An Open Letter

Dear Road User,

Should you be located in the UK and in possession of an automobile, you may have noticed a strange lever positioned to the left of your steering wheel (the circular device which changes the direction of your car). If you are of the inquisitive sort you may have also discovered a causal relationship (or at least a very strong correlation) between pushing this appendage in either of the upwards or downwards directions, and the flashing of two sets of orange lights positioned down the sides of your car.

I'm here to assure you that this is a good thing and in no way the cause or result of black magic. The intention is that when you (the automobile operator) "turn" (to use the vernacular) you first activate one (but not both) of these sets of lights, thus apprising your fellow road users of your intentions. They would, of course, otherwise be forced to rely on telepathy. Telepathy is a dicey proposition at best, and one which should certainly not be attempted whilst simultaneously maneuvering around a ton of vehicular machinery. Contact of this sort with your cerebrum might also have the unfortunate side effect of causing them to "catch the stupid".

Do not forget: You are in Britain. To not follow these simple precautions is not just dangerous, worse, it is rude.

Best Regards,

Cursing your Existence,
That Last Roundabout.

Serendipity

Some things are too perfect for even me to not blog about them.

A little while ago I posted a fantastic song called "Still Alive", which was from the soundtrack to a computer game.

Some time before that I talked about a Swedish singer called Lisa Miskovsky whom I quite like.

Sometimes the universe gives you lemons... other times it gives you awesome...

So, without further ado, I give a song called "Still Alive", from a computer game... sung by Lisa Miskovsky:



I quite like the song... but I think the game looks pretty awesome. This might be a game I'll actually buy and enjoy (making it the first since The Orange Box).

Good Dick <= 15 Words

What happens when a crazy person works out their issues through the medium of film.

Sasanack

Helen's comment on my previous entry put me in mind of what I've felt as the Scottish attitude towards England and the English more or less ever since I arrived here (seven years ago!). It goes something like this:

"The English? Bastards! We hate 'em! Oh, but we're not talking about you, of course. Dear me, no. More tea? Scone?"

I am generalising massively here, but it is the case that though I've felt quite a bit of anti-English sentiment here (World Cup, anyone?), I've met seldom few who've had a problem with me because I'm English. The exceptions are a drunk old man out side the Cameo cinema (that encounter proved to be too humerous a story for me to bear him any real ill will) and a couple of drunk guys in a shady night club. The later was two separate events, with both unfolding more or less exactly like this:

Him: You're English.
Me: Yes.
Him: What the fuck are you doing in Scotland, then?
Me: I might be English, but I chose to live in Scotland.
Him: Aye... well... fair play to you, then.

Quite a reasonable outcome, I thought. Things might have been different If I'd said "I'm here for the football," or "I've come to have sex with your family," though.

Why Bristol Depressed Me, and Other Stories...

So.

It's not that I feel that Bristol is an intrinsically bad or depressing place. My attitude to it was coloured by the fact that I was a little tired of travelling, tired in general and didn't entirely want to be there. Also, and this is the key fact, I'd just got back from Iceland. I liked Iceland a lot, despite the twelve hour days I felt almost no stress the entire I was there. There's something very chilled about the place, and there was almost no traffic congestion, even considering that we drove through the middle of Reykjavik every morning during hush hour. But there's something else.

I talk quite a bit about how safe I feel in Edinburgh. I'll walk the length of the city at 3am, no problem. Not that this place is perfect. On my very first night we had to take a diversion on the way back from a night club to avoid a murder scene. But... the last time I tried to walking home after a few drinks back in Maltby a gang of around fifteen guys tried to start a fight with us, and then we had to hide out at a friend's house and get a lift home in case they were waiting for us further down the road. This wasn't even in a bad part of town, this was on High Street. Our actions weren't out of the ordinary, we were just following the drill. Do you get the picture?

It's not something I generally feel I have to worry about in Edinburgh, sasanack as I may be. In Reykjavik, though, we managed to... hhhmmm... how to phrase this without making myself and my colleague look like complete retards... nope... don't think it's possible... leave our belongings unguarded, unwatched and open to theft in an area of town, which, though out of the way, was frequented by the boy racer crowd. Nothing was stolen or even touched. The response we received to our astonishment regarding this: "Well, no... of course it wasn't." I didn't see a single person I would describe as a Ned or a Chav the entire time I was there. Apparently they're closing prisons down. It was nice.

Then I arrived in Bristol and found my self literally sounded by signs saying "Warning: bag snatchers operate in this area.", "Pickpockets operate in this area." and "Remove all valuables from your car."

That's what depressed me.

Enough of this talk, though! Here's some more Jonathon Coulton for you:



I really wish I had a girlfriend right now, ideally one who was also a programmer, so I could giver her these. I'd probably get my arse kicked for it, but damn it would make me laugh...