to my companions. An Australian couple had been due to begin an Anzac tour of northern France the following day. It didn’t look like there’d be many joining them. Eurostar had closed their offices and taken their phones off the hook. That’s the French in a crisis.
We pulled into Paris and it was bedlam. I accompanied the aussie couple to their hotel, confident I had found the one hotel in Paris that would have availability.
It did. For 140 Euros.
Then came the news and another required status update.
"Your credit card has been declined, monsieur". I'm sure you guys can appreciate how enjoyable this is for me to hear at nearly midnight in a Paris hotel lobby
'ABANDONNE’ is the French word for ‘not authorised’ and like many French words, it paints a better picture of the situation. My card had abandoned me.
The hotel looked disdainfully at my Dirhams, and informed me this was “nut pissible”; at any exchange rate, so I dragged my baggage around Paris for several hours, sweating heavily and none too sweetly until I eventually found a hotel that my limited euros could afford. I eventually landed at the Ibis. My facebook comments about this hotel are undeniably harsh, probably best summed up by my comments
"is thinking of a new advertising slogan; "Take her to the Ibis. She'll get the message."
It was a grim affair, but it was also a bed. And I needed one.
I fell asleep, little realising that I was keeping others awake, those following the drama unfold from the comfort of their homes
The next morning I set off alone at 7am. One of the taxi drivers the previous evening had advised me to try Eurolines, a coach service from Paris to Victoria. It wouldn’t be quick, but there was no telling whether the rail strike had ended, so I made my way to the terminus.
There was a coach at 10am, but
"it looks like the So Solid Crew have beaten me here. Will have to try my luck with the trains again"
There was a queue that would have filled a dozen coaches. Even in the unlikely event that Eurolines wasn’t full, it would be by the time I made it to the ticket desk.
I made my way to the Gare du Nord, which resembled a refugee camp, queues spilling out onto all platforms. I looked at the departure boards and crawled into the first departing train, headed for Flanders. My addled brain had no idea where Flanders was, but it was the wrong way.
I sought advice on Facebook and was told to get off at Lille and walk the quarter mile to the Gare Lille Europe so I dragged my luggage between the stations and another biblical queue of people.
But the departure boards showed a train to Calais leaving at 11.01.
Another great train snaked across the northern French countryside and I remarked that I had to hand it to them;
"these garlic muching surrender monkeys certainly know how to put on a train service. Am hurtling through the French countryside at 150 miles an hour"
I arrived at the Calais coast half an hour later. On the brief journey I’d made some more friends in the real world
"World weary passengers all swapping stories of where they have travelled from. There's a couple travelling for five days from Pisa to Newcastle. "We've never been to Newcastle before" says the old lady with a smile. "Yep" I say "I figured you hadn't""
From Calais we took the bus to the port.
The scene that awaited us reminded me of the opening to the Godfather, when the refugee ships are flooding into New York. Thousands of people where queuing for tickets, others – touts - were wandering up and down the lines of would be passengers with offers of seats on cars, lorrys and vans, but at prices few could afford. Still, there was enough demand to satisfy the supply, even at these prices.
Seeing little point in joining the queue I wandered over to a group of dock workers and gently enquired about the possibility of getting across the Channel. I didn’t care where I landed as long as it was on English soil.
There followed a muted discussion, some shaking and nodding of heads, some exchange of money and yours truly
"Has been offered a berth on a Freight Ferry leaving at 1440. "What are the facilities like?" - I ask. He looks at me. "Limited" he replies. I'm in."
The boat was an old Ferry, its inside amenities ripped out to make room for cargo. I dumped my luggage in a corner to the strains of ‘La bamba’ from a small portable radio we left the Calais coast.
I took a picture of the receding coastline and posted it to Facebook. Au revoir. Next stop England.
We arrived at Dover at 2.30 and I muscled into a queue of people waiting at customs, made it through and took a taxi with another couple and a single lady that had travelled with me from Calais, and arrived at Dover station in time for the 3.05 to London. It was another seven hours before I would reach my home town, with the usual rail problems and closed stations that I have come to associate with the UK weekend rail network.
But there was something comforting about that.
It felt like home.
I dialled the number for Emirates airlines and got myself in a never ending voicemail loop.
I was at the Sheraton Dubai Creek, which is only a short taxi ride to Dubai airport. So I took one, and made my way to the Emirates ticket desk where I was informed that my flight to Gatwick was scheduled to leave at 8am 15th April, as planned.
I was told to come back at 5am, 3 hours before the flight was due to leave.
But don’t check out of your hotel, they said. Just in case.
I turned a circle at the airport with that afterthought running around my head, and found another Emirates employee at the ticket desk. I reassured him that I was not in a hurry to go anywhere, but I wanted his opinion on when I’d get back to the UK. He looked me up and down and explained that it was the end of the Easter holidays and flights going back to the UK had been pretty full before the eruption. As every plane they cancelled added another 300 passengers to the next, and no airlines have planes hanging about waiting for this sort of situation every cancelled plane needs another 30 planes to carry its stranded passengers.
What did this mean? It was unlikely that I’d be flying anywhere in April. I looked at my watch. It had just turned midnight. Today was now the 15th April.
I went back to the hotel and packed my bags. I didn’t know what I was going to do then, but I knew I had to get moving. The hotel concierge had just received a fax from Emirates. It was a list of about twenty cancelled flights. One of them was the 8am flight to Gatwick – my flight.
But there were a few airports that were not on the list; Madrid, Milan, Nice, Rome; I went back to the hotel and changed my status on Facebook to
“Is heading to the airport to get the next plane leaving for anywhere in southern Europe. And then overland it back to the UK. Fuck you, volcano. Let the adventure begin. “
As I was on my way to the airport a comment came back., from a friend of mine called Cara, in Miami. It read;
“and here I am, safe and snug in my little house, glass of wine in hand and contemplating what to do for the rest of the evening... I wonder how long it's going to take you to get home --48 hrs? 96?”
OK, so the gauntlet had been thrown, and now the clock was ticking. I updated my status:
“It's Madrid, Milan, Nice or Rome. But I wanna go home.”
I dragged my luggage – a large suitcase with an extending arm that lets you drag it along on wheels, two shoulder bags and a suit holder - and headed back to the ticket desk. It was now 3am. I told the desk that I had been informed of my flight cancellation (which still had not been officially announced) and was eventually booked on a flight to Nice leaving at 0925.
“It's Nice.” I told Facebook. “Which is nice.”
A half hour later that flight was full, with 30 people on the wait list. And that half hour was the difference to me being on that plane and being in Dubai.
But the easiest part of my journey was done – the worst was yet to come.
Rather than prepare for my arduous journey ahead I landed at Nice airport the wrong side of several bottles of chardonnay and stumbled into an early afternoon airport bus terminal packed with wailing tourists surrounding an uninterested uniformed information clerk.
The people were desperate. The man at the front was crying ‘But I need to get to Marseilles tonight!’
Good God man, I thought. Pull yourself together; Marseilles is about a hundred kilometres away. I suggested rather loudly from far away that he take the train and get the queue moving along.
Collectively the group turned towards me and appraised me of the situation, which I updated to my profile.
"In Nice. There's a train strike. The French are doing their bit to help us all through a crisis once more"
I took a moment. Only the French could go on strike at a time like his. I turned to an official, the crowd still watching me and asked him in French what the situation was. He confirmed that there was a rail strike, that there was no chance of any train.
Apart from maybe the odd one or two.
One to Paris perhaps?
Perhaps, his shrugging vaguely interested shoulders told me. Perhaps not.
I thanked him for this wealth of information and headed outside to hail a cab.
‘Excuse me’ a voice called out behind me. ‘I noticed that you speak French?’
I turned. Behind me was a group of about a dozen people, who had followed me out of the airport.
‘Yes’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Paris. I’m going to the train station’
‘There’s a rail strike’
‘I know’ I said, ‘I’d like to see that for myself
The group looked at each other and then back at me.
‘Can we come?’
‘Sure’ I said. We crossed over to Nice - an empty station, and walked over to a bored policeman who directed me to a guard who said, "yeah, sure the train over there is leaving in an hour for the Gare Du Lyon". This was the Paris terminal, in the south of the City Centre. The Waterloo of Paris, if you like (and no pun intended)
The train was a double-decker, 200 metre long TGV. The first time you see a TGV it’s quite a site. The letters stand for Train Grand Vitesse, which means high speed train, which is a pretty good description.
We climbed aboard. It did not escape me that while Nice airport was a chaos of passengers trying to get north, almost all to Paris, we were sitting on an empty train that could have accommodated a thousand of them without breaking sweat.
The situation changed rapidly as we moved from station to station. And once we had passed Aix-en-Provence the train was full – but it still moved like a bullet, shooting towards Paris at 200 miles an hour.
I swapped ideas with fellow Facebook friends and then turned to my companions. An Australian couple had been due to begin an Anzac tour of northern France the following day. It didn’t look like there’d be many joining them. Eurostar had closed their offices and taken their phones off the hook. That’s the French in a crisis.
We pulled into Paris and it was bedlam. I accompanied the aussie couple to their hotel, confident I had found the one hotel in Paris that would have availability.
It did. For 140 Euros.
Then came the news and another required status update.
"Your credit card has been declined, monsieur". I'm sure you guys can appreciate how enjoyable this is for me to hear at nearly midnight in a Paris hotel lobby
'ABANDONNE’ is the French word for ‘not authorised’ and like many French words, it paints a better picture of the situation. My card had abandoned me.
The hotel looked disdainfully at my Dirhams, and informed me this was “nut pissible”; at any exchange rate, so I dragged my baggage around Paris for several hours, sweating heavily and none too sweetly until I eventually found a hotel that my limited euros could afford. I eventually landed at the Ibis. My facebook comments about this hotel are undeniably harsh, probably best summed up by my comments
"is thinking of a new advertising slogan; "Take her to the Ibis. She'll get the message."
It was a grim affair, but it was also a bed. And I needed one.
I fell asleep, little realising that I was keeping others awake, those following the drama unfold from the comfort of their homes
The next morning I set off alone at 7am. One of the taxi drivers the previous evening had advised me to try Eurolines, a coach service from Paris to Victoria. It wouldn’t be quick, but there was no telling whether the rail strike had ended, so I made my way to the terminus.
There was a coach at 10am, but
"it looks like the So Solid Crew have beaten me here. Will have to try my luck with the trains again"
There was a queue that would have filled a dozen coaches. Even in the unlikely event that Eurolines wasn’t full, it would be by the time I made it to the ticket desk.
I made my way to the Gare du Nord, which resembled a refugee camp, queues spilling out onto all platforms. I looked at the departure boards and crawled into the first departing train, headed for Flanders. My addled brain had no idea where Flanders was, but it was the wrong way.
I sought advice on Facebook and was told to get off at Lille and walk the quarter mile to the Gare Lille Europe so I dragged my luggage between the stations and another biblical queue of people.
But the departure boards showed a train to Calais leaving at 11.01.
Another great train snaked across the northern French countryside and I remarked that I had to hand it to them;
"these garlic muching surrender monkeys certainly know how to put on a train service. Am hurtling through the French countryside at 150 miles an hour"
I arrived at the Calais coast half an hour later. On the brief journey I’d made some more friends in the real world
"World weary passengers all swapping stories of where they have travelled from. There's a couple travelling for five days from Pisa to Newcastle. "We've never been to Newcastle before" says the old lady with a smile. "Yep" I say "I figured you hadn't""
From Calais we took the bus to the port.
The scene that awaited us reminded me of the opening to the Godfather, when the refugee ships are flooding into New York. Thousands of people where queuing for tickets, others – touts - were wandering up and down the lines of would be passengers with offers of seats on cars, lorrys and vans, but at prices few could afford. Still, there was enough demand to satisfy the supply, even at these prices.
Seeing little point in joining the queue I wandered over to a group of dock workers and gently enquired about the possibility of getting across the Channel. I didn’t care where I landed as long as it was on English soil.
There followed a muted discussion, some shaking and nodding of heads, some exchange of money and yours truly
"Has been offered a berth on a Freight Ferry leaving at 1440. "What are the facilities like?" - I ask. He looks at me. "Limited" he replies. I'm in."
The boat was an old Ferry, its inside amenities ripped out to make room for cargo. I dumped my luggage in a corner to the strains of ‘La bamba’ from a small portable radio we left the Calais coast.
I took a picture of the receding coastline and posted it to Facebook. Au revoir. Next stop England.
We arrived at Dover at 2.30 and I muscled into a queue of people waiting at customs, made it through and took a taxi with another couple and a single lady that had travelled with me from Calais, and arrived at Dover station in time for the 3.05 to London. It was another seven hours before I would reach my home town, with the usual rail problems and closed stations that I have come to associate with the UK weekend rail network.
But there was something comforting about that.
It felt like home.
Friday, 19 February 2010
Dubai
If I was a child growing up in this world there’d be worse places to live than Dubai. Plenty of ex-pats have taken the step and moved over – and the locals take this invasion with a friendly smile and the knowledge that the more businesses open up here the more jobs become available for the locals. It’s not just opportunism, it’s the law. The government of the UAE looks after its citizens, awarding them with homes and jobs and their children with free education of the highest standards. And foreign businesses need a sponsor, and give up 51% of the business for the privilege of basing themselves here; which they do willingly. As I said, there are worse places to live.
For a country bursting at the seams with different religions, creeds etc. you’d think it would be a boiling pot. Not so. Take politics (none) and religion (too many) and daytime drinking (booze is only available in hotels) out of the mix and there really isn’t anything to argue about. Also, whilst punishments vary tremendously there does tend to be a common factor – banishment. Get out, and don’t come back. You’re barred. Imagine being barred from one of the world’s best clubs. That’s Dubai.
Oozing wealth, Dubai (or “England on steroids” as some of the local ex-pats call it) really doesn’t actually have any money. Like the yuppie in the bar scoffing champagne on an overloaded creditcard, Dubai is smoke and mirrors, fur coat and underpants – the whole place is financed by debt. And debt buys you a lot – the world’s tallest building, more seven star hotels than anywhere in the world, luxury apartments built on the sea, a ski dome in a shopping mall - Dubai is a shining example of benign dictatorship, and the benefits of a ruling family whose interest is at the heart of the country, not the short term goal of re-election. There is no revolving door politics which allows its rulers to get on with the job of running the country.
And for those who think dictatorship is wrong in principal, I suggest you take a look at how your democracy actually works in action and then stick your face back into your cappuccino and shut up.
OK, Dubai doesn’t have the views; the mountains of France or the valleys of Austria or the great lakes or what have you but a child doesn’t care about any of that; seriously. You can drag a child up a mountain but when you get to the top he doesn’t want to take in the view, he wants to ski down it. And in Dubai he can do that at the mall.
For a country bursting at the seams with different religions, creeds etc. you’d think it would be a boiling pot. Not so. Take politics (none) and religion (too many) and daytime drinking (booze is only available in hotels) out of the mix and there really isn’t anything to argue about. Also, whilst punishments vary tremendously there does tend to be a common factor – banishment. Get out, and don’t come back. You’re barred. Imagine being barred from one of the world’s best clubs. That’s Dubai.
Oozing wealth, Dubai (or “England on steroids” as some of the local ex-pats call it) really doesn’t actually have any money. Like the yuppie in the bar scoffing champagne on an overloaded creditcard, Dubai is smoke and mirrors, fur coat and underpants – the whole place is financed by debt. And debt buys you a lot – the world’s tallest building, more seven star hotels than anywhere in the world, luxury apartments built on the sea, a ski dome in a shopping mall - Dubai is a shining example of benign dictatorship, and the benefits of a ruling family whose interest is at the heart of the country, not the short term goal of re-election. There is no revolving door politics which allows its rulers to get on with the job of running the country.
And for those who think dictatorship is wrong in principal, I suggest you take a look at how your democracy actually works in action and then stick your face back into your cappuccino and shut up.
OK, Dubai doesn’t have the views; the mountains of France or the valleys of Austria or the great lakes or what have you but a child doesn’t care about any of that; seriously. You can drag a child up a mountain but when you get to the top he doesn’t want to take in the view, he wants to ski down it. And in Dubai he can do that at the mall.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Macdonald's steams into bus shelters
Take a look at a new advert from Macdonald’s (link below) that is doing the rounds inside bus shelters; particularly poignant in this cold weather.
Macdonald’s cleverly takes the topic of conversation away from any form of ‘freebie’ promotion, which, let’s face it, everyone seems to be doing for breakfast at the moment, and places it on the coffee itself.
A steam machine built inside the bus stop and periodic bursts of steam reveal the message. I don’t know about you but I’m lovin’ it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM3X21WT9lw
Macdonald’s cleverly takes the topic of conversation away from any form of ‘freebie’ promotion, which, let’s face it, everyone seems to be doing for breakfast at the moment, and places it on the coffee itself.
A steam machine built inside the bus stop and periodic bursts of steam reveal the message. I don’t know about you but I’m lovin’ it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM3X21WT9lw
Friday, 8 January 2010
What Colour is your Facebook Status?
For those of who use Facebook, you are likely to find it quite the colorful place over the next few days.
It seems that an idea begun in Detroit yesterday is making its way around the world fast – women are posting single word status updates - single word bra colour status updates.
Although no information is forthcoming as yet, rumor has it that the campaign is to raise awareness for breast cancer – and although breast cancer awareness month is not officially until October there’s never a bad time to learn more about the most common cancer among UK women.
So let’s bring some colour to Facebook!
It seems that an idea begun in Detroit yesterday is making its way around the world fast – women are posting single word status updates - single word bra colour status updates.
Although no information is forthcoming as yet, rumor has it that the campaign is to raise awareness for breast cancer – and although breast cancer awareness month is not officially until October there’s never a bad time to learn more about the most common cancer among UK women.
So let’s bring some colour to Facebook!
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