The curse of The Nerds, whether left-liberal, Yankee smug or any other kind. But never underestimate them - ever

What is it with nerds? We've all met them - passionate committee members, rule sticklers when playing any sort of game, often humourless and, as I know to my cost, inveterate and self-important Wikipedia editors. I have made one or two contributions to Wikipedia over the years, although not very many. Initially, they were additions to the entry on my old school, the Oratory School, which had an interesting section on school slang. I added to it, informing the world, for example, of a small tuck shop we used to visit outside Checkendon called Blossom's and run by a Mrs Cox (ring a bell, Barry?). This entry marked my first run-in with a Wikipedia nerd, this one based, as it turned out, in deepest Arizona. Did I mean 'Blossom's', 'Blossoms' or Blossoms' ' he demanded to know (I assume he was a he, as curiously nerds are invariably male) because if you can't get it exactly right, the entry would have to be deleted. I asked him when he had attended the OS and which house he had been in, and that was the last I heard from him.
Later, I had a run-in over my additions - qualifications, really - to a hostile Wikepedia entry on St Paul Dacre. Now, I cannot claim to 'know' him, but I see him almost every day I come to work, I have spoken to him quite a few times and, despite his ferocious reputation and a tendency which Private Eye refers to as a 'vagina monologue' (very true, I must admit), in my small way rather like him. He is, however, a bete noir of the British left-liberal - make that the self-regarding, smug British left-liberal - and my edit was very unwelcome.
I said, broadly, that Dacre was a tall man and that like many tall men was, in fact, quite shy, and that like many shy men in positions of power, his man-management skills were pitiful and that he often overcompensated for his shyness and social discomfort with a rather forced laddish bonhomie. I didn't actually say it in those ways, but you get the drift. I wanted to redress the balance a little from the general tone of the entry which more or less suggestion Dacre was a rapid right-winger for whom burning alive would be too charitable.
(Sounds, exaggerated, I know, and in this instance it is, rather, but just a perusal of any left-of-centre forum - the Guardian, for example, will furnish proof in abundance that your average caring left-liberal is not about a bit of thuggery, all in the interests of progress, of course). I also added to my edit that Dacre's recreation was gardening (and in my experience, gardeners are never wholly bad. Could you see J. Stalin or A. Hitler with a trowel? No, not can I. QED.)
Anyway, my Wikepedia entry on Dacre was along those lines, suggesting that quite possibly he didn't necessarily eat three young children for breakfast every day. Well, left-liberal Brit was having none of it: Dacre not a complete and utter bastard? No way, the man must burn in hell. So my edit was removed on - annoyingly - technical grounds, and despite my reinstating it and trying to satisfy 'the rules' - nerds just adore 'rules' - several times, I finally admitted defeat. Most recently, my addition to the Wikepedia entry on the Spanish-American War is annoying the nerds, tho' now it is not the left-liberal nerds, but those who feel that we who were not born on a white picket fence with an appe pie stuck up our arse and whistling the Stars And Stripes are somehow sub-human.
My edit, well-sourced this time, to comply with 'the rules' pointed out that several respected US historians do not agree with the party line that the Spanish-American War was started to help the Cuban independence fighters throw of the Spanish yoke but was fully intended to find new markets for American goods.
(Incidentally, just as civilian casualties in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan have been extremely high while the US fights the good fight - to introduce or preserve democracy, apparently - more than a quarter of a million Filipinos met their maker because of American action.) Well, several Yankee nerds were having none of this and removed my edit wholesale. Last night I re-instated it and shall now see how long it remains as part of the entry. I am not holding my breath. For reference you can find it here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish-American_War) and as of 10.05am on October 7, 2009, it was still there.
Beware nerds. And never underestimate them.

One last throw of the dice to see if I can't yet filch one of those Arts Council sinecures

As title. I feel that the name Sir Patrick Powell, knighted for services to the arts and crafts and what bloody else is a damn sight more evocative than plain old Pat Powell, remember him? He was OK, bit of a nutter, tho' don't get me wrong, I don't mean mad or anything like that, you know, just a bit wacky, a bit unpredictable, bit of a loose cannon, know what I mean?
Er, no. As far as I am concerned it is the world which is a bit 'wacky'.
Blathering on while I wait for YouTube to work its magic so I can embed the film here. Hurry up, for God's sake.



What does it all mean? Er, nothing.

One more day to go...

Well, there is one more day to go, I'm doing fuck all else, so I thought I might dribble on a bit more. It is a bit sobering to know that only two other people are reading this, but what is the cliche everyone trots out when talking of a huge task (in my case getting the whole world to read my pointless meanderings)? A journey of a 1,000 miles starts with just one step. Quite. And you wonder why I am employed in the cliche industry and have so far not seen any reason to attempt more honourable employment.
The hotel is fine for food and accommodation and spotlessly clean. I am, at heart, a simple chap, so that is basically all I want. What I haven't really liked is the lack of ineresting company. True I have made several slight acquaintances - the couple from Bradford on Avon, Patrick and Jean from Basingstoke, a Brummie couple (well, Black Country, actually) and the three from Canary Wharf for which read Isle of Dogs. But there is such a thing as conversation and of that there has been none. My book, which I have only one day left to finish the last 100 pages or I shall be obliged to steal it, has been a bonus, and in more ways than one. When, for about 14 months, I was a paid up member of the Conservative Party (only because I decided I didn´t want to be just another pub bore sounding off, should get politically active and felt the Tories were the party I least disagreed with), I never felt 'a Tory', mainly because I am not 'a Tory'. But it also has to be said that however well I got on with individual members, I was still regarded as something of a pinko by almost all of them. But here is not the place to outline my views, still confused as they are, but I shall briefly say that, generally, I cannot rid myself of the conviction that things are stacked against a lot of people and in favour of a few. The few would have us believe that it has to be that way in order for everyone to prosper. And persuading most countries that is the case has been their salvation. A useful, effective and tried and tested technique for keep the status quo - and keeping those who do live in misery down - is gradual reform, reform which blunts the main thrust of discontent but which otherwise does very little except stabilise the status quo. We all might like to think that merely because a lot more people can apparently afford a lot more things, everything is hunky-dory. Not quite. We might no longer have an out-and-out 'working class' but we most definitely have an underclass which we keep in line with copious welfare payments and a large amount of antidepressants. Let´s not kid ourselves. Ian Duncan Smith is a chap on the right lines on that score, despite being 'a Tory' for which no one will forgive him.
I shall do some more reading, with the proviso that I am not in the slightest bit interested in any kind of propaganda. I want intelligent analysis, and PHUS was that in spades.
I have been joking about how enormously fat a great many Brits are, but in truth they a great many are enormously fat. That is not an exaggeration, and I should like my two readers to accept that I, who invariably exaggerates for effect, am here being deadly serious. It is a problem. A further problem might be that not only have we Brits become flabby physically, but, I suspect, we are also flabby morally and intellectually. This is perhaps the gripe and criticism of sixtysomethings through the ages, but it is nonethe less valid for that. I like to think that, as a rule, I don't jump on the nearest reactionary bandwagon and slag of everything and everyone more than ten years younger than my age group. But it is a real cause for worry.
What I have enjoyed these past 13 days have been my walk to Eularia, my short walk alone up the mountainside and my trip today to the old town of Evissa. It is being alone I like. At first it is difficult, but as the days more on it becomes easier. The trouble with going on holiday is finding somewhere where one can be alone. My next holiday, or rather my holiday after that because I should dearly like to take Elsie and Wesley on holiday which means Celie and her continual griping must come, too, will be somewhere quite remote. Organising it will take a lot of reasearch but that is what I should like to do. In the meantime, I think I should make more use of the fact that I live in a very pleasant part of Britain where a little solitude is also available.
A week tomorrow I am due to go out for a drink with Denis, my brother-in-law, an Irishman from Cork who I like a lot. I know I sound crass talking about my wife, but believe me whatever my faults, a change in attitude, a more positive view of life, a more embracing view, less of a parochial view and stopping her eternal criticism of me would go a hell of a long way. Jesus, I get on with 99 percent of people I meet, so why can't I get on with her? Answers, please, on a postcard.
The trouble with entries such as this is that being a talker and finding it not too difficult to write, I can talk - write - the hind legs off a donkey (cliche alert). It is the activity of writing I enjoy and, if the truth be told, I am still half in love with now being able to touch-type which makes typing so much easier.
Getting my last drink of the evening - I am writing this in the bar which has free wireless internet access - I have just been - talking to Isabel, a 14-month-0ld girl, and she, and all the other children in the world make that world go round for me. Yet what do they get? In Britain they run the risk of being shortchange on education, if they live in a town or the wrong end of town they run the risk of knife crime, Britain has the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe. What has young Isabel to look forward to. I know this all sounds rather dramatic, but these problems do exist.
Shit, the drink is showing. Blathering on. Perhaps I have been working for the Daily Mail for too long. Anyway, I'd better stop as I am running out of laptop battery.

Anywheresville, the Med, Spain

Granted that these images could be, as I said the last time, Anywheresville, Med, you must take my word that they were all taken from the fortified old town of Evissa. The picture of the cannon should be enough to persuade you it wasn't Piccadilly (which, admittedly, is not on the Med, but you get my drift.
My trip was well worth it, although I got directions wrong and instead of taking the scenice rout up a gently set of steps, I walked up some road in the blazing sun (yes, it's back) and ended up at the back of the whole town. But eventually I found be way in.
Why the picture of the door, I hear you ask. Well, I don´t know. As with steps and stairs I find them somehow evocative, here - they did seem to be the entrance to someone's house - they seemed especially interesting. In fact, the piccy of set of steps here could well have been take in Cornwall. The long shot of the harbour was only taken and included here because I find the sail on the obviously very expensive yacht interesting. It looks medieval but it obviously is not. The fort is quite spectacular and very well preserved. It must have been pretty impregnable in its day (qv my joke about drones, napalm and other more humane means of slaughter. The old town proper is made up, as are most of these medieval town's, of narrow alleyways and tall houses. But the houses still seem to be inhabited. Then a little further down, you get the newer old town which is just as pleasant and picturesque. I should imagine this was where most people lived until the end of the nineteenth century.

Then there is the older new town, which is pretty much your standard Med town, laid out on a grid system and, to my eyes, indistinguishable from many others I've seen. Finally one the outskirts a huge amount of building is going on, many, rather smart, apartment blocks. And I don't mean holiday apartments, but homes for ordinary folk, and by 'rather smart' I don't mean that they strike me as necessarily where only rich or well-off folk could afford to buy. In fact lying as it does on the coast, the are is rather flat and featureless and if you had the dosh - if I had the dosh - it is not where I would choose to live. So there.
The others? Well, bog standard tourists shots. If you don't have access to a camera to take your own, try going to the local newsagents to buy a few postcards. Talking of shops, aspirin and paracetamol are not available as in Britain more or less everywhere, but you have to go to a chemist's. In Italy, when I lived there in 1972 the only place you could buy salt was at a tobacconists. Why I don´t know. Also, because the then lira was in a bit of a mess, there was no small change, so if you were owed a few pence, you always got it in the form of a handfull of sweets. I once tried paying with sweets, but they weren't having it.

So much for the weatherman

Well, they said it would be tipping down from Monday until tomorrow, and, indeed, it did on Monday. There were massive thunderstorms during the night, and I got up to find a rainstorm the likes of which Cornwall would have been proud. That went on until about 2pm when it slowly cleared, and I went for a walk up the hill on the path which runs next to the hotel. Got to the top, and apart from a slight, halfhearted attempt at drizzle for about two minutes that was the end of the rain for the day.
Yesterday, according to the forecast was again one to be doom and gloom, but, in fact, it was very pleasant indeed, just what one could expect from Ibiza in late September. The sun shone all day and there was barely a cloud in the sky. A strong breeze in the morning - late morning, I don´t get up until 10pm - learnt a little self-discipline and became a gentle breeze, so it was time to get out my swimming trunks and do a little more sunbathing, this time mainly giving my back the chance to get brown. Which I did. And only for a few hours, but again got burnt (I'm a sensitive soul). So although today is even nicer than yesterday, no more sunbathing until possibly tomorrow. (Technical note for those who can be bothered: my front, which was burnt the other day, is now in a state where extra sun makes it go brown rather than white. So there is hope for my back if tomorrow turns out to be just as nice.)
But today it is off to Ibiza Town, Evissa to the Spanish, to in investigate the old town and the cathedral which, I'm told, doubled as a fort centuries ago when the island was under attack and there were as yet no such weapons as napalm, drones, artillery shells and all the other humane wonders which make warfare and modern slaughter so much more acceptable these days, especially if the killing is on behalf of the democratic, freedom-loving West rather than those oiks who go around with tea-towels on their heads and for all I know eat their children.
On that note the book I'm reading, well-written, well-sourced, well-researched and as unhysterical a left-of-centre piece as is possible really has made me think again about quite a bit. Admittedly, the writer, Howard Zinn, is avowedly socialist and make no bones about it, it reading, as I have done. of, for example, account after account after account of vicious strikebreaking, of the vicious treatment of blacks after the abolition of slavery and the utterly cynical dealings of successive adminstrations in the interests of business and commerce, cannot but make one think. It goes a long way to explaining how 'extraordinary rendition', in that weasel phrase, was possible, regarded as legitimate and aroused hardly any pubilic concern in the US. But more of that later.

A couple of shorts films, one relevant, one hugely irrelevant to anything and anyone

To say that it has been an eventful few days would be nonsense. Very little has been happening. Trundled of to Santa Euralia on foot yesterday. Google reckons it is about 6.5km, but the way I went is, I think, a little shorter. Mosied around there a little and reflected that with that magic ingredient the sun Med resorts always fail to show themselves of to their best. Sitting drinking a beer on an overcast terrace, you might as well be in a pub in Ealing on a Bank Holiday.
Walked back again, so that must make it altogether a six-mile hike yesterday, for which exercise I thank the Lord, because I bloody needed it. Back in Cala Llonga, I was struck by how few people were out and about, even though the rain had stopped, so I had an idea, took the necessary pictures for that idea and put together this short video. Beneath it is another, shorter video which has been knocking about my laptop for a while and was desperate to come out and play with the big boys.
Here´s the first:


and the second:



Today it didn't just rain, it stormed with the kind of lashing rain which Cornwall would be proud of. It went on for several hours, but then died down and was sufficiently calm for me to go for a walk to the top of the hill at the foot of which this hotel sits. There is said to be an archaeological dig of a Roman villa up there. I spotted the arrow leading to it, but did really have the time to chase that up and I might do that tomorrow.

A few pix (tho' nothing special. Sorry)

After paying an arm an a leg to use the internet terminal at the hotel, and having to discover awkward ways to get piccies onto this blog (if you remember it involves the combined brain power of several Nobel Laureates and a memory stick, the memory stick being optional), I have discovered a pub which provides free wireless internet if you are a customer. That means you could surf all day for the price of a coke, except, of course, that you would be drinking rather more than one coke. The pic of beach umbrellas, taken just after a rainstorm, or just before, I really can't remember, could also be Anywheresville. The one I like, because that is the kind of thing I do like, is the one, white and light brown/pale savannah/Lord knows what that colour is called, of steps leading down from the hotel.
While writing this, I have also been uploading pix, and they are everywhere. For example, the one at the top wasn't supposed to be at the top, but experience (quite recent, actually as in a few minutes ago) has taught me that dicking about trying to put things right simply cocks it up even more. Here, should be the last two mentioned, except that where they end up on this page is any one's guess. Anyway, here are a few pix taken over these past few days. Three, taken on the ramble we went on yesterday, are pretty nondescript and could well have been taken in North Cornwall. But that isn't the point. The point is that they were taken in (on?) Ibiza and are thus 'authentic' and might thus qualify me for an Arts Council grant. And finally:

Message for Kate and Barry (both at the end) plus more guff

Had I only come for one week, I would have been flying home this morning. But wise beyond my years, there is another week to come. So first off, the weather. Not great, I'm afraid (as if either of you two care, but still). Today is as should be for a holiday in late September in the Med: cloudless sky, bright sun, tho' not too hot, a breeze and a moderate temperature. This is as the weather forecasters predicted. Tomorrow, Saturday, they promise us more of the same, tho' with more cloud. Now for the rub. From Sunday until next Thursday - according to the forecasters - it is thunder, lightening and rain all the way. The next promised bright day is Friday, which is, unfortunately the day I am due to fly back to Blighty. In view of all that, I did consider ending my stay here in glorious non-sunny Ibiza early and spent several minutes looking up easyjet, Ryanair and other flights departing for London (I have to pick up my car from Earls Court). There are, as you would imagine, several, but all cost at least 270 euro which, at the present rate of exchange, is about £269. And that, dear friends is simply not worth it. So I am here for the duration.
Today, however, and I have already told you about the improvement in the weather, has been, so far, quite enjoyable. A Thomson Gold operative called Margaret, does walks in the countryside, and there was one today, which I joined. It was good to get the exercise. We all - about ten of us - including a guy who warned us at the outset that he had bad hips but who completed the trek - set off at 9.35 and arrived back in Cala Llonga at 12.55. We walked, according to Patrick (another Patrick, not me) who had one of those gizmos which measure distance travelled, about five miles there and back. I enjoyed it a great deal. It was rather like being let out of one's cell. Can't quite tell you where we walked to (though here is a piccy) but the exercise was very welcome. On the way back fell into conversation with Jean, a one-time Liverpudlian and Patrick's wife - Jean - who was quite entertaining. We agreed, for example, that liver-lilied southerners do not have a sense of humour. She and her husband live in Basingstoke and are now both retired. He, surprisingly, is 80 on his next birthday. She is in her late 60s (I think). At the end of the walk, we stopped off for a drink in the bar owned and run by Margaret's son, and we three stayed for lunch. (All of us had a cheese and ham toastie, info for those of you - two - who might be interested in such trivialities.) Being the nosy sort and being the type of guy that can, apparently, get others talking: Patrick and Jean have a son, Guy, who is 42 and who two years ago left his wife of 12 years and who he had known for 20 years, for Becky. Becky was in an unhappy marriage, works with Guy and left her husband to set up home with Guy. Becky already had two children and she and Guy are expecting their first child together in November. He is much happier. Now divorced, he and his former wife, Pam, have no children, tho' Pam had a miscarriage a few years ago. She sound like a handful. The couple, Patrick and Jean, Guy's parents were not at all judgmental, but I gather she, an only child, was rather spoilt and personally unsettled. She now works in HR ('human resources' for those unacquainted with the jargon of modern business) and is four years older than Guy. Her father was very old when she was born, and died early in her life. Her mother is rather wealthy and spoilt Pam, the upshot being that Pam paid a great deal of attention to herself and her appearance, but gave rather less attention to her household. Anyhow, Guy, according to Patrick, his father, is now much happier. Jean, who despite everything apparently got on well with Pam, is not quite reconciled to the situation and worries, but also agrees that her son is happier. I pointed out that it is inevitably the children (in this case Becky's) who lose out in such situations, and Jean agreed, but it seems Becky is a good mother. Her ex-husband, tho' I can't say whether or not she had now divorced him, did not quite take his visitation duties as seriously as he might, so, for example, when he wife left him, he had to take in a lodger, and because the second bedroom was taken when he had the children to stay, his young son had to sleep on the sofa. Becky, understandably, took exception to this, and now will not let her children stay with their father. Right? Wrong? You decide.
All that over a pint of lager and a toastie and asking questions.
Having ruled out an early escape back home, because of cost, an early escape back home to spend the remainder of my holiday with my family, I must now plan what to do on the 'rainy days'. I think a little exploring of the island is due. Ibiza Town, Evissa, to the Spanish, is drug heaven to those who come for that kind of thing, but also has an ancient old town which is worth a visit. Then there is Santa Eularia (which is how it should be spelled, not as I have spelled it so far) which is said to be the culinary capital of Ibiza with several very good Spanish restaurants. I shall also go there, tho' the rain will put paid to my plans to walk there (it's only about five kilometres away a good distance to work up an appetite) and I shall go by bus. There is an hourly boat service, but if it is raining, that would seem to be a little pointless.
Note for techies: this is being written in the bar with a lager and my cigars at my side. The idea is to save it in some format on my memory stick which will allow me to cut and past it into an email.
Kate, congratulations. I know you are old enough to make your own wise decisions, so if you have settled on Dr Jim, you obviously have and please accept my very best wishes. Tell me when the wedding is due. I note you have also changed your address. Does that mean you have moved in? Bought a house together? Is your daughter still living in the old house? You might have read that I am reading Howard Zinn's A People's History Of The United States which, it has to be said, is an unashamedly socialist left-wing book, tho' none the worse for that. Mention is made several times of Pensacola where you used to live and where Gina still lives.
Barry, you might already have read my email wishing you a pleasant night out with at the OS AGM, so by the time you read this, you will have been, so I hope you enjoyed yourself. Bombarding you in this blog with my impressions, bilious views and other comments on vacationing in Ibiza with the dregs of Saga, I seem to have forgotten to ask you about your situation. Are you still looking for work or have you reconciled yourself to a life of retirement. Even for someone like me, a little bit Tory, a little bit lefty, it is so easy to preoccupy oneself with one's own life and, if the truth be told, to ignore the circumstance of others, and as I do know a bit about your situation - living in your mother's old flat which your brother wants to have sold, surviving a heart bypass and being ignored by all and sundry employers despite your very respectable professional background, it seems I have given rather too scant attention to your difficulties. Please accept my apologies. I remember, with a little shame your phone call to me when, you not knowing, I had gone to bed very early indeed, and my less than gracious response. Sorry for that, too.
Anyway, that is enough for now. Lager and my last cigar of this packet calls. The cigars, by the way, although being inexpensive, are very nice indeed, and with every drag is dedicated to the two of you.
Ciao.
Christ do I miss Elsie and Wesley.

It works. Isn´t technology the bees knees?

Dear soul, the wonders of technolgy. Here I am in the depths of the Balearics, yet given the wondrous achievements of Innocenzo Manzetti, Antonio Meucci, Johann Philipp Reis, Elisha Gray, Alexander Graham Bell, and Thomas Edison, and others too few to mention, and subsequent technological advances in the nature of what I understand is called by younger folk 'the internet', I can upload illustrations from my 'memory stick' and 'post' them here on my 'blog'. So who says all this nonsense is just for nerds. But enough bullshit. The photo below is just one I have on my memory stick, of my son Wesley when he was about two. Below that is one of Wes and his sister Elsie when he was a little older and she was about five. Christ I miss them.

I've done it again. I thought I was getting just ten minutes of internet time, but I seem have bought 30, which is a pain as I hate to waste them and I shall have to blather on here for another 25 till they are all gone or do something else, such as look up crap on Wikipedia I am not in the slightest interested. One thing I can to, however, is post a picture of my esteemed editor, Mr Paul Dacre, which years ago I go out of the picture library so that I have it made into mouse mats (remember those?) to give as joky presents to my boss and deputy boss (well, you got to get ahead somehow. Don´t be so sniffy). Here it is:

No, it's not. For some reason it won´t upload. Perhaps Mr Dacre's reputation has preceded him here to Ibiza.

Still to come: as many photos of tubs of lard as I can get on my memory stick. Thinking about it, I might even be able to upload video. Lord isn´t technology exciting!

On a far more sombre note, Piers Merchant, the Tory MP who cocked up his career by getting involved in a sex scandal, has died of cancer. Just read it on the Mail's website. I knew Piers rather well when I was a reporter on The Journal in Newcastle. He was the chief reporter, and and we used to sit next to each other for about a year. He was a bit of a nutter even then, but we got on and he and his wife were good company. I remember singing (for some reason) Jerusalem outside a nightclub one night with them tho´ I barely know the words. Poor chap. His wife, Helen, was extremely nice and stood by him when he made a fool of himself with some bimbo or other. God bless his soul.

Damn, another 17 minutes to go. What the hell is there to look up and waste all that time so that I am not actually giving money away, which of course I am.
(Another tub of lard - actually, a tubbess of lard - has walked past. I promise you, I shall post some piccies. Am I being cruel? I bloody well hope so. Is this what we fought the war for? No dammit, it isn´t. We fought the war so that every household in the land would have the choice of at least 40 televisions channels.

PS . . .

I was hoping to upload a few photos, but my plan to USB my iBook to this computer and use it as a remote hard drive from which to upload the pics won´t work as the computer is locked and I can't get at them.
Brainwave! Yes, I might be able to. I have a USB memory stick with me. Perhaps this compute will accpet that. So look forward to some really disgusting piccies of Johnny Bull as a tub of lard.
Amen.

PPS Apparently the Spanish of 'hello' is 'ola'. Now, I never knew that before I arrived here, so why should you?