Monday, 26 November 2012

The Principle of creation of energy

There occurs in every epoch, a conventional wisdom so entrenched as to have become beyond consideration. A brief history of perpetual motion would look rather static. A ball may roll down a hill, but is unlikely to roll back up to the same height. Wheels rarely turn themselves, when other people are watching, and, despite the evidence of cosmogonists receiving money, one may often find it disappointingly difficult to get something from nothing. Something from something is much easier. Numerous configurations achieve this, but a simple example will suffice. Let us use objects familiar to any child.

I invite you to consider a simple bar magnet. There is an equal force either side. We may label these as we please, since magnets can't hear. Let us call them +1 and -1. They cancel out to 0, which is not much to work with. Let us instead then, just use more of one side of the equation. A ball will roll down a sufficiently steep, infinite hill, until it is eroded. The concept is trivial. All we lack is our infinite downhill. Let us not spend too long looking.

Motion requires space. Let us spread the equation out a bit. Space 2, 3, 5, or 4 if you prefer, but don't bother with too many, magnets in a linear array, poles aligned such that they would snap together. Suspend above, in a manner of your choosing - ball casters in channel, roller track, or similar, a magnet orientated so as to be repelled by face of 1st magnet, attracted to last.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, if your spacing is not too great, it will move from 1st to last. Or, the other way up, the other direction. Starting from rest, it may be configured, by varying height etc, so as to continue after acceleration beyond the final magnet of the array, until it is completely out of field. This is not required, but amusement has its own value. Replace it at the start, and it will do it again, until the magnets get tired. It may be the case that you get bored first.

And here we encounter the problem facing the traditional would-be overuniteer. How to get back to the start. For overunity overall is of course impossible. Manual intervention might be considered cheating. Better would be 'hands-free'.

The arrangement, or similar, cannot be repeated in infinte series, or, at less expense, and more modest ambition, straightforwardly looped round in a circle. This would be to fully encounter the inconvenient opposite force. The forces balance to zero, as we remember from our consideration of a single magnet. And all we have done is, in effect, elongate a single magnet.

We shall now stand back from the shoulders of giants, and see what they overlooked. We shall arrange an asymmetry. We shall just use more of one side of the equation. We shall just use the 'downhills'. Four downhills in a square.

Arrange four arrays in a square. The momentum - after acceleration - is greater than that required to enter the field of the next array at 90^. Avoid too much of the opposite force before the first magnet of each array. Let that beam into the ether by whatever method it deems fit. If you stop in each corner and start from rest again, you are back at the start, only somewhere else. You are back at initial conditions.

As 1 and -1 from nought. We have come full circle. It is written.

Friday, 7 September 2012


...He had recruited the ants. How much did ants weigh? - more than rats. Cossack dancing aside, the rats had proven largely ineffective allies. They did little but amuse, and ill-discipline meant they often failed to respond fruitfully to nose-whistles. Amusement had its own value, yes, but B. felt on reflection there was a little too much esprit, and not enough de corps. In the theatre of war, amusement was not the most effective weapon, and the world was at war.

It was Lovelock who had first noticed the traces of Mars' mating with Venus, to produce Gaia. The big bang, as it had come to be called, was the cornerstone of modern cosmogony. No serious scientist could deny it. The standard model, which had failed in a few decades going forwards, could with confidence be extrapolated backwards billions of years. And stars that were no longer there, showed that they always hadn't been.

Yet ants weighed more than rats. Even more so if they were carrying leaves, or pianos. One had to add them together of course, but ants were very social, apart from when killing one another. Would that humans were the same. Humans were much harder to weigh together, and B. knew, because he had tried. That was what made B. a scientist. A scientist of the highest order. Only a pedant would protest he had no formal qualifications.

Pedantry dictated ants counted with their feet. With their foot-brains. If one glued stilts onto ants' feet on an outbound journey, but removed them for the return, they always stopped short. Because the foot-brains had finished counting. They were masters of the internal ant-abacus. Approximately all animals were ants, and all ants were computers. What were ants if not computers? They were ants. Such computational power when multiplied together! B. had made another breakthrough.  Gates was after this power. He was seeking to construct a global network, a global abacus of ants. An ant on every desk - wasn't that the clue? And for every desk-top ant, - the tip of the ant-abacus iceberg - a million subdesk - laptop and below. B. had seen the future, and it disagreed with him. Millions, trillions! Invisibly orchestrated, subliminally stridulating, unseen, unheard to all but those who kept the strictest strigil, the inexorable iceberg of the antichrist ant-abacus glaced its somnambulant descent, scouring the valleys of B.s U-shaped dreams.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012


A great sage had once asked wasn't the garden beautiful enough without having to believe there were fairies at the bottom of it. So much for great sages. Onions were better. An onion wouldn't have asked that. The garden was horrific, and the sage had then gone on to make up rather a lot of fairies.

Fairies danced on pins. Adam Smith had seen a pin factory, but by an accident of timing, - as so many lives - had missed the Industrial Revolution. He liked specialisation, and the masses had specialised into poverty. He left distribution to the invisible. He then committed the fallacy of composition before worse - decomposition. Pre- wind turbines, he was unable to renew. Ricardo had been French, and never recovered. Malthus had been depressed, or sinister, and had not foreseen Bill Gates' population control. Marx had a beard and was inadequate at sums, even though no sum is greater than the sum of its sums, and the longest could be done the shortest, in steps. Keynes had meant well, but was too counter-intuitive. Hayek was evil. None could do ethics. None until B.. The calculations were incomplete without ethics, which had an economic value. And did Fantasia make money? No, yes. The answer was when. One had to master Time to see. Time, and the black box of humanity.

Arbeit macht frei, yes, but not frei from arbeit. What was the point of being frei, if you had to arbeit? In the New System, full unemployment was the goal. The abolition of unearned incomes was best achieved by making all incomes unearned, and then forgetting about the abolition. Apart from rents. The greatness of a nation was determined by its poorest member. That was the measure. No great nation had slaves, or bought the products of slavery elsewhere. There had been no great nations. But one was about to be. About to be born. Its borders would be the very atmosphere. The sky was the limit. This was the true meaning of globalisation. The birthing was imminent. That was, of course, if B. could defeat the troika, and its master abortionist, agent no. 1.

Agent no. 1 was crushing open source - legally, illegally - the law didn't matter. But it was worse than that.

Monday, 3 September 2012


It was a two-way mirror. Two. You saw that number everywhere. Fat ladies, turtle doves, of clubs - the list was not endless, but B. had stopped after six days. He had most of the twos. Three would be next. Or would it? It would. He would have to do the fractions later. And B. was not to be decimalised.

B. had stared into the mirror of humanity for a long time. He had seen many things. Many images, many screeds. He had heard tell of moves to censor the internet. That was to be expected. The censor was the psychopath, for ideas can only be killed. B. was not a psychopath. No. Not unless you fell for the dictionary definition. Censoring was for the weak, the minimally coherent light-minded fools who ate tinned food and bought Dyson vacuum cleaners, which nature abhorred.

But the images had not affected B. He was too strong. The longer he stared, the weaker the images became. The weaker the stare, the longer the image. The image the longer the starer the weaker the stronger the B. And B. was fast approaching maximum strength. He would not be diluted to taste, like a mere Robinsons orange and lemon cordial.

Light did not travel in straight lines. How would it know? Who held the ruler? Why were they invisible? How was it you could hear a light switch from around a corner? The eraser had laughed when B. had told him. But B. had been laughed at by better people than the eraser. The eraser had said light travelled in every line, but erased all but one. Erased itself. B. had detected a hint of bias in the explanation.

Explanations were best done in the absence of bias, and with one's feet in a bucket of cold water to cool the foot-brains, where higher thought was done. B. had heard of a man who had lost his foot in a curling accident, and, minus one foot-brain, he could no longer perform the higher thought-calculation of balance. He had grown a phantom foot in its place, which disturbed him greatly as he was in constant pain from the cramp in his invisible curling toes. The fool. If he'd had a mirror, he could have merely uncurled his other foot-toes and the pain would be gone in an instant. Foot-brains were easily tricked, even when they weren't there.

But there was nothing wrong with B.'s foot-brains. No. He had the perfect balance. It was other people that were unbalanced. It seemed appropriate that he should inform the DVLA.

Sunday, 2 September 2012


Why did bread and water - useful things - cost little, and silks and diamonds - useless things - cost a fortune? It didn't make sense. B. had once heard of a man, fabulously rich with silks and diamonds, but dying of thirst in the desert, who had traded all his diamonds for a single drop of water. He had kept the silks - they kept the sand out of his face, and it had to be admitted, made him look rather dapper. But he had died a few hours later because a single drop of water wasn't really enough. Clearly he had been deficient in the haggling. But the question remained, and so had the camel. He could have drunk the camel's blood, yes, but camel's blood was very salty, and it might have been considered a breach of trust. How could he have looked himself in the mirror after drinking his friend? He didn't have a mirror. If he'd had a mirror, he could have reflected the Sun to signal to passing aeroplanes. Even a hot air balloon would have sufficed. He could have used the mirror to scorch a scorpion, or sand snake, to pass the time whilst awaiting aircraft. And of course, he could have used the mirror to check his eyes were in their correct places. But no. He didn't have a mirror. It was a tale, essentially, of poor planning.

That was the moral. The parable if you will. The Cashmere Revolution would be different. B. was a planner. A planner one step ahead of the troika. And the troika had made a costly error. One that would ultimately prove fatal to their cause.

Agent no. 1, Bill Gates, had invented the internet. He had used another name at the time - another persona - but it had been him all the same. It had been many hims in fact, but just the one him really. The archetype. If you counted all the people in the world you got to 7 billion. A number that would fit in a third of Wales. But if you divided by a billion, you got to 7. A number much more manageable. A prime number. Cicadas had used prime numbers since shortly after the dawn of time, for the purposes of synchrony. They had a scientific breeding program - that much was obvious. But so did Bill Gates. B. felt it only a matter of time before Gates would make his move. Would start to seek to control human breeding, probably beginning in the third world.

But the internet - the mirror of humanity - worked both ways.

Saturday, 1 September 2012

...fragments for later padding...

REM:- match tenses later

It was around the age of 40, that B. had first received the diagnosis. The terminal diagnosis. Four, perhaps five decades at best, the doctors had said. The trouble was the prescription. The cost of the prescription. B. appreciated that rationing was a necessary evil - in any system of finite resources, but infinite demand, rationing was inevitable. That was the way things must be. A fool might complain - but how could it be otherwise? Money didn't grow on trees, the most one could hope for growing on trees was biscuits.

But B. had not sat at home sulking. What would be the point of that? Sulking was not the point of the universe, no. And B. knew the point of the universe. Besides which, B. had private means. That had been the clever thing about gathering the means. B. had enough means for the first part of the prescription. The motorbike had not been a problem. It was item 2 that was to prove expensive. The teenage blonde. The teenage blonde with the superstimuli.

Many people had laughed at cuckoos, with their ugly beaks and silly clockhouses, but then many people had voted for Hitler. Hitler and cuckoos were different things - B. could see that - but they were also the same. They were superstimuli. Hitler, cuckoos, and the Pope's hat - all the same. It was superstimuli that ran the world. That was the method of the troika. Cuckoos, and Popes, were fed for free by unsuspecting dupes - all because of the superstimuli. And Hitler was no vegetarian.

In the coming age of the New System, the third and a half way, females would be bred specifically for their superstimuli. B. had a strong feeling about that. That was the scientific way. That was the goal of empiricism. An unspoken goal perhaps, but the goal nonetheless. However, the rational person starts a journey from where they are. Not were they would like to be. The thinker started at the start, not the destination. Had not Mao himself proclaimed that the journey of a single Magi started with 10,000 miles? Mao was a proclaimer ahead of his time, but not with ginger hair. B. had ginger hair, but no glasses. There was no myopia where B. was concerned - if anything, he had hypersight. Sight beyond sight, like the Sword of Omens.

B.'s first attempt to collect item 2 on the prescription had suffered a setback. At the holding bay a loud bell had heralded the parade of the breeders. It seemed to be an over-elaborate ritual - conducted twice daily - matins and evensong -, but such was the nature of culture. The intricacies of the ritual were, as yet, impenetrable to B. and it soon became obvious he had transgressed one of the rules. Maybe more than one. Clumsy. And the troika were relying on B. being clumsy. That was their only hope.

But how else? What possible way in all the world could B. achieve immortality, other than by creating a miniature copy of himself inside a breeder? The answer came from an unexpected source.

Wind turbines. What did you see all around the land? Wind turbines. Renewable energy. Renewable. That was the secret. B. was to be renewed. It had even spread to the sea. All around the coast, giant wind turbines spun their green electric life-juice webs, wafting the world like pinned spiders with five legs pulled off, on vertical record players.

Sagan's golden record would last a thousand years. B.'s cds skipped at 5. And Elvis had a lot of golden records.

It was clear to B. that God didn't exist. Not in His conventional forms, as foretold by the prophets. In fact, B. alone in the world could be certain of the fact of God's non-existence, since God Himself had told him. It had been a confusing day, one of those days that were difficult to dress with order.

William Blake had just finished drawing Newton with his mason-compasses, and was trying to claim he saw angels in a tree. Clearly the man was hallucinating. Something had gone wrong with his primary brain for sure. Otherwise he wouldn't see biscuits as angels, would he? It was patent nonsense. Either biscuits were biscuits, or they were angels. Which was it? He couldn't say. And yet he did say. And he said angels. The man was insane.

It was unlikely God would speak in quatrains. Or so B. had thought. But a moment's reflection revealed that, outside of Space and Time, - nowhere, never - probability theory was invalid. Immaterial beings did not require material, and B. could see that there was no material. Elvis had released no material for years, but it was deeper than that. And B. had it for sure. That was when the quatrains came.

A signal depended on a receiver. B. was that receiver. It was time for the quatrain download. Dark split the matter and the ice-daemon tremored like a reed in Bohemian lips...

Since nothing is justified, or unjust
The only imperative that you must
For all the world of is to ought
To teach the lessons you were taught

You know the lessons that were true
You know the them, you know the you
The talk the teacher treasure hoard
The chalk writ deeper than the board

It was evident that God was not very good at poetry. Perhaps that was unkind. Perhaps something had been lost in translation. Perhaps the signal had been clear, but the receiver had not been finely-tuned enough. No matter. It was the next verse that stood out to B. like a 4D pencil:-

I speak the truth from A to B
I speak for all eternity
I speak as you and you as me
Put you and thou and we get thee.

It wasn't much better, but one had to start somewhere. Or, nowhere in God's case. Even harder. What did it mean? Could B. be some kind of God? One that didn't exist? By their very nature, Gods were impossible paradoxes, immune to the feeble proddings of science. If there really were a God, one thing was certain. He would be impossible. A slow smile of appreciation stretched across B.'s skull-meat.

Wednesday, 29 August 2012


Economics. There were two main systems. That was what people thought. Capitalism, and Communism. There was also a third way, but that had not been tried. It had only been tried in a few countries, and countries didn't exist. Not really. Not if you really imagined. And B. was an imaginer, that was not in doubt. The correct solution was, in fact, the third and a half way, but B. was ahead of his time. That was to be expected. Another age must judge him.

The system at the Post Office, - whatever it was - had proved to be hopelessly inadequate. Not fit for purpose - that was the phrase wasn't it? Yes. The queuing was completely unnecessary, and B. hated the unnecessary. It was reminiscent of his soujourns to the labyrinths of Byzantium, and, more than that, resembled the anaconda of his draught excluder. It was clear he was expected to instigate a Conga.

Perhaps it had been a quadruple bluff, to get him to reveal himself, but B. was too sharp for that. B. sharp - even the piano recognised his genius. And B. was indeed a genius. Had people not said he was somehow touched? They had. Some were sharper than others, that was to be expected. That was how evolution worked.

The reaction to the Conga had been unfortunate, to say the least. And this was largely the fault of the shuffler. The six-legged half human, half metal, shuffle-being who had blocked B.'s path to enlightenment. The details were unimportant. Too often people concentrated on the details, when the whole picture was what mattered. Suffice to say, B. arrived at the Separator unnecessarily delayed, and in a state of agitation. Things would be different when he was in charge, that much was certain.

The partially reflective vertical separator divided the Enlightened Ones from the Pilgrims. B. wasted no further time in making himself clear. It was best to use their language - a matter of basic courtesy, somewhat lacking in the world at then, and, having triumphed in the night, having successfully cracked the secret code-voices, B. assumed the stance of the locust, and shrilled the eternal questions to the Enlightened Ones. One after the other.

It was like being back in the pencil case again, although his trousers had split. Objective morality seemed to take an age, perhaps two, before B. had cleverly steered the conversation onto Free Will, and the nature of carpets. There appeared to be a slight difficulty with the local dialect, and B. had been misunderstood. Maybe he had pronounced something incorrectly, or was it a homophone for something offensive? At any rate, the overreaction of the Enlightened Ones had been spectacular. Could the troika have got to them too? No, that was close to being paranoid. And B. was far from being paranoid. Close and far were different words, and B. could hardly be more than one word at the same time, unless he was a sentence. But that would be sentencing. Now where had he heard that before? It wasn't important.

The pencil case closed. Guilty.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012


It was six months later, according to the official calendars. Really it was before. In the cellar, naturally enough, the eye had transferred to the walls. That was to be expected. Black walls and yellow eyes. Small yellow eyes in the corners. Or large yellow eyes. It depended on where one was. Many things depended on where one was. Where and when. That was the essence of Spacetime.

Whoever had effected the transfer had attempted to frame B. by covering him in paint, but a simple DNA test would resolve that in an instant. B. wondered when Jeremy Kyle would come. For now, he lived in the television, between Phillip Schofield and Noel Edmonds, but Jeremy was the one. He had been the keystone all along. It was clearly in his eyes - he had eyes too - and there it was - hidden deep in the sincerity. That and the 'all-important DNA test results'. All important. That was the clue, that was the signal.

DNA. The Divine Code. The facts were open source. Anyone could look them up. And B. had done just that. The genome of a locust was twice as long, contained twice the information, as that of a human. Unless the code was wrong - was badly written - and Divine Codes were never wrong - then locusts were twice as complex as humans. That was the key. The locusts. Where had they hidden their complexity? They weren't saying. B. could respect that. In his time at the headquarters he had only told the troika his name, rank, and graphite grading, HB.

It showed they were a disciplined outfit. A worthy opponent. They made far fewer mistakes than before before. This was only natural. That is what evolution was. The locusts were the elite. The elite Republican Guard. Many had thought the elite Republican Guard to have been a pretence - something made up by construction speculators in America and the like - but not B.. And here they were. Few could have seriously doubted they knew the whereabouts of the WMD. And yet they wouldn't talk. Not properly. Only intermittently would they say anything at all, and then only in shrill and heavily disguised code-voices. But B. excelled at codes. He was like Turing in that respect. Not gay, no, although he had once slept with a man who was, but no, that had been research. And now the research was paying off. Paying off big time. Some of the locusts would be gay. It was a simple matter of the ESS - the evolutionarily stable strategy. But they wouldn't work their gaycraft on B. Not now. He had made himself immune to their advances.

None of this explained where they had hidden their complexity. Not by a long way. Not by any means at all. And B. had all the means. He had been gathering the means for as long as he could remember. Ways and means. That was the way to get to meaning. And only B. could discern the meaning of the universe.

Others has tried before. Tried but failed. It was inevitable. The failure of the others. And this was because of the mirror neurons. The mirror neurons and the locusts. If you cut off the head of a locust, it flew around the room. Clever. The delegation of brain power. Like other humans, and stationery, B. had two main brains - one in the head, and one in the stomach. And a few smaller ones elsewhere that would no doubt be discovered later. But the principle was the same. The delegation of brain power. The locusts had delegated their brains to elsewhere. That was where they had hidden their complexity. There must be some kind of central computer. Some kind of central wifi, possibly gay, bluetooth locust brain computer, beaming orders, flight paths and WMD locations to the headless locusts everywhere.

B. resolved to enquire at the Post Office the next day.


Why did they want to put him into a pencil case? It was a ridiculous proposition, very probably born out of desperation. It was also another mistake. Putting the greatest minds together. What were they thinking? It must be the result of overreaching, of over expansion.

War was never straightforward in real life. Not like the films. Not at all. When you killed someone in a film they just laid down and died, perhaps after a minor protest. When you killed someone in real life, in absolute reality, they did the opposite. It was all you could do to stop them protesting. They kept getting up, again and again. They didn't just shout once. They made the most tremendous fuss. Not like the films at all, no. But that was to be expected. And B. was an expecter. Yes. He knew what the films were now. And the books. And the games. All products of the troika. Designed to trick the unwary, the weak-minded, the fool.

B. had wondered if he might give himself away by shrinking to fit inside the pencil case. But he needn't have worried. Now that was careless. Careless of an expecter. Naturally the troika would have mastered dimensionality. Had they got to his mind? It was doubtful. Besides, he had already taken the precaution of downloading himself onto the memory sticks. A world flooded with memory sticks, and no one knew what they were for. It was almost inconceivable. Almost, but not quite. Not for B. Not after all the sudoku.

It was the sudoku that had kept him sharp. That and the crosswords. Numbers and letters were the same - it made no difference - any fool could see that, what distinguished B. was the faculty of moving squares. Thus he was able to solve puzzles even when they couldn't be solved. When they were marked 'expert', or 'fiendish'. - A funny word to use, unless you knew what words meant. That was another thing - people thought words were kept in dictionaries. A notion rendered absurd the moment one remembered books could be opened. But remembering had gone 'out of fashion'. What had they called it? - Political correctness. Yes. And no one had noticed the slow creep from open dictionaries all the way to bottle recycling. No one but B.. It was incredible.

The pencil case was more like a sleeping bag than a pencil case. This might have disturbed a lesser individual, but B. was unlikely to be disturbed by the mere illusion of form. It was the essence that mattered, the rasa. Objects possessed hidden depths beyond their superficial surface appearances. Depths hidden to many, but not all.

At the foot of the pencil case, the eraser had already begun discussing the escape plans. In all probability it would be one stupid idea after another, until B.'s turn, but democracy was important. They must be given the illusion of choice first. Then they would be manageable. Many great leaders had seen this, and B. was merely the latest in a long line of great leaders. Perhaps the greatest. Perhaps the last. But that was for others to judge.

They had bound his arms, but not his mind. Escape was but a matter of time, and of correct move-ordering. The Americans had spent millions developing a pen that worked in space, just so Neil Armstrong could send postcards from the moon. The Russians had taken a pencil. And yet communism had been laughed at. B. sensed he knew who would be laughing last.

It was but twelve breaths, when the sharpener piped up from his hobby horse again. The sharpener - what a delicious irony in the name. B. had often marked that the appropriateness of names had been usurped by the prefix of the troika, which was mis. There would be absolutely no stopping him now, almost none. It had to be handled delicately, with gossamer gloves.

Luckily B. still had his gossamer gloves, which were really moleskin, but, as they were invisible, it didn't matter since the feel was the same. Only feels mattered. That was what separated humanity, and stationery, from mere rocks. And B. was far from rocks.

Off went the sharpener again, filling the pencil case with thought-wafers. Objective morality. He spoke of nothing else. Rather, the lack of it. How was one to ensure the revolution was objectively correct? It was clear no progress would be made until B. had done the Pankhurst. Had knocked the sharpener off his horse.

The sharpener was a malign influence. That much was for sure. A thorn in the paw of progress. An enemy of the revolution. The Cashmere Revolution. It mattered not - schism could scarcely be avoided. The sheep and the goats would be separated. Someone was coming. B. felt certain of that. He just had to hold on for now. For the intermediate times. All would become clear to all. Eventually.

The trouble was the new movement. Atheism plus. How much was in that sign! The symbol. The plus. They had already got to the Rizla papers. There was the plus, the sign of the cross, - in broad daylight for everyone to see - as plain as the nose on another's face - and yet it had gone almost completely unnoticed. Everywhere one looked - Rizla papers. The smoking ban meant there were others. Others on the inside. B. just had to hold out for now, and try to get a message to the others. They must be very high up, very high up indeed to have effected the smoking ban. But it hadn't worked. And B. alone knew why. He had to tell them.

Friday, 24 August 2012

Fragment of a madman

My eye is too far to the left -

I wouldn't worry about it -

No, you don't understand. My eye is definitely too far to the left -

Which one? -

Which one do you think? The left one. It's too far. Do say you can see it! -

No. Because I can't. Now go back to sleep -

How can I go back to sleep when my eye is too far to the left?! -

Just close it, and it'll be back in its proper place in the morning -

In the morning B. remembered his dream and dismissed it for the apparition it was. And, sure enough, when he looked in the mirror, his eye was only very slightly to the left, certainly it would be an exaggeration to say 'too far'. 'Perspective in all things' he laughed to himself and went about his day.

At the office all was normal. The new lie had been a tremendous success:- cuts, cuts, everywhere cuts - the austerity plans were in full swing and yet! surely anyone could merely look up global production and accumulated wealth - physical and intellectual - compare to population and its greater demands, and see that there were more riches per requirements than ever before? The information was there, all in the open, but something was wrong. Something was wrong with sight.

B. had often thought this - that the only thing certainly invisible was light. He glanced at the screen. Amongst the charts and figures he caught his reflection looking back. No, it was certain. The eye was too far to the left. Perhaps it would move back later. No one appeared to have noticed, or if they had, were being polite. Or just busy in their work. This was not the time to be noticing things.

On the bus home B. felt sure everyone was looking at him. He brushed it from his mind. After all, he was looking at everybody else. He got off a stop early, and, for no reason at all, bought a pair of sunglasses. It was a perfect evening for a stroll, and the exercise would do him good.

Along the pavement he tutted to see a discarded lolly stick. Litter! What was the town coming to, with things not in their proper places? He bent down to pick up the stick and pat the passing dog. The dog growled and B. jumped, much to the amusement of some children across the street, who were laughing and pointing. That was another thing wrong with the world. Bad manners. If B. had behaved like that when he was their age...

Back at the flat, he sipped at the tea and glanced out of the window at the dandelions in the garden. But no! It couldn't be! But there it was! In the pane. B. stared in amazement to see his face, where it should be, the newly acquired sunglasses, all present and correct, and two inches to the left, detached, unconnected, but most definitely his - oh most definitely his, eye staring back at him. It couldn't be, but it was. It winked.

Aghast, B. ran to the living room and slumped on the sofa. This was going to take more than tea. A quick shot of the medicine, and order would be restored. Think it out. This sort of thing had happened before. Now where had he read about it? Quick! quick! must remember before forget -

The doorbell rang -

Blast! Not now! Who could that be? A delivery. It would be another delivery for next door. Next door was never in. B. was always having to sign for next door's deliveries. Next door's, not his. It was incorrect, that's what it was. A thought crossed his mind. A mischievous thought. He would give the delivery man a fright he wouldn't forget.

There went the doorbell again. B. crashed down the stairs and grappled with the lock. The door swung open and B. blinked into the sunlight.

'Sorry, it's for next door, but could you sign for it? - just a squiggle, no one reads them' -

B. smiled. Just wait til he looks up and sees my eye, he sniggered to himself.

'No problem, lovely day' -

The man looked up. 'That's it just there, anywhere there - thanks very much. Saves bringing it back' -

Any moment now. The desired effect. The delivery man turned to go.

'The box is the correct size'. An odd thing to say, but B. had not been expecting to require a prompt.

'Yes, thanks a lot, got to rush -' -

B. stared at him as he walked away, and thought of saying something else, but wasn't quick enough. It had been tomorrow for a while, and he hadn't noticed. The best thing to do would be to keep a diary. He would ring work later, and make some excuse.

It occurred to B. that his cat had been dead for a while and its nose was now too long. 'Since I've got the day off, I may as well make myself useful, and fix my cat's nose'. - more easily said than done, especially with the racket the ants were making. B. had mentioned the problem with the ants before - and hadn't that been a mistake. He had laughed it off as a joke at the time - some things weren't worth explaining. Obviously one couldn't hear an ant - what an unnecessary thing to say - they were too small - but a colony, now that was different.

It wasn't so much the music but the constant farting that was so distracting. And right now B. needed to concentrate. If ever one needed to concentrate it was when one was fixing a cat's nose. Dead or alive - it didn't really make a difference - the thing was to maintain a steady hand, and that rapidly became impossible when one found one's hand involuntarily drifting off into conducting an orchestra of farting ants. No, it wouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all. He would have to shut them up.

The time was melting kettle. Perhaps the draught excluder could help. Although B. considered the draught excluder to be of a lower class - often incontinent, and bad at spelling - it had to be admitted it had a certain knack of thinking the thinkable. The secret was to approach when no one was looking, and then wait for the answer to be mimed. However, the shopping needed to be done. It had long since stopped doing itself, and there was no point complaining. People complained too much these days, instead of getting on with things. That was the trouble - people not taking responsibility for themselves.

It was at the photocopier that B. decided once again to see who was with him on the side of reason. It was a simple test, mainly purple-based, - which some people can see, and some people can't - really very simple, and foolproof, the only difficulty being the measurement of backwards jumps.

The boss heavily disapproved of backwards jumps, and it didn't take a genius to guess why. He had already got to the secretary, and most of accounts, but he wasn't as clever as B. B. was always one step ahead of him. For now. He only had to hold out a bit longer. Just a bit. The time was fast approaching.

There had been quite a lot wrong with the office recently. But B. had learnt not to say. That was what they wanted. For you to say something in an unguarded moment, something that revealed you were onto them. A noticer. Then they could get rid of you. But B. was much cleverer than that. 'Assistant reconciliation clerk' - it didn't mean a thing! - that was just a label, a kind of shorthand, a code. If you could see through the code....

But not now, not yet. The time wasn't right. He must remain undercover just a bit longer. He'd have to put up with the paperclips just a bit longer.

The paperclips looked far too much like dragonflies. That was no way to organise a business. If B. were in charge, that would be the first thing he would change. One could get used to them - he was proof of that - but how inefficient! It was quite absurd. Mere tradition. The inertia of commerce - it stopped lots of things getting done. No, if B. were in charge things would be different. It was the 21st century after all wasn't it? That was what the collander had said. The paperless office. There was absolutely no need for paperclips that looked like dragonflies anymore. Half the problems in the stationery cupboard B. put down to the paperclips. But it was no use telling anyone. Not yet.

Now would be a good time to call a meeting.

It was hard to tell just exactly when the eye had been replaced by the facsimile. But that was undoubtedly what had happened. They had even got the positioning right - two inches to the left - but they always made mistakes, left evidence of their visits. In many ways it was an amateur operation. It was a crass blunder, to say the least, to have left the vase inside out. He was bound to notice that. Clearly they had underestimated their opponent. But it did mean one thing. His hand was forced. He would have to bring the date forward. It was time. Time to organise the landlords. They had the power. The power over shelter. Power over the elements. Others had noticed this before, but none had felt it so keenly as B. There was something different about him - had he not overheard this said a hundred times? And now he knew the purpose. He decided to ring his landlord. There was no delay permissable. Not now. He would tell them in the correct order. That was the trouble with bad chess players - they played their moves in the wrong order. First he would ring the landlords, then the farmers, and then the utilities. He picked up the phone and dialled. Yes, this was the last piece of the jigsaw. There was an easy way to make sure he was put through to the correct person - and that was the farting ant orchestra. If they pretended not to hear it, he would ask to be put through to the supervisor, or just dial again. Eventually you got through. You always got through. But persistence was required. It was going to be a busy afternoon, before the meeting.

So. They had got to them first. The landlords. He hadn't bothered with the farmers after that. Or the utilities. He was already too late. They too had realised that the landlords were the ones to get to first. Although after would have been the same. That was why when he had offered them the flat back, in return for the money back, they had refused. It was the only just deal, but corruption was obviously rife. B. would have to find another way to raise the money. It certainly explained why milk had not been pouring correctly. It didn't matter - the meeting was convened.

Meetings were best effected in the absence of drawers. All drawers safely placed beyond hearing range, B. called the meeting to order. As usual, the tablets spoke first. 'Just one thing' - interrupted B., and he climbed into a sleeping bag.

The amiable monstrosity, Professor de ants writhed to reave the arrow of thought from the flow of distance. By the repeated taps on his head, B. discerned this was very important. 'Take care, for you may yet carry the fire of life'. The transports returned and B. suffered into the daylight once more.

Along a straight path curved down into the centre, B. continued his existence. Tangled straws of thirst brought steadying grasp as the weight increased. Into the cavern wove the worms that carried him. A mighty arch bore the darkness above. B. tried, but couldn't see the keystone.

Shimmering in the centre sang the echo of the ancestors. The shards began their alignment. Two vast towers, older than themselves, turned to face each other as one. A scream of consciousness reflected infinity arrested by the beat of time. Uplit the keystone and the dark was lifted.

The tablets handed B. the minutes of the meeting. It was agreed. B. must find his file. It had to be at the office. He would take the short cut through the back of the stationery cupboard. It would mean upsetting the pencils, but greater things were at stake than upset pencils. And in his file would be the answer. Tomorrow they would see.

Confusion. They often used confusion. A fatal miscalculation. Confusion was not going to work on B.. This was because he had been careful. Very careful. He had been careful for a while now - he wasn't sure how long - but that was of no consequence. The important thing was that the care had been taken. And he had already recruited the rats.

One is never more than 6 feet away from a rat - that is what people said - even when they were further away. That would just mean that time was shorter, that they were quicker. And B. had the quickest rats, he could be sure of that.

The incident with the stationery cupboard had probably gone unnoticed. That was the clever thing about using the secret entrance. As for the file, well that had certainly been worth the effort. It was a shock to be sure - there was no getting away from it - but one must always face facts. That is the mark of the exceptional. The one who eschews the false comfort of delusion. The one who rises above the fantasy of the weak. The one who faces reality. Absolute reality.

Inside the cabinet B. had been astonished to see the miniature typist - one eye too far to the left - typing up his file. So that was how it was done. A miniature copy of himself. No wonder they knew so many of his thoughts. Some agents of the troika had removed him from the building. He was getting too close. He was now under interrogation. That was what they thought. In reality B. was the interrogator. Once he had the information he required, one whistle from the side of his nose and the rats would rush the headquarters. For now they could continue with their cossack dancing. It kept them fit and was excellent for esprit de corps. It was not what B. would personally have chosen, but such was the art of delegation. 

Saturday, 18 August 2012

Poem for the night

Twinkle twinkle little star
Moving more and more afar
Faster than the speed of light
Now forever out of sight

Friday, 17 August 2012

Life is a rehearsal pome for the day

The cyclops has a single mind
A judge without a jury
It makes him singularly kind
Takes two to make blind fury

I saw upon that island hill
A curious reversal
For where speak people in two minds
All life is a rehearsal

The actor plays learned lines laid low
Committed to the heart
And then upon the later stage
Becomes the later part

Director prompter future past
To each a certain share
As length and breadth times nature cast
Who owns the public square

I wonder to my Self inside
Then play by rote the role
And hear resound the feedback loop
Scream consciousness my soul

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Games People Play

Wel, what a nexciting symmetrical persons wholeympics that was, with team GB finishing in the bronze position, a whole minus 17 medals ahead of Russia. And didn't the ladies do well? The fastest running just a bit slower than a man with no legs. Well done girls. With me today is Lord Coe of whateveritwas, that did the logo. Nawrte, Lord of whateveritwas, how do you think the games went?

LCow:- I thought it was a resounding success. I particularly enjoyed the anti-elitism badminton demonstration sport -

REJ:- Do you think it should be included in Rio 2016? -

LCow:- Least certainly, with any team achieving turning up automatically disqualified -

REJ:- Da iawn. Nawrte, lets move back on to the opening ceremony -

LCow:- Yes -

REJ:-  Go on then -

LCow:- Ok -

REJ:- How about now? -

LCow:- Sorry. I was waiting for the gun. Wel, I don't really understand arty types, but it looked to me like a fantastic celebration of British Values -

REJ:- You mean primitive autocracy and criminal assassins? -

LCow:- No, make believe -

REJ:- It wasn't all fiction -

LCow:- Feudal slavery, industrialised globalised slavery, and a bit about the welfare state what we nicked off the Germans. We are good at musicals though -

REJ:- And adverts -

LCow:- Take me to your plesiosaur -

REJ:- Now America once again topped the tables in the couch potato obesity, but do you think hosting this McCola games will conspire team GB at large to continue its trend to weight above its punch? -

LCow:- Undoubtedly. This festival of endeavour porn is all about the legacy that will inspire a nation of scratchcarders -

REJ:- What for you was the best performance in history? -

LCow:- 1936 and Roosevelt snubbing Owens to achieve 'looking bad next to Hitler'. I think that's a record that will stand for a while -

REJ:- Are you staying around to watch the ugly cripples? -

LCow:- Thankfully they're on another channel. I'll just check the viewing disfigures later, and appreciate the tale of humanity.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

Poem for the day:- In which Mr Blake has an earthly vision

Mock on! Mock on! Samaritan Gates
Reave on; Time sees your hideous game
You throw the crumbs against the tide
And the tide returns to curse your name

And every grain becomes a spear
Grown in the richer shore
That scythes and flails you to manure
The future lands of honest chore

As landlord racks a house once built
Or writer fiend thrice paid
Accounts be settled judgement guilt
Upon the tombs net takers laid

Thy tendrils thirst beyond the grave
And suck the marrow plenty
A man would feed one to applause
While starve another twenty

The Hydra grows another head
Ephemeral to fall
The Gorgon sees by time and tide
The mirror picture all

Thy reaper sowed for harvest gnaw!
The ledger on your bone
The world the less as you the more
Be petrified in stone

Sunday, 5 August 2012

Poeyum for the day

Down from castle, by the sea
Four white horses beckoned me

First was wild empyreal rage
Fire thundered lightning scribed the page
As genie cork'd and swaddling curled
By breaker crashed this vessel world

Second spelled times lettered lands
Scratched in scratched out illumined hands
As rocks to sands by water gives
And takes by tides and mortal sieves

Third bade dance among the shoal
There in her eyes I saw a foal
Reflect a life and death so near
As fell and drowned within the tear

Last was master of the team
The gadsman ere brought moon to beam
Crack whipped the swirl of stars to be
My friend, my foe, eternity

As each a wave, a water, sea
The chariot made as one, as me

Friday, 3 August 2012

Dismal pome for the day

Two economicals, Janet and John
- each richer than the other one -
Watched some people make a cake
Then bet on slices each would take

Each as to how much they made?
Each as to how much they paid?
Each as to endeavour trade?
- For some try more for less displayed -
Each as to their body size?
- For bellies can outhunger eyes -
Each proportioned to design?
- the recipe must all align -
Or each according to the law?
-As men of letters writ before -

They pondered much, they pondered more
- It looked as if they weren't quite sure -
Then sent a bill for twenty-four

Friday, 27 July 2012

Poem for the day

Am I not beside the stream
Waking in the caddis dream
Shielding home of stone perfection
Build outside inside reflection

By the whirl and dash of pool
Chose my Self each polished jewel
Thus each tear that ever flowed
Made the river my abode

For was it not written so
Later sand a pearl may grow
And by current trials cement
Conquered I my soul's lament

As the ram and ewe made lamb
As the beaver made the dam
As the songbird wove the nest
Self as parent be expressed

Make construction ever last!
Far beyond thy mortal cast
Rise transfigured see above
Thy external, eternal love

REJ:- Wel Idris, you've exhaled yourself. Your reputation exceeds you. And you've fluffed the last line again with one syllable too many. Perhaps the poesy is not your bag. How about becoming a clerk in an iron-monger's siop?

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

The Eternal Game

Break to see the truth by fraction
Wholly people make the faction
In the parliament of mind
Ayes and noes to one combined

1. P-K4......... .P-K4

2. Kt-KB3...... Kt-KB3

3. B-QB4....... .Bc5

4. 0-0.............. Castles

5. P-QKt4....... Nbb6?!

6. Q-Q4 3/4!... Kd4.75!

Marriage of truth agreed.

Sunday, 22 July 2012

The field trip with the English Master

Now class, can you the tiger see?
So come along, you're safe with me
Now check the bushes, check the tree
More fun than Jones Biology!

Here's the forest, there's a bird
What was that strange noise you heard?
Not a teyeger, make no fuss
We can't see him? - he can't see us

Come now pupils narrow file
Stop that tiiger nonsense, Kyle
I think you'll find this wisdom wise:-
Just keep a lookout for his eyes

Jenkins! Not now you as well?
Frozen by an ancient spell?
I'm sure there are no tygers here
And I know why - you're gripped by fear

Now listen children, this I know
In words of grass, tall trees may grow
We pick the flowers from the weeds
And mark that letters may be seeds

Then! Master eaten ere he blinked!
And smiling tiger teyeger winked.

Friday, 20 July 2012

The cog and the train

Thought is as the spinning drum
That registers but nought and one
In black and white, pixel or none
The smear, the blur, the truth ne'er won

So said a cog who felt within
His heart the folly of the spin.
Then a carriage of the train
Smoothly pulled this keen refrain:-

Though the dials be multiplied
And the answer farther spied
Wisdom fails by heart's ignition
But one cog beyond cognition

Thus the driver sought to steer
Bound by logic of the railed
Yet by points perception clear
Only smaller circles trailed

Off the track, along a siding,
All the while the truth was hiding.

REJ:- Da iawn, Idris. Yes. Only a siding is a track, isn't it? What? Mainlining?! Yes I can believe that you diamorphinous brobdingnagian dragonfly-dreaming dimwit! etc.

Mr Blake and Mr Keynes have a baby

What wealth, what gold created thee?
Didst raise thou ship, or raise the sea
And did thy crew so volunteer
Was rudder love, was tiller fear?

Thursday, 19 July 2012

Memento Vitae

Life lay'd me down amongst the glade
And hushed and rested watching still
There saw the story in the blade
And read that all the world was ill

The river verdant banked to sky
By nestled deltas from the well
Sprang inflorescent ink from why
There broken letters broke the spell

O! Master editor must see
His works corrupt by day and night
And Time's errata will set free
Such glory future I would write!

Wednesday, 18 July 2012

Poem for the day

Wel it's 8:42 yesterday, and Idris possibly ap Prytherch has found out my new address. I hadn't moved, but it was a double bluff that failed. A quadruple bluff really, but I simplified. All maths is extending tautologies of x=x. How could it be otherwise? That is what a proof is. Nawrte, I can't remember if Sioned's still here or not - someone else should do the continuity - anyway if she were, I doubt she would have much of interest to say....

Hmmm....I said 'I doubt she would have much of interest to say'....

....Wel, it looks like she must have -

*Oooof!* *Sosban!* *Oooof!* -

Sioned:- All in the timing -

Iap:- O diar! I'll away if my timing's bad -

REJ:- I'd worry about the rhyming more -

Iap:- Does it hurt? -

REJ:- You've no idea -

Iap:- *Cough!*

If you don't like A-G-W
Then you just do A-G-C
Gaia's dead, the thermostat
So belongs to you and me

*expression of a confused snail*

REJ:- Why are you still here? -

Iap:- I'm contemplating. Strolling wistfully Vienna-wards due to adverse winds -

REJ:- Wel, look W's got 3 syllables, C's only 1. You fell at the first -

Iap:- Another age must be my judge -

REJ:- No, I think we can count in this age already -

Iap:- I was going for 'Wuh' -

REJ:- Wel, why did you write 'Double U' then? I mean 'debble yew'? -

Iap:- I didn't know how to spell it -

REJ:- Looks more like two V's to me anyway -

Iap:- Vv? -

REJ:- vV? -

Sioned:- VVhy me?

Friday, 6 July 2012

Poem for the day

A tiny ant, upon a flake
He couldn't feel his whole world shake
For he was shaking synched the same
A pawn within a larger game

He climbed a blade, to see the sky
And all his friends thought he was high
And to applause he walked so tall
And claimed to see outside the ball

He built a scope of spacetime made
An instrument upon the blade
And he the same, drew carefree flicks
As fast as so the whole world ticks

As ants to man, as man to maker
Ever trapped inside snow shaker

Thursday, 5 July 2012

A rose by any other number

An any other number detector today nearly detected any other number. 'We now need but years of salaried analysis to see if what we have here, is in fact, really nearly the possible future confirmation of the detection of any other number than the one we were looking for. But it certainly is perhaps another number of some sort, and this is very exciting as it could in fact lead to confirmation that our part equation which we thought was wrong, is, in fact, wronger. We must all appreciate the lack of gravity of the situation'. Said a man with a very curious top lip.

Thursday, 28 June 2012

Mantra for the ever

If beings could exist immaterially, there would be no need for material.

Tuesday, 19 June 2012

The not remotely ridiculous amusingly self-destructing church of englande

Helo. I'm standing on the border of the Wales and Englande on the Offa. Get offa dyke. My left leg is in Wales, and my right leg is in the Englande. My left leg is in the church of wales, and my right leg is in of the church of englande. My cock is in both, and twice blessed.

But it wouldn't be so blessed if I put it in a bottom. Or would it? Hang on let's ask this passer-by.....- *Ooof!* - wel, so much for free speech. Hmmm...I know what, let's ask the God instead...- *............* -. Wel, unfortunately God is not available for direct comment, but He did send a representative. In fact He sent two, both saying opposite things. He's such a prankster! Let's not talk to the poofy one, and instead we'll say 'Croeso i outandabout gyda REJ, Reverend Wangrin!' -

RWG:- Would you like to see my cathedral? -

REJ:- Can I put my cock in your bottom? -

RWG:- I beg your pardon? -

REJ:- Can I put my cock in your bottom? -

RWG:- I suppose it depends on the diameter of the -

REJ:- No! I meant may I? I mean, in God's opinion? -

RWG:- Oh Him! yes. Of Course. Sorry. I forgot I was wearing the uniform. In kit as it were. Yes, now it makes sense. Wel, this is a very deep and complex question -

REJ:- No it isn't -

RWG:- No, I suppose you're right. I slip into the role too easily -

REJ:- Wel look, what I meant was, can I put my cock in your bottom - wel, not yours particularly - I mean -

RWG:- What's wrong with my bottom? -

REJ:- Nothing! I didn't mean -

RWG:- Mine is a very reverend bottom. Most reverend in fact - look it says so here on this plaque -

REJ:- Look stop talking about your bottom. What I meant was, can I put my cock in someone's bottom, a man's I think, and get some kind of clap from God? I mean, if I promise to only do the one bottom - something like that -

RWG:- That sounds boring -

REJ:- It doesn't matter if it's boring! I want to know what God's opinion is! -

RWG:- Wel I'm not sure He gives a fuck to be honest. He may have better things to do -

REJ:- It doesn't appear so -

RWG:- Wel that's a mystery isn't it. How much am I paid? For the clap thing? -

REJ:- Let's about a century? -

RWG:- I dunno....I am very busy.....candles to light and whatnot....

REJ:- Look, here's the gig. I find someone whose bottom I like, I get all my friends and family round -

RWG:- It's sounding a bit dodgy -

REJ:- No it isn't! I get all my friends and family round, and tell them all I'm going to pork this particular bottom. You say some mumbo jumbo, everyone claps, and then we all get pissed -

RWG:- er....can't you just pork it? What's all the fuss for? -

REJ:- Wel it's to make it serious. The bum-hole porking -

RWG:- I see. Wel, let me just consult the manual. There are rules for this sort of thing you know, otherwise you wouldn't know what to do -

REJ:- I just want to make sure God approves. When I'm porking the bum-hole. You know - when He's watching -

RWG:- Look, I know He's ineffable and all that, but I really don't think He spends eternity watching cocks going into bum-holes on some kind of infinite ethereal youporn wankfest kick. I think He does earthquakes, things like that -

REJ:- Wel, I suppose you'd know. You have dressed up as an imbecile after all -

RWG:- I do know some good songs -

REJ:- Look it works for minges. You bring your minge into God's house -

RWG:- God's everywhere you pillock! The house is just to keep the rain off my calligraphy. Look at this big 'A' I've drawn -

REJ:- Oooh! very nice -

RWG:- Look, sit down and have some mead old bean, you seem troubled. This beats working for tescos! -

REJ:- Diolch! Bottoms up! -

RWG:- That's better. Now lets start again. From the top -

REJ:- Not the bottom! -

RWG:- Very good. So let's see. You've got some genitals, and you want to put them where again? -

REJ:- Up bottoms! I mean up one bottom -

RWG:- Yes that sounds important -

REJ:- And I want to come here, bring all my friends and family, tell them what I'm going to do, then I want them all to clap how clever I've been, and then I want you to tell me God likes watching. My cock. Going into a bum-hole. Spurting -

RWG:- And I get money do I? Because it does sound a bit pointless -

REJ:-Yes yes! Money -

RWG:- Wel I suppose I could do with some more parchment -

REJ:- And nibs! -

RWG:- Yes yes, and nibs. I once broke my end on a particularly elaborate 'body of Christ' -

REJ:- So it's a deal then?! I can't wait to push some poo with the king of kings and my family and friends applauding! -

RWG:- I see. Yes. Of course. Wel, we'd better check the law then. Let's have a look at the old book -

REJ:- Wel?! Wel?!! -

RWG:- Fuck this is boring....are you sure you want to go through with this? Wouldn't you rather ring my bell? Lovely great big clapper - everyone will be asleep!!! It's the most enormous larks waking the fuckers up with my great big dong in the morning! -

REJ:- Get on with it! Marriage! Be under 'm' -

RWG:- bla cat.....bla bla.....leper cure.....bla bla witch destroying GMcrops....bla bla.....ah! Yes here it is. Marriage! -

REJ:- Yes! yes! -

RWG:- the union between.......Oh dear. Bit of a problem old bean -

REJ:- What is it? -

RWG:- Wel, it says here, that this fella you want to pork before God - for some reason - wel, er, he has to be a woman. Sort of thing -

REJ:- But that's unfair! -

RWG:- Life isn't fair, Richard bach - bit of Welsh there - If God had intended life to be fair He would have - Ooops! - forget I said that! I'd hate to have to get a real job -

REJ:- Wel, who wrote that silly law? -

RWG:- I dunno. Technically God did. But it's shit writing. I could do a better script -

REJ:- Perhaps it's harder when you're invisible. When you can't see your fingers -

RWG:- Good save! I'm looking for a new deacon as it happens, the last one split on me all of a sudden -

REJ:- Give me a look at that book. It can't be right. Let's see....when was this bit made up....

RWG:- Tradition Richard! It's all about tradition. Tradition that musn't be diluted. The sanctity of marriage! The -

REJ:- Oooh it says here if I go for the female option, I can beat her with a stick! -

RWG:- Wel, obviously some bits can be diluted -

REJ:- Oooh! And if she's not up for it - washing up or something - it says here I can rape her! Perhaps there is something in this tradition thing after all -

RWG:- Wel, technically it wouldn't be rape. Anyway - you've got the stick -

REJ:- The stick, yes -

RWG:- I think some parts of that book are out of date as it were -

REJ:- But you said it couldn't be altered! -

RWG:- Yes wel lying sort of goes with the job. In fact we meet up every year at the synod to make up new immutable laws - helluva piss up! - the Bishop of -

REJ:- Who the fucks going to fall for that? -

RWG:- Only very clever people -

REJ:- Wel look, let's just pencil in....or a man and a man....and...or a woman and a woman. Then I can be a princess! Like on Disney! -

RWG:- I'm afraid it's not as simple as that -

REJ:- Why ever not? -

RWG:- Wel, because when we meet up to make up the new things God hasn't said, people disagree. You know the sort - awkward fuckers, people like that. You see it's not always clear, what is literal, and what is metaphorical -

REJ:- Because God's a shit writer? -

RWG:- er...

REJ:- Because He couldn't make Himself clear? -

RWG:- er...

REJ:- Because He's special needs God? -

RWG:- sh! -

REJ:- Because He's inarticulate? -

RWG:- Pipe down now -

REJ:- Because He's not really an omnipotent telepath? -

RWG:- Richard....would you come outside for a second....

REJ:- Because He's not very bright? -

RWG:- Thaaaat's it!.....just stand there.....we're in Hereford you know.....

REJ:- Because He can't think very well? -

RWG:- Very good. Lovely old laws aren't they? I believe I have to ask if you're a Welshman....

REJ:- Because the people He talks to have lower IQs? -

RWG:- Oh look, I've found a longbow -

REJ:- Because it's just a scam for you to get money? -

RWG:- Now, now, we can't be having our little game spoilt can we? -

REJ:- Because -

*SWOOOSH!!! Thud!*  *Deaded*

Poem for the day

Someone different's not the same
Now if you'd like a different game
Ask the one who talks to trees
There may be whispers on the breeze

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Poem for the day

3 miles
The Earth curves
I see straight
Into space
I see back
Or forwards

Catch it
Capture light
Gone before
Gone to come

REJ:- Yes. The land of the clams. Indeed.

Perspective poem for the day

A million people died this week
A million died the week before
A hundred shot in Syria
And next week die a million more

Sunday, 10 June 2012


Wel, heddiw we have, via videoconferenceskype, - check for yourselves – you can clearly see the face staring at the screen – we'll have to trust us on what we're looking at the other end – you gotta have faith f faith f faith faith etc – President of the US of Auk, Barack whythefuckdidanyonecarewherehewasborndesperatepunt Obama. Yes. Seeing is believing. Croeso i Lanfihangel-yr-Creuddun, Barack whythefuckdidanyonecarewherehewasborndesperatepunt Obama! -

BOb:- Thankyou, Richard. And may I congratulate you on the occasion of your Queen's remarkable achievement -

REJ:- Diolch. As we say over here in merry olde Englandelande. She breathes like a natural. May I similarly ridiculously congratulate you in return, on the occasion of your achieving your pigmentation -

BOb:- I'd like to thank my parents -

REJ:- Sorri, I failed Biology -

BOb:- Wel, that's why you don't know what races are. Or genders -

REJ:- We had a woman in charge once -

BOb:- Uhuru -

REJ:- William Shatner -

BOb:- That was just a rumour -

REJ:- Anyway, I believe you have been celebrating something else -

BOb:- Indeed yes. Sorry I can't be arsed yankifying my lines -

REJ:- That's quits for Dick van Dyke then -

BOb:- Cor Blimey. Limey -

REJ:- I set fire to my chimney twice. I was typing on the internet and....never mind. What was it you was is the celebrations then? -

BOb:- Wel, further to removing the head of Al Qaeda, we have successfully removed the head of Al Qaeda, and just the other day, we successfully removed the head of Al Qaeda. Thus making it a headless state -

REJ:- One day Obi notsowan, one day. Perhaps when supermarkets can open themselves. Say 24-7, or 7-11. Not 2 hrs later -

BOb:- It's all a game to me! The ace of spades! The ace of spades! The free world rejoices. Britons never never never shall -

REJ:- Work unpaid -

Bob:-Workfair -

REJ:- That's the sound of the men, working on the Ju – ooh- bi – lee -

BOb:- Set phraser to stun -

REJ:- J.K. Galbraith -

BOb:- No, I'm going for growth. That's if it's alright with the people's bank of China that own me -

REJ:- Blue Spanish banks euro 2012. Growth of Al Quaeda by the look of it. Made up name btw – although now adopted fully -

BOb:- Win win, or no deal -

REJ:- Tell that to Noel Edmonds -

BOb:- I'm the one that got him to wear jumpers -

REJ:- D'you think the audience can keep up? I'm past caring. No I'm not – let's slow it down. Tell me again of your achievements -

BOb:- Wel, I've been bombing PakGhanisland -

REJ:- Been there. You almost have my sympathy. It's just I can control my psychotic episodes -

BOb:- That must be nice. Anyway, I haven't really. You see I tell someone else, and they tell someone else, and......*etc*.....and they use a remote -

REJ:- What a droner -

BOb:- And that means no innocents are killed. Apart from arbitrary darkies. Who, a recent survey suggests, don't like Us anyway -

REJ:- The funny fuckers -

BOb:- They also use sneaky tactics like IEDs -

REJ:- Easy to lay, hard to get rid of -

BOb:- Lady Diana landmines -

REJ:- Quite easy to get rid of as it turns out -

BOb:- Wel, you don't want brown heads of state. Look what happens -

REJ:- Germans better. Or a horse's arse even -

BOb:- How could a horse's arsecamilla banquet with psychopathic dictators? -

REJ:- It's more a symbolic role -

BOb:- 60 remarkable years. In that time we've seen a lot of changes. 60 years ago, a plutocracy -

REJ:- It couldn't happen in a republic -

BOb:- Never. So I take it you're a republican? Don't you love your Queen? -

REJ:- Wel, she either did all our war crimes, or did fuck all – just rubber-stamped them through. The Queen could just be a stamp -

BOb:- I've enjoyed our little natter chinwag mary poppins cheerio cheers -

REJ:- Good luck with how history colours you. God Bless America -

BOb:- God Save the Queen -

REJ:- God fuck us, everyone.

Friday, 1 June 2012

Our revenge will be the laughter of our children

Now hands up who thinks say 20 countries have more money than 200. Including the 20. Oooh! we have a taker. And indeed if it isn't it certainly is, transnational arbitragic slave-trader Steve 'arbeit macht frei' Jobs. Croeso i Lanfihangel-yr-creuddyn, Steve 'Arbeit macht frei' Jobs! -

SAMFJ:- Someone else write my autobiography -

REJ:- Now they call you the Damien Hirst of technology -

SAMFJ:- Called -

REJ:- Wel, they didn't. But can you explain why you were a geius? -

SAMFJ:- The predictive text said it when I typed bullythief -

REJ:- I thought it learnt the user? -

SAMFJ:- F knows. I just dossed about while others did it -

REJ:- I think you're getting mixed up -

SAMFJ:- Mind the app. Adam Smith was right. He wrote the wealth of nations. Not the wealth within nations. Yet nations are nations within nations. Yes. I think. er -

REJ:- Now you once famously said something stupid about a screw -

SAMFJ:- Yes. I remembered that director of Gone with the wind that said their underwear should be authentic, because they would know -

REJ:- Inspired -

SAMFJ:- Yes I often was -

REJ:- Anything you did that was original? -

SAMFJ:- Oh almost everything. I invented the mouse, the cat and the dog. At least. Then I invented gossip. Fuck! Let me type that again. Zuckerburg. lol. zxbdfvwidfu. Bollox. What's that? -

REJ:- Now I can't get this itunes shit off my computer -

SAMFJ:- Yes, that's the idea -

REJ:- Now you also invented the apple. Just after the Beatles. How are you doing in China? -

SAMFJ:- Wel, I don't follow the cases so much these days. But I think 50p an hour and no toilets. I can't know precisely, as I only arranged it -

REJ:- Mr. Ambassador, with these Ferrero Rocher you are spoiling us -

SAMFJ:- That doesn't 'cross the pond' -

REJ:- Wel, make up your own shit then -

SAMFJ:- There must be a short-cut -

REJ:- Now we are amused whenever Mcdonuts sues a Scotch for mutual advertising. But I believe you own the letter i -

SAMFJ:- Yes -

REJ:- Can we have it back? -

SAMFJ:- Sorry, No. Click 'Share' -

REJ:- ihate iyou -

SAMFJ:- They ilove ime -

REJ:- They may ibe itwats -

SAMFJ:- I think they're very iastute. 10ip please -

REJ:- Now when you invented the shitter computer, the icunt, combined with the isave on the manual, did you know in advance you could stop the Koreans making a better shitter computer for a tenth of the price? -

SAMFJ:- I don't reMurdochmembercall that particular case. I am dead you know -

REJ:- Not dead enough IMO -

SAMFJ:- Wel, you're just jealous -

REJ:- Indeed yes. I am often jealous of dog faeces. I watch them turn from dark to light. In the rain. And I am envious. I want to be one. Yes. -

SAMFJ:- You forget I was a wealth creator -

REJ:- You forget I have the highest recorded reasoning ability of any human in history. By some margin. -

SAMFJ:- Small pond -

REJ:- Dumb test. So is the Turing. But let's not get personal. Now the individual dies, the nation lives on. Is there any other way we might Godwin you? -

SAMFJ:- That's a bit harsh. I did have people glue Scrabble blocks into computers. Remember that at least -

REJ:- Now if you get a radio. And a clockwork. And a clockwork a radio. Perhaps via some kind of clockwork a radio. You are an inventor. But could this not be even more inventabled by adding the letter i? -

SAMFJ:- i think so -

REJ:- And if you invented a hoover, perhaps via some kind of sucking mechanism, and stupid people bought it, but not anyone who hoovers professionally, because it is shit, but odd colours, like what how a launderette doesn't buy shit washing machines. etc. Do you think you could sack everyone and go to Malaysia for more theft and still be a hero? -

SAMFJ:- I am absolutely convinced. The figures speak for themselves -

REJ:- Indeed they do -

SAMFJ:- Are you trying to be clever? -

REJ:- No, just cleverer than you. I'm not trying at all -

SAMFJ:- It shows -

REJ:- If a bear is chasing you, you need only run faster than your 'friend'. You are very much my 'friend' -

SAMFJ:- I have added value. And changed the way people communicate forever. And caused the arab spring. Yes. -

REJ:- What a busy bee. I remember when Hasselhoff brought down the Berlin wall -

SAMFJ:- Yes -

REJ:- And when Paul McCartney sang 'freedom'. Just after ten past nine -

SAMFJ:- Yes -

REJ:- Now when you died of cancer, did you notice you lived in a morally bankrupt country because of people like yourself, or was there an app le t for pretending you earned your money? -

SAMFJ:- I was patched up fine -

REJ:- While the richest country on earth denies it's people healthcare, and bombs others regular and go large. RIP Mr.Jobs. Well done.

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

Pictures at an exhibition (white cube)

And Damien Hirst and damien hirst and damien wamien samien hirst and damey wamey amy samey damien hirst and damien hirst and booky wooky pleasy looky damien hirst and damien hirst and this is my bed and this is my head and this is my tent and the shaggers Ive said and damien hirst and damien hirst and telly all day and night all day it's as they say they're out we play and damien hirst and damien hirst ho hum te tum he had a hum and damien hirst and damien hirst you're fired no deal the lottery wheel and damien hirst and damien hirst and saddam is worsed and damien hirst and blair and cool and cameron clegg and facebook jobs and gates so beg and damien wamien samien hirst the bubble has burst the bubble has burst and damien damien damien hirst

And damien hirst tried drawing.

What a fantastic day! Read the Guardian.

And the judges said

You're black and you're shite at football. Give up life.

Now that gets you 100 hours up Scotland, prison Wales. The person in question was black, and shite at football. These we may loosely term facts. The author and the 'recipient' were both men. But you didn't ask for that did you? Your prejudice was sufficient.

Unless it was Stevie Wonder, the first fact would not be a surprise. We'll try not to worry too much that he was inner fact brown. It's done by shape not colour, as you know.

When OJ murdered whoever it was, 'anti-racists' complained that his picture was being made 'blacker', and that this was wrong because it was more 'sinister'. You may want thinkers like this in charge. I would prefer them charged. By rhinocerousesises. White, of course. They're much better, because they're fewer.

Pretending to be Welsh, I find it confusing that someone can in fact be not-shite at football. I'm afraid it's not my area of expertise. All I know is Posh Spice takes it up the arse. That is the democratic verdict from the terraces. We don't have terraces. Anyway, I'm guessing 'his' team has not just won the tartan cup or whatever it is, and 'he' did not score a hat-trick.

You're shite at football because you're black would be something different - mainly hilarious - but now we are pretending we are dealing with a literary genius. Perhaps it wasn't Tolstoy.

But then we only have ten words, unpunctuated, uncontexted. But that's enough for us isn't it? We can prejudice the meaning automatically unthinking. I can give you ten different meanings of it. I can even make it nice. But I agree with you, it was intended as nasty. I decide this from his ineloquence elsewhere. Which you haven't checked.

Give up life. Now is this a command or a suggestion or a somethingelse? A comma after up would make it interesting. But as I have said, it was not by a hand that knoweth the comma.

At what rate were the keys - if keys they be - pressed, and at what pressure? These important facts are not recorded. I'm not going to tell you why they are important. Because I already know, by magic, that you won't get it.

Let us colour it blackest.

Who is required to read it? who is required to parse it? who is required to act on it? who is required to distribute it? who is required to comment on it? Must the orders be obeyed? We are in very dangerous territory here.

Now since we are dealing with humans - unfortunately - we have before us not Oscar Wilde, but David Irving. Minus the cunning. The scary/clown dependent on the audience.

Zuckerberg tells us a lot can be done by reflex. We do have free will, Mr. Harris, at this level of self, once informed. We do have response ability. It can be learnt.

Teach this.

This law enshrines a sinister infantilism to poison future generations. The diffusion of responsibility is the most dangerous facet of the self delusion.

Poem for the day

A man put on a silly hat
And waved his arms, and things like that
And thus made how a billion breed
Be careful now, the voice you heed

A man said 'Hands up if I'm blond'
It worked just like a magic wand
And off they toddled with their hair
To other fuckwits over there

A man (note women do it too)
Reflected as Norwegian Blue
'They're coming here! To kill our kids!'
This time it's mozzers, then was yids

When someone tells you what to do
It greatens them and lessens you
When someone tells you what to think
Your soul dies wreathed in other's ink

REJ:- How many divisions has the REJ? 

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Lit Crit

Ok, homework is:- take out the forced Wenglish, remove clunky etc. There's one acceptable couplet 'They gathered now...'. I shouldn't have to tell you that. Make good (lazy engineering slang) the rest. All couplets 50 syllables and under to be site run (draughtsman skive). etc

Add further 'observations' - pick base universal ones = cross-cultural. etc etc. And you'll have a wee pome. I can't be arsed, I'd rather read Burns - he's better, and he's already done it for us. But don't be telling me he had to try. Look at the output, look at his 'distractions'. There wasn't time. It was automatic for him. How annoying. But do note - going to Grayling's unseen university is not going to help you. He is the bland leading the bland. He says nothing, and charges a fortune to say it. Also never do economics somewhere the boss can't differentiate between cost and price. And the less said about Krauss the better.

Now I'm on tour up Scotland. That's yr Alban to me. Some of them think it's Alba. I prefer the N word. Note I do not test syphilis on them like Americans. Pixel-police try not-saying cancer. You are dull as fuck. That one for every fucking library in Strathclyde that blocks REJ as 'pornographic'.

Another thing you haven't noticed, is that if you see these as words, rather than pixels, or indeed numbers, then later compositions in your minds may be open to remote manipulation. Be careful what you read now. The true vampire requires no invitation. Let's hope he's a very lovely vampire.

Now if the damned lies be believed, the prettiest get 1000 views, the funniest 200, and the cleverest 5. Eventually. This gets on my tits enormously. More than the LHC. That is a lot of tit-gettingon. They've gone all eldritch. Now you wouldn't like me when I'm eldritch. You don't like me uneldritch.

Now click back to my 'eurodisney'. What's that then? Prescience or fucking obvious? You tell me.

An ant is a moving plant. A human is an ant with emotional rendering. A zoologist will be 'unlikely' to tell you this. Even though Charlie said it in 18-whateverthefuck. Don't ask me, I wasnae there. Ask Max Boyce.

Theology is ethology. Experiment with e. Sophisticated ethology is fuck all use for the ants. Now you can only see contrast. Yaffle tuned the wrong end, the wrong accent - birdsong - for the dummies. He can't even see he wrote the individual delusion. This is because he is in synchrony. And we can only see contrast. As I may have said.

Now what is required is a non-human perspective. Very luckily for you - that's both readers - I have this facility as I am an intermittent. That is not quite the same as supernatural, Mr. Sheldrake. No.

Now humans have, on average, the perspective required for being humans. Cats make rather better cats. etc. Now when you look at say the trivial food search algorithm for ants, you should not declare 'By thunder, dose ants is clever'. No. You should, in fact, declare 'By thunder, dose humans is as dumb as ants'. Yes.

This minor aspect of the self delusion is thinking you are better than you are. Hence the disappointment of performance related pay. etc. It's a very healthy thing, within boundaries, to over-estimate rather than under. Eeyore sulked in the hole, Tigger bounced out and bred more. Overall. Do stop seeing individuals. They are illusory.

Saturday, 19 May 2012

Capel Mair

In Capel Mair young Marged prayed
An elegy to one who strayed
With words that were beyond her years
But not alas, another's ears

The sweetest heart, the fairest rose
Cwm fynach carved her careless toes
And splendigedig high the hill
Sun caught her hair and fired her will

As honest as the raging sea
As timeless as yr hen allt tree
That crowns descendants tenderly
She was a painted treasury

Y Parch sipped at the mountain dew
He dreamt of blossom 'neath the two
A bluebell moss'ed lair depicted
His God descended heart constricted

Y Parch lit up his sodden prose
With tinder tears of never knows
With kindling barren soulless womb
His children filled the lead-lined tomb

All eyes on one, and one on all
A crease, a smile, a crumpled shawl
It was the hour! It was the dawn!
The Devil finds unwary yawn

As ants so sugar laden nest
She clutched her bounty to her breast
A scarlet lock root-torn from rest
- And love is e'er the highest blessed -
Y Parch passed round his silver test

If it's y Diawl that you would draw
Twas never dark when he was fore
By sunlit dawn and God's good grace
You'll see the one within the face
On close reflect his time and place
As children know the best was then
Tomorrow devils ride again

They gathered now, they gathered then
Together Truth confounds all men
And righteous Twm was raised on high
And offered to an empty sky
This is triumphantly to die!

And Marged conquered life the same
Divine ears deaf the insect game
In like proportion bore the blame
The Somme, the fire, th'eternal flame
Humanity! for shame! for shame

And high above the mountain cwm
The wind chimes song of Marged Twm
Now pray to love upon that hill
And breathless, windless, hear them still.

Monday, 14 May 2012

QBI = DVD>1?

Ok. You've spotted what I'm doing. You haven't. Never mind, I have. I've gone and got all bored with Yaffle - lovely one for him later - let's do Mr. Deutsch, he's very deep. The most interesting. He's made Everett testable. We may disregard string theory. It isn't one. There is nothing to regard.

Mr. E did something very simple. He said the micro/macro split is arbitrary, don't be giving me that consciousness bullshit, let's see what happens if we make the Schroedinger universal. From then on, he's fine. And Mr. D has riffed on this. They're both starting from an incorrect datum.

Ok, he's not really fine from then on, he went MAD, did the silliest probability horse-shit ever, and pissed himself away to nothing. Didn't really do much for Elizabeth, did it? But that's parenting, not physics. They are different things.

Now I've put Mr. D in ten graphemic ideograms for you at the top. Just to save you from going all googly-eyed like him. But that 2nd chapter - that is how to write - if you ever feel like having a pop at it.

The only line you need from that book is:- (attempt gist) - 'If a calculation is performed that would have required more processing power than that available from all the atoms in the universe, then there will be some explaining to do'.

Indeed there will. The calc for how many atoms in the universe will be wrong, but we needn't be worrying about that. Because, if correct, his qcalcs will be rather spectacularly large. Of a whole different order.

Any moment now. He says...

Saturday, 12 May 2012

The Selfish Gene (random riff)

Now I like finishing Yaffle's books off for him. Annotation spoils. It is over-polishing. Atkins does exposition. So he puts the poetry on one page, hints on the other, notes in the back, and who cares about biography. Now look if you wrote this:- (attempt memory)

Her lips were red, her looks were free
Her locks were yellow as gold
Her skin was white as leprosy
The nightmare life-in-death was she
That thicks men's blood with cold

- then I advise not spending decades afterwards annotating like the saucer-eyed opium-eater. I expect he was wondering how he did it. Who gives a fuck? That's one we may call 'acceptably finished'. Do not change marinere to mariner. A child can see it fucks the rhymes. That is over-polish.

Now, take it on faith, I could topdownstepwiserefineeditmake this one formally correct. I just don't think you're worth it. I could do the 'computing' correctly too, believe me. I just find it funnier making IT types wince. They're all only doing hyper-binary-creole translation. (Sh!).

Ok, we'll get to the selfish gene later. I can scrawl on my own page, I think Yaffle may have meant for others to get a go over at his place. Lovely one to end on anyway. I did tell him to switch me off his end, but there's a boy who'll never be a nun. You know, strident. Too nice by far to do the nasties. He can't model them anyway - the little 4D printers, the sophisticated theologians. That's why they continually surprise him. He almost fell off his perch the other day when that Australian catholic said whatever he did. Dawks writes in analogy and metaphor pretty. I'll do one for him in his native language another day.

Now SamIam annoys me, because he reminds me of Gavin Henson. I forbid people to piss it all away like Henson, when their primary function is, rather obviously, to entertain me. Reading Sam these days is done with the same trepidation, - fear and trembling, Mr. Blake - as one opens the 'Western Mail', to see what Gavin's gone and fucking done this time.

Now look, just stop it, Sam. I forbid you to continue to annoy me. I give you the mens rea. No faults this end, I think you'll agree that possibility is quite implausible. Why did you write that ridiculous book? Wel, you said why. It's because you are surrounded by lunatics. You are now achieving, 'better than lunatics'. I think that's a Henson. 'Piously parroting' ace btw. That one's a corker. I hate it when a word-witch wastes them on bollox. And what's this 'free will' horse-shit you're on tour with now? Absolute horse-shit. What a fucking waste of time. No, it won't affect the law. And stop contradicting yourself mid-exposition.

Oh yes, TSG. Right, let's stop fucking about. The metaphor's fine, the ending's fine. I refuse to mentally delete anything. Meme is a dullasfuck word. Memeplex just confuses Blackmore. With her magenta not-a-real-colour hair. It masquerades as explanation. Don't be telling me, meme is a new word. I know what words are. It may impress young boys, it doesn't impress me.

Now there was something in the book about selection being at the level of the gene. Did you spot that bit? The immortal gene. Don't be worrying about metaphor. People who can't read metaphor, can go fuck themselves. I believe it was Epicurus who said that.

TEP's a riff on it. That book's spoilt by being 3/4 correcting duffers over what a gene is. Don't be giving me any obscure epigenetic punts now. You'll only be confusing yourself. And if you annoy me enough, I'll correct you. Go and do an infinite calculation, and get back to me.

I went to see Rupert, because I'd only glanced at his front page, and because of his background thought he might present an interesting puzzle. But he was just all over the place.  Btw - guess what they've got on there next? - 'Meet the faeries workshop'. Do check, I can't do them as funny as that.

Now Yaffle, you like Singer. I think he's a bit odd. But he says do Wissenschaft. Now you're not going to be able to do that if you keep being 'unqualified to comment' are you? You'll have to step out of your field. Or rather, step into the whole field. There is only one field, old bean.

The cosmogonists are making it up. They contradict each other. They are mutually exclusive theories. Straightaway, you find yourself qualified to comment that the subject is, at very best, 90% absolutely incorrect. Tarot has a far better hit rate. It's the Wigner, old bean, the Wigner! They're all smitten.

Ach! I got distracted again. Wel, if you want to retro the title, because of idiots who can't read, then perhaps give it the correct title. The whatitmeans. The correct title is, of course, 'The individual delusion'.


Friday, 11 May 2012

Remote scan opponent


'I have faith in the scientific method'
'I have faith in the peer review process'
'I do not understand physics'
'I am not qualified to comment'


Check opponent inputs.

Deutsch. Smolin. Hawking. Cox. Krauss.


Refine odds

Win = certainty