John Walker's Electronic House

A story in the current Private Eye is so symptomatic of a vast trend in the UK that I have to transcribe it here. I think it’s essential that everyone gets a grip on how the tabloid coverage of so-called “political correctness gone mad” stories actually works, and the complete absense of truth from any of them.

It’s fairly bloody obvious. For instance, has anyone ever actually encountered anywhere using the term “Winterval” instead of “Christmas”? The idiotic truth of this matter was that in 1997 and 1998, Birmingham City Council used the term as part of an advertising campaign for drumming up business in the city centre during the whole of winter. It was never intended to prevent the use of the word “Christmas” – indeed it deliberately included Christmas amongst the various other festivities that occur between October and January. But despite this, every year the papers run stories about councils “banning Christmas”, refering to Winterval as if it’s a current matter. This has never, ever been true, but that doesn’t prevent the papers declaring it, and then legions of fat-mouthed morons shrieking about it everywhere they go.

The new Private Eye story is a perfect example (emphasis my own):

In early December, Healey Primary School in Rochdale sent a note home to parents of 4 to 7-year-old pupils: “Please could parents send just one Christmas card to the whole class rather than asking school for a whole class name list [sic]. This is to avoid tears and tantrums which often occur when Christmas cards are distributed.”

When an outraged parent contacted the Rochdale Observer claiming that this was “political correctness gone mad”, her comments were promptly reported beneath the headline: “School bans Christmas Cards”.

A spokeswoman hastened to point out that cards were “in no way banned” from the school, which was currently preparing for no fewer than three festive productions and a carol service. “The cost of so many cards is prohibitive for some families and we feel the children are often pressurised to act in the same way as their peers,” she explained. “In addition, some children are missed out and feel very upset when this happens.”

How was this reported when it reached the national press the following week? “Furious parents and campaigners last night slammed the politically correct brigade for spoiling the true meaning of Christmas,” roared the Express. “Festive cards are being banned in schools… the season of goodwill is being ruined by Scrooge-like officials fearful of offending other faiths or worried about health and safety rules.” Its sister paper the Daily Star, meanwhile, kept up its own tradition of ignoring all the facts with the front-page headline: “Ban on Christmas cards in case they upset Muslims!”

It’s hard to know what to be more repulsed by. There’s the obvious fact that newspapers tell outright lies. And then there’s the randomly included portrayal of Muslims as poor whimpering fools who can’t cope with someone mentioning the word “Christmas” around them. There’s that it deliberately attempts to create and fuel tension between different faiths. People being enormously stupid as a rule will take any reason they’re given to hate Muslims a bit more. Who cares if it’s true, eh?

No one is trying to ban Christmas. No one. Because it’s a massive commerical opportunity that you’d be insane to ignore. Coming soon in John’s rants: why Christmas being commericial is bloody brilliant.

This is what happens if you feed your DS after midnight.

Hello the weirdos who read my blog, here’s some pictures of my recent ho-ho-holidays. Click on each for the full size version.

So let’s begin with my chopped off leg. As you can see, it was not only a very painful and dangerous injury, but also one I had to take very seriously.

Slightly earlier in New York, we did the tourist thing and went up the Empire State Building. What impressed me most was how New York looks an awful lot like a game of Sim City.

(continue reading…)

It seems I left my mobile phone on the train, at Bath.

Ringing it, I get voicemail, so I can only assume someone has generously taken the sim out, and kept it as a gift for themselves, rather than looked up my home number and offered to post it to me. So that’s a shame.

Meanwhile, if you’re lucky enough to have my number, don’t ring it. It will be futile. Call the landline (email if you need it), and I’ll hopefully sort something out later today. Fortunately, I have a spare phone with all my contacts on it, which is very lucky. But not the sim, so I might lose my number. Boo.

And that’s all the weather. Holiday pics to come.

EDIT: My number remains the same, and you can call me now. You know, if you have my number. And need to call me.

It was getting onto the train at Trenton, NJ. After an hour waiting in the most miserable train station I’ve ever seen, I stepped onto the train, which ingeniusly has a shiny metal surface designed for being incredibly slippery in the rain. And slip I did, my left leg sliding forward, which caused my right leg to fall into the gap between the train and platform, the sharp metal edge of the train slicing clean through my shin, my foot falling onto the track below. I’ve grown a new foot since, but it sure did sting. I will illustrate the shocking, gory reality with photographs, along with the rest of the post, when I get back (tomorrow).

Fortunately I don’t let something like severing a limb spoil my holidays. I’ve more spirit than that.

Normally when I come to America on my own money I stay in the comfort of Kim and Nick’s house. I find they charge very reasonable rates, and only make me work for seven hours a day, leaving me with a few spare minutes for fun in the city of Chicago. However, demonstrating a remarkable degree of selfishness, they’ve since moved to Philadelphia (or just outside it), and their new place doesn’t have a room set aside for me. (Get this – they think their new baby deserves the room more than me). So travelling with Jo, we originally intended to visit New York until we saw the prices. We both had reasons to want to visit Philly, and so we did, and wow did we luck out.

The first night was spent in New York, then we raced around New York and saw every single square inch of it in two-thirds of a day. Then the train/leg incident, and into Philly. We found a hotel that was significantly cheaper than most, and seemed like it would be a good location. The online reviews were very positive, but most complained that the rooms were tiny. So getting here to discover that the hotel was in the centre of the city in the most incredible location, and that the rooms are huge and really comfortable, is a bit of an excellent surprise. Everyone, stay in the Club Quarters in Philly. Free wireless! Free bottled water! Free coffee! Free gym equipment delivered to your room! I might not have taken advantage of one of these.

So it’s been a good week. Jo managed to get the cold that’s apparently killing everyone I know in England, but you’ll be relieved to learn that it hasn’t affected me. I have met the spawn that’s taken my free accomodation, and found her to be really rather cute. (Try to ignore my freakish eyelids).

Oh, and really, don’t bother with I Am Legend. What a massive anti-climax that film is. All this potential, so much money spent, and it’s the plot of every zombie film ever without a single fresh idea. In fact, it’s the first half of the dreadful 28 Days Later, without being as dreadful. I’m gobsmacked that people are mumbling about Oscars. Will Smith takes most the screen time, and does nothing exceptional (unless you count the muscle-porn scene where we have to watch him flex his chest for about a full minute for no reason). To its credit, it’s very short.

Finally, here’s a strange story about my brain breaking.

I’m sat in a deli in NY, and I go to get some cash out of the ATM. I swipe my card, go to put my PIN in, and… nothing. I cannot remember my PIN at all. It’s just gone. A four digit number that I type in, what, every other day? And now it’s vanished. Then a number comes to me and I try it. Wrong. A variation, wrong. Another, wrong. And now that ATM won’t talk to me any more. (Thank goodness you swipe your card in the US, rather than sacrifice it to the belly of the machine until your transaction is over, or it would have been eaten forever). Figuring this is a temporary madness, I assume it will come back to me the next time I think about it. But no. Nothing. An empty space in my head where the PIN belongs.

Later I come up with another number. And then I realise where the earlier number had come from. To further display how weird it is to have forgotten the PIN, for reasons I can’t explain I can remember my Switch number in full. The number I’d tried before, and this new one, were both from that. In desperation for an answer, my brain had switched in another four digit number it knew was associated.

That night, half asleep in bed, I came up with another number and wrote it down on the pad by my bed. In the morning I looked to see what I had. 2710. There was something wrong with that too… Oh yeah, it’s my birthday. I’m such a genius.

And it was gone for days. From Tuesday to Saturday. I couldn’t get cash out, and I was also delighted to learn that the bank had blocked my credit card in case I was some dirty fraudster, which took a 45 minute phonecall to the UK to undo.

Then yesterday, I went to an ATM for shits and giggles. And there it was. It just came back. Thanks brain!

Hello England.

I’ve returned to my kingdom, and having spent a day in New York, I’m now in Philly for a week. I’m on holiday!

I’m also more tired than anyone else has ever been, even if you’re a recent mother with a caffeine addiction who has received electric shocks ever three seconds for the last four years.

If I ever sleep again, I’ll tell you how I chopped my right leg off this evening.

Nothing but nothing but nothing fills me with more glee than Dirty Jobs.

Here’s the concept: Mike Rowe (the voice of the fantastic fellow Discovery show, Deadliest Catch) spends his days doing the dirtiest jobs imaginable. “Doing the kinds of jobs that make civilised life possible for the rest of us.”

At that level, it would make for an interesting show. But it works out that the programme is much more about simply enjoying watching and listening to Mike Rowe be very, very funny.

Sample dialogue:

“We’re just a couple of guys squeezing the poo out of chickens.”

“Normally my chief concern would be protecting my lungs from corrosion. Sadly, I left my lungs in tank number two.”

“You might be tough, captain, but if my mother sees this she’s going to track you down and kick your pirate ass.”

“I can’t finish my thought because I have to put my finger in this alligator’s bottom.”

“They eat their poo? Now we’re getting somewhere. We get the kelp, we feed it to the abalone, the abalone eat the kelp, the abalone poo the kelp. Then they eat the kelp again just to let them know they’re serious. Mm, sure could go for a big steamy pile of my own poo.”

So he might be cleaning septic tanks, making soap out of goat milk, painting bridges, inspecting sewers, wrangling pigs, but what you enjoy most is how Rowe interacts with the people who do the job every day, and indeed how the crew gets involved. Refreshingly, rather than pretending the film crew aren’t there, they get heavily involved, sometimes a lot moreso than they planned.

Constantly mocking his camera guys, and mostly his producer Dave Barsky, they get as dirty as Rowe, and they don’t hold back on flipping the cameras around to show the mess they’re in. In fact, for season six Mike has his own mini camera to up the ante on crew mocking. This was never better/funnier than when they were taking eggs (for legitimate reasons) from alligator nests in Florida swamps, and the crew’s hovercraft tipped over, $100,000 worth of equipment destroyed. You know, alligator-infested waters.

It’s just non-stop fun. I makes me grin throughout, from the awesome opening (different each episode) to the hilarious outtakes during the closing credits. My undying thanks to Kim and Nick for introducing me to it. Now everyone, watch this show. Seriously, it’s the best thing on television.

This is the nature of the majority of conversations in which I find myself involved:

On the phone to PC World five minutes ago:

Me: Hello, I’d like to know if you have any ten metre ethernet cables in stock in your Bath store.
Her: Which cable?
Me: Ethernet cable.
Her: How many metres?
Me: Ten metres.
Her: And which store?
Me: Um, Bath?

Every time I go in a coffee shop:

Me: Hi, I’d like a medium black decaf Americano to go, please.
Them: What size was that?
Me: Medium.
Them: Americano?
Me: Yes please.
Them: Do you want milk with that?
Me: No thank you.
Them: Is that for here or to go?
Me: Help me, help me, can anyone hear me?
Them: Here you go.
Me: Is that decaf?
Them: Oh God, sorry.
Me: Tap, tap, tap, is this thing on?
Them: Milk and sugar is just over there by the door.

A fantastic take-down of MacEieio’s idiotic Guardian rant comes from doctor blogger “Orac”, on Science Blogs.

(And I don’t just say that because he links to my childish, insult-filled and frankly libellous rant, even though I’m not even 1/16 of a doctor. (I am in fact 1/54 of a doctor, because my dad’s a dentist.))

Orac also links to this fantastic exploration of some of the defenders who have appeared in the Guardian thread, by physicist blogger ‘apgaylard’, which rubbishes some of the claims about homeopathy’s success in clinical trials. (Once again, we’re conducting all these trials to see if a bottle of water with a “memory” can heal – wubble wubble.)

And this fun critique from Dougal Stanton’s rather broken blog.

Of course, at a certain point it becomes impossible to argue with homeopathy believers, because it comes down to exactly that: belief. Just as shouting at me wouldn’t stop me believing in God, shouting at these people won’t shake their position. There is no evidence for what they think works, but they still believe it does. And I completely recognise the giant elephant in the room of my having a faith in an unscientific, irrational God. But I do want to take a stab at stating why I believe my Christianity, and something like homeopathy, do differ greatly. Of course, I could just be deluding myself in a naive attempt to maintain my greatest irrational thinking while slating that of others. I’m interested to hear arguments of this nature.

1) God cheats rather nicely.

Christianity has one advantage over homeopathy. Homeopathy states that it has, scientific, demonstrable, visible effects. Only silly Christians state they have demonstrable, scientific evidence of the existence of God. Cough-intelligentdesign-cough. So homeopathy, by its own claims, must be possible to prove. Belief in God is a matter of belief without demonstrable evidence: faith. Which is why I wouldn’t apply for a massive NHS grant to spend on healing with God-magic. I realise this is a gross argument, and I do not for one moment suggest it’s satisfactory. The important distinction is, however, that Christianity does not purport itself to be equivalent to, or within, Science. When it does, it’s being stupid, and yes indeed, it does it an awful lot. There are an awful lot of stupid Christians. But this is no longer Biblical Christianity. This is not to say there isn’t historical evidence for the existence of Jesus, or the Gospels, and so on. (And not to ignore that which argues against this.) But when it comes to God, rather than the more Earthy incarnations, this doesn’t so easily apply. And when you see Creationists attempting to disguise their mythology as Science, well, we all know how embarrassing that is to watch.

2) Call me when I start trying to sell you my Christianity.

I think this is a really key point. When I see Christianity for sale, the very same alarms ring that go off when I see homeopathy, reiki, yoga, magical stands for your amp that improve the sound quality of your stereo, mediums, voodoo, ghost hunters… At this point, it’s entirely equivalent, and utterly condemnable. Those who claim to heal by faith, so long as you pay the giant fee, and refuse to undergo any notion of testing or long-term monitoring: no different from the rest. Those that publish books or courses that they state exist for evangelical purposes, and then fill them with copyright, and lawyer up the moment someone walks too near a photocopier: no different from the rest. (A common misconception about the average church is that they’re after your money. The reality is, those who work for the church – the clergy – are paid out of the money donated by the congregation. The Church of England itself has no money at all, after the fuckwits invested their piles of gold in arms dealers and missile manufacturers, and gloriously lost the lot. So those who attend a church are encouraged to give a small amount of their money to the church to pay for it to exist, and help fund many and various local projects and charities. This is never demanded, nor required. You may have a problem with this as it is, I realise. I have never felt pressured to give money, nor scorned when I haven’t.)

3) Christianity is not Spiritualism.

Although you’d be forgiven for not being able to tell the difference at the moment. Christians have always attempted to marry their faith to the zeitgeist, with invariably teeth-gnashingly embarrassing results. In the 70s Christianity became all free love, a bit late to the hippy movement, writing all its worst guitar-led songs. In the 80s it was for businessmen in their suits and ties. And since the 90s, and painfully increasingly to the present day, it’s embraced the anti-intellectual, anti-scientific, anti-reason position of spiritualists. Since the so-called Toronto Blessing of 1994, Christianity has been converting itself into a self-help/mystical healing woo-woo nonsense, trying to sit alongside the “alternative therapy”/”alternative medicine” popularity. That the actions in Toronto were demonstrated to be a farce, and at worst an outright con, has tempered nothing, with churches desperately trying to focus on “the movement of the spirit” in many and various forms, and in doing so (and this is not inevitably a bad thing – the holy spirit is a central part of Christianity) has adopted the most vile memes of the spiritualist movement. There is little to separate those who purport to be “prophets” from those who purport to be “mediums”. I’ve attended meetings where cold reading was used to achieve the effect of the man at the front channeling information from God. It’s hateful – it makes me more angry than I know what to do with. And it’s not Christianity.

Were my faith visibly and internally based on these anti-scientific ideas, then I would be the worst hypocrite to write my anti-homeopathy rants. I fully accept that to many the distinction is invisible, and I must appear to be (or actually be) that hypocrite. I, to the infuration of many, find God in Science. I do not explain away Science by replacing it with God, but instead marvel at the true wonder, the infinite extraordinary joy, of intricate scientific explanation, theory and rationale. What more beautiful thing than the atom? Or more extraordinary majesty than evolution? It is in this that I see a creator God (and not a Creationist God). It is in relationship that I connect to God, and through admiration beyond measure that I relate to Christ. I can no more scientifically prove my loving relationship with God than I can prove my love for Dexter. Unfortunately, I can prove the existence of Dexter with relative ease (when no pesky philosophers are about), and not that of God.

So that became sidetracked from linking to some anti-homeopathy rants, but it was good to type out.

For some intelligent Christians, offering a debate on a level with which it’s at least worth engaging, check out the astonishging works of NT Wright. For people desperate to see sense applied to the faith when applying it to the world, read the stunning works of Stanley Hauerwas, especially Resident Aliens, and A Better Hope.

Also, have a look at Be Thinking, as linked by Kath in the comments.

I’ve not written about the writers’ strike in the US, um, out of support? Wait, no, confusion and laziness.

However, I wish to publically express my support, and while I’m obviously upset that this years’ TV shows are looking likely to never finish their runs (ie. we’ll never see an end to Battlestar Galactica, Pushing Daisies, Chuck, etc), I think it’s worth it if the writers can get paid a fair wage for their work being redistributed online. (In fact, I’m still shocked that the Writers’ Guild dropped the campaign for a fair cut of DVD sales).

My sympathies are rather personal. While freelance, the majority of my work is for Future – a company that pays us once for work (at fees that haven’t been raised in a decade), and then reprints it in magazines all around the world, and puts it online over at least three different websites, and doesn’t pay us a penny more. A laughable minority of the journalists at Future are unionised, and freelancers are left in the cold. I’m jealous of the support and unity shown in America right now – the idea that the employees of Future might strike in support of each other seems fantastical, and unlikely.

Anyhow, here’s a video created by striking writers from The Colbert Report that pretty much gets all the points across: