Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 100

Thunderbirds are go!

Amazing. Everyone else is singing 'Can we fix it?', 'They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight' and 'C'mon Roary, one more lap' and my little boy is almost constantly singing, 'dud-dudle-uh, dud-ud-ud-ud dud dudle ud dud duh...' which - in case you haven't guessed, is the theme to Thunderbirds.



Now I like Thurnderbirds. I love that theme. Personally, I think Kate and Will should have marched down the Abbey aisle to it last Friday. It's every bit the equal of Crown Imperial. But why is a three-year-old who has never seen the programme, in either its 'super-marionation' incarnation (super-marionation, I ask you! What was super about Parker bouncing along with his hands in front of him? Or Lady Penelope's rictus grin? And you could always - always - see the strings) or the Hollywood blockbuster celluloid version of 2004 suddenly doing going Thunderbirds crazy?



Well, I'll tell you the story. It happened - like these things have a habit of doing - at nursery. They've got a Thunderbird Four there, and Charlie's taken quite a shine to it. He hasn't reached the stage yet of surreptitiously slipping it into his pocket at home time, but I'm sure it'll happen. Anyway, he mentioned this in passing one day: you know, the 'what did you do at nursery today?' conversation. 'I played with Thunderbird Four' he replies. And I do a double-take, simultaneously interrogating him about his newly acquired knowledge of Thunderbirds vehicles while at the same time having a Proustian madeleine moment as I'm transported back to Thursday tea-time, after school (about 4.20pm if I remember rightly) kneeling in front of the telly and watching this...







Oh yes. Thuderbirds are go alright. But have you seen the price of the toys? Cheapest I can find is forty quid, and I'm not paying that even if it does come in the original Dinky box. No. So tune it on Thursday, when we'll be making our own Thunderbird Two, complete with detachable pod and - you've guessed it - Thunderbird Four



F.A.B

Eee... but the new Asus Transformer isn't half grand!

Amazing to think that all those years ago when I began what I still persist - in open defiance of the woeful lack of professional remuneration it accrues - on calling my writing 'career', I started on something like this:





Yes. And I wrote so many silly stories, pathetic poems and awful articles that - one day - the little bit of metal that jumps up and down when you hit the keys and that holds the ribbon snapped, broke, sheared off and that was it. But fired with enthusiasm for the new home PC's I got one. It's probably in a museum now. And anyway, I didn't actually 'write' much on it. I actually wrote on one of these:





Yes! A Psion organiser, with a cool 256k of memory - more (so the man who sold it to me told me) than was needed on the Apollo moon landings. Well, it worked for me. I wrote. Lots. But it broke. And that seemed to be the way of things as I tried out all manner of devices. I scaled down from the tower desktop PC to the neatest, smallest lap-top I could find, but it wasn't the same. You see, you couldn't fit it in your jacket pocket. And writing fiction - which requires a little bit of inspiration, as well as lots of perspiration - demands something reasonable portable. I know, I could've used a pen and paper, but... that typewriter, all those years ago, had spoiled me. I could only keep up with my own thoughts on a keyboard.



Then came smart-phones. Oh yes! They were small. You could fit them in your pocket, that's for sure. But they were, perhaps, a bit too small. Getting used to the teeny-tiny on-screen keyboard on an iPhone, for example, takes time. And no matter how adept you might become, the writing's never going to be as accurate.



But now, ladies and gentlemen, I think I might have found the answer. Because those awfully nice Asus people have sent me this little beauty to have a play around with:







Now, I've played with the iPad and liked it. I like the touch-screen technology of a tablet. But I can't get used to the on-screen keyboard. And this amazing piece of kit comes with it's own, making it a cross between a tablet and a note-book, I suppose.



Ok, it won't quite fit in my inside jacket pocket. But it's light and thin and portable in every other way. Ladies, you could certainly fit one in your handbag. In fact, I might be getting one (a hand bag, that is) for just such a purpose.



But I digress. I'm going to enjoy putting the new Eee Pad Transformer through its paces, and reporting back both here and on the Techinstyle.tv website.



If only the quality of writing improved in proportion to the tools you've got, eh? With this piece of kit, even Shakespeare had better watch out!

Oh help! Oh no! It's a Gruffalo!

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. Well, actually not me, but Charlie. Here he is 'reading' his favourite book to Eloise, who looks attentive and interested at first and then seems rather less gripped by the story. Or maybe by the rendition. It does lose a little bit in the translation, especially towards the end.

Party Political Broadcast

It seems awfully self-serving to have a vote about voting, but that's what we'll be doing in a few days time. And if you need some help sorting out your AV from your elbow, this might help:







Personally, I'm not sure I approve of AV but neither do I think a system in which more people can (and often do) vote against the winning candidate is particularly fair. Mind you, I also think you can have too much of a good thing, and mockracy's a pretty good example. I want to vote for someone who I know will do something, and who - if they don't - I can then vote out. I don't want a mass talking shop of people who like nothing better than the sound of their own voices in the council chamber, and who then constantly blame each other for what doesn't get done. Professional politicians (and I include in that number all those who might not draw salaries but do claim exorbitant expenses) shouldn't be paid by the likes of you and I to indulge themselves in their peculiar hobby. It's not voting that's at fault, it's who we're voting for.



Mind you, that's one thing I WILL most certainly be doing. Voting. Even if there's no-one and nothing worth voting for, I'll wander to the polling station and exercise my franchise. I'm too conscious of those who fought and died for the right, those who still do and those to whom it's denied to let a mere trifle like a walk to the polling station and a list of candidates who in any other circumstances would be unelectable to put me off.



Monster Raving Loony Party, anybody?

Happy Easter... or maybe Ēostre!

There's been some talk lately on the blogs about religion - what to tell the children about God, that sort of thing. I suppose (along with Christmas) it's the time of year for it. Ironic, however, that the name 'Easter' has nothing to do with Christ, crucifixions or Christianity and is actually our version of the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of Spring, Ēostre. Here she is looking splendid as she flies through the heavens:





But enough Germanic paganism. What do you tell the children? Northernmum1 Jane Blackmore had that very problem earlier this week, and it provoked not a little discussion. I've not faced the question yet, directly, not from Charlie anyway. And Sally's old and thoughtful enough to have a meaningful discussion of the question. And we go to church; we'll be there today. Primarily, we go because we both sing in the choir. Sarah and I share a love of English choral music - a love, indeed, that brought us together. I was once even a professional singer in a cathedral choir; I've had plenty of religion. I've also taught Religious Education in a boys' secondary school, and believe me there's none more questioning, more aggressively anti-religion than adolescent boys, by-and-large. Richard Dawkins is a kitten compared to 11D last thing on a Friday.



Personally, I always had a soft spot for the old Bishop of Durham. You know, the one Maggie Thatcher appointed by mistake: David Jenkins. Although woefully mis-quoted on things like the resurrection ('conjuring trick with bones) and virgin birth, the Bishop at least had the courage to articulate the ambiguity many of us feel about religion, faith and questions of ultimate meaning. Things aren't as straightforward as they seem; if anyone tells you they're certain of something, avoid them. But the realm of truth is wider than that which can be proved scientifically in the laboratory. Shakespeare is true; King Lear speaks more truth about disfunctional family feuding than any amount of empirical psychology, and it doesn't matter that there never was a King called Lear.



Poetry - good poetry, that is - is 'true' in a way that it's impossible to prove. The beauty of the English landscape - a bluebell wood, perhaps - speaks to us in a universal way that even Richard Dawkins recognises. 'It is raining DNA outside,' he writes in The Blind Watchmaker. 'On the bank of the Oxford canal at the bottom of my garden is a large willow tree, and it is pumping downy seeds into the air. There is no consistent air movement, and the seeds are drifting outwards in all directions from the tree.'



My point is this: there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy (Shakespeare - again). And we'd perhaps better not close our minds to them just because there's not a particular kind of evidence available to support them. Keat's Ode to a Nightingale is a rare gem of incredible beauty. Asking me to produce evidence - or proof - is meaningless. But then, asking someone to prove that murder is wrong is just as difficult. And we don't stop believing that it is, just because of that.



For more about the beauty of spring, in this case finding your nearest bluebell woods, have a look at this:







And for more philosophical musings on the nature of science and religion, try this post.

Is obesity infectious?

Is being fat something you 'catch'? That's the rather bizarre suggestion being put forward by a group of American academics. (Listen to one of them - Margaret Campbell of the University of Colorado - tell you all about it.) The studies seem to show that the mere sight of someone obese - family, friends - can encourage you to eat more, piling on the pounds personally and possibly becoming obese yourself in the process.



Now, obesity is something of particular (though not personal) interest to me. Because I happen to live in what was once declared Fat Capital of Britain. This Lincolnshire market town (which I'll call Boston, chiefly because that's its name) was found to have the highest obesity rates of anywhere in the country back in 2006. But a lot has happened since then. For a start, economic migration has brought large numbers of svelte eastern Europeans (I'm talking about the ladies here) to the Borough, and that seems to have had as positive an impact on the body mass index as it has the totty total.



And the council has recently installed these strange contraptions in the park:



 Medieval instruments of torture maybe? 

Cruel children's playthings that tempt but are impossible to play on?

Neither. They're part of an out-door gym, and they've proved very popular. I've even seen the eastern European males pause from their daily consumption of industrial quantities of vodka to have a go. (Their female counterparts are all hard at work by day in the local produce packing factories.) And I've actually seen people queueing to get on to the equipment! Which begs the question, if obesity is something you can 'catch' by keeping obese company, maybe fitness and general health improves when you see other people exercising.



If anyone wants me to do some empirical research I'd be more than happy. I've always quite fancied a PhD, and I'm in a good position - from my study - to do some field observations.



But before we get carried away, what do you think of the original research? Can people 'catch' a high BMI? Could obesity really be infectious? Or is the whole thing a load of academic nonsense? I'd be more than happy to hear what you think. Especially if you're bringing the biscuits.

Mine's a pint!

What makes you happy? Only, the UK's first 'membership organisation dedicated to spreading happiness' reckons buying people a drink does you good. The launch of Action for Happiness was widely-covered in the media last week, although by and large it was done in that rather disdainful and finally.. tone reserved for things like UFO sightings, amusingly-shaped vegetables or royal-lookalike confectionary. Radio Four's Today  programme even got in on the act, setting up an experiment in which Vanessa didn't just buy her own coffee, she bought Terry one as well; Terry then dutifully returned the favour by buying the next person in the queue a drink and so on. But the ripple didn't get too far back in the queue. Someone decided the decline the offer of the person in front, without really being able to explain why and that was that. Everyone for themselves.



John Humphreys reckoned it failed because it wasn't done in a pub with people buying each other... well, he stopped himself short in the middle of the word 'champagne' and hastily claimed that a 'pint of bitter' was his favourite tipple, but it was too late. Champagne Humphreys is clearly his name. And if he's buying, I'm not arguing. But therein, as someone who could write a bit once said, lies the rub. Because I do go to the pub. And I do buy people drinks. And it doesn't always make me happy. Let me explain...



If you're out in a group and you're buying a round, you aren't always going to get back what you pay out. In a large group, unless you've got a mammoth thirst, there probably isn't time apart from anything else. But it doesn't matter; no-one's counting and it evens itself out over time. But there are some people who seem to manage to avoid putting their hand into their pocket on a regular basis. They're usually the same people who miraculously appear at the bar at precisely the moment I'm ordering drinks. There are still others who sit and nurse the last few drops of liquid in their glass, sometimes for hours, until the moment someone else gets up to go to the bar.



Well, if that's what makes you happy I suppose it's a small price to pay. I'll try not to let it bother me. After all, as we know, it's far better to give than receive. So next time I see you I'll still buy you a drink. But before I do, think how much happier you'd be if you bought one for me. And it would be cruel of me to deny you that pleasure, now wouldn't it?



So, mine's a pint.





Cheers!

CBeebies Bingo!

Well, folks, here it is - my 400th post. I thought I'd mark the occasion with a quick delve into the archives and an unscientific analysis of the topics of last three years (and two days) of blogging. Here are the results.



Unsurprisingly, books feature fairly regularly. I've read some, I've written a few and I hope to write more. You never know, one day I might write something that means I don't have to go back to work when Eloise starts school. The clock is ticking.



Next, comes cooking. Surpising, this one, but a fair number of my posts seem to deal with food. I've even published a couple of food vlogs - how to make the perfect spag bol and my very own recipe, Chicken a la Dotterel. But by far the largest number of references seems to be to that eternal parenting stand-by and sanity preserver. I refer, of course, to CBeebies.



Now I've something of a love-hate relationship with CBeebies. (Actually, I've something of a love-hate relationship with telly generally, but that's another story.) Anyway, I don't mind most of what CBeebies has to offer. At it's best it's educational, informative and entertaining in the finest Reithian tradition. And of course there are no ads for ridiculous, over-priced and tacky toys. At its worst, though, it can inflict otherwise unheard of levels of pain on innocent parents, as the likes of Waybaloo or Fimbles whine their way into your mind like some cruel and unusual torture long outlawed by the United Nations. Shutting your eyes at such a moment won't help; I've tried, and it doesn't. Because Alex's grin remains permanently visible, burnt into your retina and present - like the Cheshire Cat's - long after the rest of him has disappeared.



(Actually, I'm rather fond of Alex. He's a good sport. I insult him regularly on Twitter and not only does he seem to always read my tweets - he's not a follower - but he responds in perennially good humoured manner, which is more than either they or I deserve. I deserve his wrath; I deserve his anger; I deserve his vengeance. But he's not that kind of guy. He's nice. He's gentle. And he's Welsh.)



Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The best and worst of CBeebies. I know I'm not alone in finding the entire offering of Waybaloo insufferable. It's partly the Piplings appearance: those ridiculously large eyes, for example. But it's mainly the way they all speak in that fake 'child-like' voice and talk about themselves in the third-person. It sets my teeth on edge and - like that infernal nonsense, Fimbles - seems to have sprung fully-formed from the brain of an adult who thinks he knows how children think and speak and what they'd like to see, but who succeeds only in patronising them. That's something you could never accuse In the Night Garden of doing. Ok, it's sometimes weirder than an acid trip but the dulcet tones of Derek Jacobi ensure the programme never talks down to anybody. We also quite like Katy, and her cooking programme. Personally I could do without the guitar interludes, but Charlie likes them and she's a darned site better than Big Cook, Little Cook for certain. There's a lot to love about CBeebies really: their old Spring Song, for example. And dear old Auntie Mabel.



But you can have too much of a good thing. And what all of us CBeebies parents have in common is the problem of how to overcome the eye-glazing boredom of yet another hour of captivating (for our offspring) children's television. Well, I've come up with a solution and it's my offering to you all on the occasion of my 400th post. It's called CBeebies bingo. You download your free card (below); you watch CBeebies and you at least partially stimulate your brain cells by searching for some of the sights, sounds and solecisms I've selected. And if anyone gets a full house, I'll be awarding points. And what do points mean?



That's right. Absolutely nothing. Just like my blog stats!

Fat Face

Yes I know, straight after a post extolling the virtues of the simple word of blog, what do I do? I post a video. But I need your help. In this short clip is Charlie:





a) insulting his sister;b) insulting me;c) expressing an interest in the retail merchandise of a certain well-known store, ord) translating - for my benefit - something Eloise has just said.



You pays yer money and yer makes yer choice. Or rather, you don't. Because this is free. In fact, it's priceless.





Still puzzling, though.

Blogito ergo sum... I blog, therefore I am.

A couple of weeks ago I posted my misgivings about anonymity and blogging. Basically, although I'm cautious, I'm not anonymous. And although this is a worry, I do feel that the internet should be 'ours' and that we shouldn't live in fear of the loony lurker eager to photoshop all our pictures. Well since then I've been inundated by at least one request to say more about my blogging philosophy, and as it's changed recently - and as this is post 398 in a series of several thousand - I thought you'd indulge me this morning if I engaged in a spot of navel gazing.



Regular readers of this blog might've noticed that it underwent a bit of a makeover several weeks ago. Nothing fancy; nothing custom-designed. Just a simple pattern from Blogger's free range of new templates, plus a Picnic-created header by me. (Look I'm a Yorkshireman, ok?) The thing is, I'd been wanting to change for a while. I'd seen these new, sleek, stream-lined templates and I liked the look of them. But I was lumbered with a site I'd tweaked and modified, added to and otherwise messed around with and the thought of having to do it all again was just too daunting.



But then (and here's the clever bit) I thought... hey, I don't have to do it all again. I can just throw out all that old stuff. I don't need it. I can set myself free. I can cast it off like last year's coat and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.



First to go was the DISQUS comments add-on. That was patched into the template, so as soon as I clicked 'change' it vanished. And I hardly noticed it. Now, I do like threaded comments and I miss not being able to reply personally to each and every one, but blog standard ain't bad. So, it's back to comment basics.



Next, there was the Google analytics code. Well, Blogger (which is part of Google anyway) now provide their own stats so when it's raining I can still amuse myself by looking up the weird and wonderful ways people 'land' on my pages. (Anyone else get an unfathomably large number of hits from a London coach company?)



Then, of course, there were those 'other' bits and pieces. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Those strings of html we're all persuaded to patch in so that our blog can be 'ranked' by some new ratings site, or Wikio-ed or Klouted or some such. I admit, I've done it myself. Somewhere, there was something so that Technorati could 'claim' me (sounds special, but it isn't); elsewhere there were bits and pieces allowing anyone and everyone to trace me, measure me, rank me, compare me and otherwise size me up for something or other.



I can't pretend that being on 'ze list' and watching your name go bobbing up and down each month isn't fun. But surely, for the love of God, there can only be so many measurement metrics? And quite how or why a blog like mine can be so high in one and so low in another is a mystery. But then, I know next-to-nothing about the dark arts of SEO. And what little I know, I often don't do. I don't place 'keywords' and search terms in my titles. I like my titles the way they are. Which is how I like my blog, really. And if other people like it, that's a real bonus. Because - as I've said before - this is fun, it's engaging, and it's jolly entertaining.



So, there you have it. Scrubbed, stripped bare and presented to you as is, in all it's nakedness. No, not me - this blog. These words. Because - at the end of the day - that's what this is, isn't it? Not hits and tricks and link-backs. Words. Words read by other people. Words that are sometimes worth reading.



And if you have been, thanks. Because that's what makes it all worth doing.