Pine Eyes

<< "Of course your hat doesn't look gay, Mr. Cricket"

Another fact from Servite Housing's inspirational weekly newsletter - I don't know where they get these facts from, but it's the second gem they've delivered in three weeks. Those beautiful bastards are putting Metro, the BBC website and conversations with actual people to shame. Here's what they got:

Pinocchio means 'pine eyes' in Italian.

Pino is a pine tree, and occhio means eyes, so I guess it could be eyes of the pine tree, or eyes of pine, but pine eyes has that ring of barely contained disdain that I'm looking for. It also means 'pine nut' in the Tuscan dialect, and I guess if his eyes are made from pine, we can assume that this also rings true. According to the stoic Wikipedia contributor who made the article, Pinocchio was created by Carlo Collodi in 1883. It's a pretty extensive, well-organised summary of Pinocchio in popular culture, from the sickly yet loveable Disney film to the soul-sapping tedium of Spielberg's A.I.

And what does the intrepid typist get for his/her trouble? An apologetic note from the head honchos slapped on the top, claiming that 'this article may contain an excessive amount of information with limited interest'. That's got to grind his/her gears pretty bad, but I've got to admit they've got a point. I couldn't finish it, but here's an excerpt, so that you can make up your own minds:

"In Power Rangers: Operation Overdrive, the Red Ranger, Mack Hartford, was eventually revealed to be an android created by his father, Andrew, to be a son since he (Andrew) was unable to find the right woman due to his line of work (archeology). In the final episode, Mack managed to defeat the last of the series' villains so as to protect the Corona Aurora and to protect his father and friends, but he did so at the cost of depleting his energy and sustain irreparable internal damage. For this noble act, the Sentinel Knight, the Corona Aurora's guardian, used the treasure to not only revive Mack, but make him a full human. It is unknown though if the allusion to Pinocchio was intentional."

More excessive information of limited interest, same time tomorrow...

60 Minutes

<< A can of Fanta Fruit Twist, due to be glugged at 8pm (superficial damage not visible)

I stayed at work until 6pm today, almost entirely for show. Having earned £6.50 looking at trainers for half an hour, I headed out of the building at 6.05pm, having first tried to text my friend to ask if he wanted to meet up after work for a drink. My battery tied on the cusp of sending, but this proved a blessing in disguise as I stepped into the daylight to find rain belting diagonally from the sky. I was attired in a thin cardigan, but fear not - I have a route to the train station that is 50% covered, involves walking virtually in a circle and is kind of my version of Parcours. I arrived on the platform as the train pulled in, and a couple of changes later I was on the bus to Tooting.

The only seat was next to a guy who had fallen asleep, and was propping his face up with the palm of his hand. I tried to move his free paper, only to find that he had hidden stuff underneath it and that he wasn't quite as asleep as I thought. I made an apologetic face that looked a bit like the woman who was in Wallace and Gromit - A Close Shave and sat next to him. He promptly returned to sleeping with one eye open. I continued reading the second book in the His Dark Materials trilogy, still preoccupied by the nagging feeling that it's not quite as good as the first one, and that the boy they've brought into it is kind of irritating.

Upon arrival in Tooting, I alighted and walked to the nearest supermarket (Somerfield, since you ask - it's not Harrods but it's certainly competitive), pausing only to cough and accidently spit on the pavement - an error that I am 99% certain nobody else saw. I purchased some lemon cheesecake slices, a couple of shop-soiled cans of fizz and a large bottle of alcohol (it's not for me). The cashier looked at me funny, and I thought she was going to ask for I.D - in fact, I was hoping she would, because I actually had my passport in my bag, ready to thrust before her disbelieving eyes. Instead, I sensed that her surprise was that a person such as myself was purchasing such copious volumes of booze. I quite like the fact that people don't have me down as an alcoholic upon first glance. I then journeyed home, the sky still lashing it's payload upon the hapless residents of South London.

As I approached the front door of Knowledge Towers, I noticed that the neighbours still haven't taken their recycling bags in, and wondered if maybe they were dead for a couple of seconds. The doormat was festooned with small rectangles of card that I know are advertising courier services without looking at them. I think about the likelihood of domestic properties ever requiring a courier service. The only thing that gets couriered here are pizzas. I then prise open the packet of deliciously reduced cheesecake slices, only to find that each one is individually wrapped in cellophane. I head onto the internet with the intention of writing a bilious missive to McVities as to why exactly they feel it necessary to seal each slice in plastic, but end up doing my blog instead. I decide to give McVities a piece of my mind after the football.

Upon beginning my blog (and also concurrently trying to find the new Portishead album on a hooky Russian mp3 site, when it costs just £10 on CD in Woolworths) I decide that, as I am once again without a fact, I will just write about my hour-long journey from office to flat, in the hope of inspiration. I find none, until the fourth paragraph of the rather tedious narrative, when I pause to look up how to spell 'cellophane'. I find it on Wikipedia, and discover the following, once I have written this very build-up:

Cellophane was invented in 1908, when a Swiss inventor attempted to make a plastic coating for tablecloths.

I also discovered, between writing the build up and delivering the fresh-baked fact, that cellophane is made from viscose, which in turn is derived from cellulose, an organic compound found in cotton, celery and mari-joo-ahna, amongst other plant life. Hence why it's called cellophane. I'm still pretty sure that surrounding innocent cheesecake slices in it is still pretty unnatural though, and bad for the environment, to put it mildly. I now intend to watch a game of football I have virtually no interest in, release the rest of the slices from their plastic prisons and glug down my superficially damaged can of Fanta Fruit Twist. Another day, another dollar.

Independent Woman

<< Kirsty Bertarelli: The new Emily Pankhurst

When you wake up on a grey, drizzly Monday morning, falling over piles of dirty washing as you scramble to the shower, wait for five minutes in your pants for the water to heat up, squinting lifelessly into the mirror at your own sunken visage, throw on the same old, tired clothes and trudge through a squall to force your way onto an impossibly overcrowded bus, all without earning a penny, what you really want to hear about is people who are really, really rich.

Fear not, however, for I don't wish to bring your Monday evening crashing down in such a fashion. Instead, I'm going to discuss Britain's richest women. The sisters who are doing it for themselves, raking in the cash instead of waiting for a sugar daddy to come along and impregnate them. And who is top of the pile of these upwardly mobile, business-savvy Suffragettes? I'll tell you who.

Kirsty Bertarelli is the richest woman in Britain.

How did this battle-hardened warrior for equality fight her way through the bigotry and double standards of a male-dominated business world? Um... she married a pharmaceutical billionaire, had some babies, and throws fancy parties. Good for her. Be sure to recall her vast wealth - it's £5.7 billion, by the way - and particularly how little she's done to earn it, next time your face is pressed against the front door of a bus as you venture forth to earn £12 an hour.

Thunderbolts and Lightning

<< I made it all the way to 27 April without using a picture of this great man

There was a very minor storm today, involving a bolt of lightning and a rumble of thunder several seconds apart. I proudly informed our guests that the amount of seconds between the two indicates the proximity of the storm, thinking that nobody knew this. They all knew, and to add insult to injury, didn't believe it was true. Wikipedia is on my side, however, explaining that a 5 second gap between the two means that the lightning is one mile away. Sound takes about 5 seconds to travel one mile - in that time, light can go round the world 37 times. Just smile and nod. The very concept of light having a speed makes my head swim anyway. It's speed is, of course, fast beyond the realms of understanding - almost as fast, in fact, as Hasselhoff drives in pursuit of crooks on Knight Rider. What a guy.

The speed of light is approximately 300 million metres per second.

Now I know I have to be able to understand the facts that I put in bold and make all official, so Wikipedia has obliged by informing me that it takes light 1.5 seconds to travel from the Earth to the Moon, which in all honesty sounds disappointingly slow to me. Incidentally, with reference to the title, 'thunderbolts' are lightning and thunder together, which means that Queen effectively sang 'lightning and lightning'. It's hardly the worst thing Queen ever did, but I feel it's necessary to pull them up on it.

Take A Walk

<< On second thoughts, I'll stay on the Tube

Going out shortly, to a posh fish and chip restaurant in Marylebone, so time is short (I'm surprised I've held out this long). The plan, which I'm sure we'll regret, is to get off the Tube two stops early at Regent's Park, and go for a walk through the park itself, in order to completely cancel out the payload of greasy fish we will consume shortly afterwards. I realised by consulting my beloved A-Z that even though it's two Tube stops, it's only about fifteen minutes walk (though you do have to change at Waterloo). I then discovered, in an odd if slightly dull coincidence, the following:

There are 109 journeys between Tube stations that are quicker to walk.

That's how the BBC put it, anyway - I'm not sure it's gramatically correct, but you get the idea. The shortest distance between Tube stations is between Leicester Square and Covent Garden, on the Piccadilly Line, where it is in fact actually quicker to moonwalk between the stations, stopping to buy a £12 panini on the way.

Unpalatable Subject Matter & Jaunty Hats

Ah, the Friday post. Possibly the hardest to muster any enthusiasm for - I've been at work all day, and the weekend beckons me with open arms. A haven of sloth and indolence only postponed by this damned blog of mine. I tried the Friday Quote, but that has fallen by the wayside as a result of my Friday night torpor. I learnt something at work today, once again on a rather unpalatable subject, but here we go:

An MRI scan temporarily alters the atomic structure of the body.

As if being rolled through a large white tunnel on your back wasn't terrifying enough, you're being blasted with radio waves that alter the body's atoms, moving the nuclei into different positions, which sends back radio waves in the other direction. I don't really understand it, and don't really want to in all honesty, but you can read all about it here, if you really want to. I must go now, for the weekend is tapping at the window with a bowl of jelly and ice cream and a party hat upon it's head, set at a jaunty angle. Also I need a poo. I'm going now bye!!!

Political Correctness Gone Mad™

I’m having to go through the insufferable hassle of typing this up on Word, thanks to O2 broadband, whose connection would be faster if a team of highly-trained apes printed the pages off the mainframe and swung across South London to deposit them through the open window. Today I’m looking at political correctness. I really hate that term, but there’s no real alternative. This seems odd to me, as the point of changing words and phrases is to move away from the stigmas attached to them, yet the term ‘political correctness’, with its evocation of po-faced tokenism with a dash of Stalinist rhetoric, has not been updated.

The idea, of course, is for people not to be labelled and stereotyped, to make society a more tolerant and understanding place for us all to live in. Of course, human nature doesn’t work like that, and so people learn the new words but retain the old attitude, to the point where saying that someone is ‘vulnerable’ is roughly equivalent to calling them a boozed-up nutjob. Anyway, the phrase ‘deaf and dumb’ has been bandied around the office a few times recently, which set my Not Cool alarm ringing loud and clear. What was particularly galling was hearing my colleagues deliver it as if it was a technical term, rather than “the granddaddy of negative labels”, as the National Association of the Deaf would have it (and they should know). This is a term that’s so out of date, the Ancient Greeks invented it:

Aristotle first coined the phrase “deaf and dumb”.

A fine philosopher, but Aristotle would’ve made a lousy social worker. The worst thing is that he actually intended it to carry the connotation that deaf people were indeed dumb in every sense of the word. I had always assumed this double meaning to be an unhappy coincidence, but apparently not. I then wondered to myself what was the correct term was for a person who cannot speak. To my embarrassment, I discovered there isn’t one – and why should there be? That’s the whole point really – the idea of changing labels is to one day be able to remove them entirely. If you cannot hear and you cannot speak, that shouldn’t define you as a person – the world should see you however you wish to be seen. Sadly, that’s not the world we live in.

Gorgeous George

<< Alban: The patron saint of Europop

In case you'd forgotten, today is St. George's Day - I know I had. I can't imagine a national day is celebrated with as little fervour anywhere else in the world. I know it's a saint's day really, and nothing to do with being English, but that don't stop Wales on St. David's Day. It's literally unbearable being there. At least St. David was actually Welsh though - St. George was a Roman who lived in Anatolia, now known as Turkey. But then, you already knew that. What you may not know is this:

St. George is the patron saint of Palestine.

Georgie boy also takes care of saintly business for Greece, Georgia, Portugal and Russia - as well as regions such as Catalonia (which explains why FC Barcelona have an England flag on their crest). He was made a saint by Pope Gelasius I in 494 - 191 years after his death by decapitation, on April 23, 303. So it's not completely random. St George became a saint for his martyrdom in fighting wars somewhere, and being brave and all - look, if it's before the Tudors, I can't be doing with it. He probably didn't kill a dragon either, seeing as dragons don't exist.

If you think that having a national day to celebrate a Roman who had his head lopped off 1700 years ago is somewhat pointless, you're not alone. There is some mild clamour in parts of the home counties to see Dr. Alban installed as our patron saint. I mean, I didn't mind It's My Life at the time, but it seems an odd choice. Oh, sorry... St. Alban. The G-man wasn't the original patron saint - that honour went to St. Edmund, who was promptly demoted to be patron saint of Suffolk. That must have stuck in his throat.

Maybe we should just do away with it all together. Let's be honest, there's not much that makes me proud to be English - imperialism, football hooligans and Margaret Thatcher don't really float my boat. To be honest, one redeeming feature of the English is their quiet shame at their own history and identity. Let's keep it that way.

The X Files

<< Crewe: Last team standing

Hurrah, that beanie bloke's not on the page anywhere. He was starting to get on my nerves. Some of the learning of late has probably bent the rules a little bit - it's become more like a vaguely topical magazine than a font of knowledge. Well, sue me, cos that's how it's staying. Tonight I'm going back to the lowest common denominator of learning - football trivia. The trouble with football trivia is that's a pit with it's bottom very much intact. I don't lead much of a social life, so I've heard them all. Only league team without any of the letters of the word mackerel? Swindon Town. Why mackerel? It may as well be 'name a fish that doesn't have any of the letters of the words Swindon Town in'.

Another one that's constantly bandied about is that Hull is the biggest city in Europe to have never had a top-flight football team. Thankfully, Hull may yet be promoted, and can revel in their other claims to fame - being the crappest town in the country, and being the home of the world's fattest bulimic. A third tiresome titbit relates to the number of Football League teams with an 'X' in their name. Five, I believe is the answer. Although seeing as Wrexham have just been shown the door, it must be four. It was then I realised that my trivia recollection is past it's sell-by-date. The true figure is, in fact:

There is one team in the Football League with an 'x' in their name - Crewe Alexandra.

This is only true now that Wrexham have been relegated from the bottom division, and may not stay true for long, as Exeter may trade places with them. But it seems odd that while there were 5 but a handful of seasons ago, Exeter, Halifax and even moderately successful Oxford United have all since fallen out of the pyramid. Wrexham following them, along with Hull's rise from last in League 2 to third in the Championship, suggests that even footballers themselves are growing weary of football trivia, and are trying to mix things up a little. Anyway, here's the best new trivia question I could come up with at this late hour: What's the only Football League team that contains all the letters of the words 'Manchester United'? Answers on a postcard please.

Drugs Are Bad

<< Kermit needed to lay off the methadone

It's not a pleasant subject, but I learnt something about it, so here goes:

Methadone is green.

I'd like to state, perhaps unnecessarily, that this isn't from personal experience; rather, from my delightful line of work, where I all too frequently encounter poor individuals who have fallen into the clutches of Shanghai Sally (to quote J. Peterman). I always imagined it to be purple, which oddly is also the colour that I imagine Special Brew to be. But both these nasty substances are of some sort of greenish hue - presumably in the case of methadone to make it more appealing to it's prescribed users. Personally, I would think that if you're a recovering heroin addict, a free heroin substitute available on prescription was appealing enough, but there you go.

From what I understand, methadone is perhaps even more addictive than heroin, and even worse, dries your mouth right out, like too many cups of tea. Working in an office where most people have no experience of working with drug users, I hear far too many ill-informed comments about 'druggies' knocking around. I'd think if you're working in social housing you should receive at least some drug training - to be honest, I don't think it'd be that bad an idea for everyone to be a lot less ignorant about drug addiction. It can be bloody frustrating working with people who care about nothing more than their drug of choice (and that very much includes alcohol) but at the end of the day, drug addicts are just people with problems, like anybody else.

Society is also very hypocritical when it comes to drugs; the masses are quick to pour scorn on heroin addicts getting support from the NHS, yet are happy to immerse themselves in the world of cokehead celebrity idiots. For me, it's hard not to feel sympathy for someone who has fallen into a crippling addiction because of their horrendous present or past situation; if you're rich and famous and still can't resist blowing your money on substances that make you marginally more arrogant and irresponsible, I can only shake my head at you, in Daily Mail reader fashion. How bizarre that the main factor in people's judgement on drug addicts is the social status of the drug they happen to be addicted to...

Happy Birthday to Me

<< A QFK reveller, this afternoon

If knowledge is power, then I, my friends, am a King. For I have discovered the following:

India has a bill of rights for cows.

OK, so it's not that impressive. With this meagre offering, however, I will pass the century mark in posts. So for today, I'm just going to let the fact gently sag under the weight of it's portentious introduction, without further recourse, research or reflection. I was excited to reach 100 days of bloggin' all over the world, until I realised that I've been doing it for 111 days (forgot about the holiday). This is actually the 103rd post but 3 of them featured absolutely no learning (some would lobby for a higher count in this column). So anyway, happy birthday to me. Sort-of 100 posts, in just over 100 days. Time to get loaded...

Uptown Top Ranking

<< Pretty much the only picture of Althea and Donna in existence

I awoke this morning with the taste of Chinese takeaway still on my lips, drool still fresh on my pillow, and for no apparent reason, the lively pop-reggae tones of Althea and Donna's 1978 smash hit 'Uptown Top Ranking' bouncing around my head. This must be fate, I thought. There must be something really interesting about this song that the world needs to know. Well... there isn't. In fact, what's most interesting about this song is the complete lack of information there is about its performers - they were teenagers from Jamaica who pinched the tune from 'I'm Still in Love With You Boy', scored an international hit and then disappeared off the face of the Earth. The Sugababes made a whole career out of a cover version, and it wasn't even their idea.

It's time to make a tenuous leap - Wikipedia claim that 'Uptown Top Ranking' has been covered by Portishead, although I can find no reference to this anywhere else, so I'm pretty dubious, although if they have covered it, I'm guessing it lacks the original's sass. A bit of searching around Portishead sites led me, however, to a list of bands who, like Portishead, are named after places. Some are hardly surprising - Boston, Chicago, Japan etc. but there are some interesting ones, including:

Cypress Hill, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Dimmu Borgir and Children of Bodom are all named after places.

Cypress Hill is, well, a hill in California, The Bosstones are from Boston, Dimmu Borgir is an area of rock formations in Iceland, but Children of Bodom (who are, as you may have guessed, metal to the core) have the creepiest history behind their name. They are named after three teenagers who were murdered (and one who survived) during a camping trip to Lake Bodom in Finland in the 60s. Brr.

There are two vaguely interesting sub-sects to this category: bands named after shops (Everything But The Girl, New York Dolls, Fountains of Wayne, Inspiral Carpets) and bands named after fictional places (Idlewild, Amon Amarth, Opeth) - the majority of the list on Wikipedia comes, perhaps unsurprisingly, from Lord of the Rings. I'd like to point out that Althea and Donna are not named after places, fictional or otherwise - they're named after their names.

While we're on the subject, I once came up with the best band name ever, but I've finally decided to put it to pasture. My days as a wannabe rocker are over, so if you're out there, you can have it. Terry and the Wogans. Pure gold...

What I Do For A Living

<< The fascists responsible for the 15p hike; another petty victory for rip-off Britain

As we move into the great British springtime, it's time to face facts. While April may be a good month for people who like bafflingly chaotic weather patterns and don't much care for bank holidays, it's been a tough month for facts. I've been dredging Wikipedia for a good week now, and have tried the same tonight, but I've only managed to learn this today:

The maximum weekly threshold for recouping Housing Benefit overpayments has risen from £9.00 to £9.15.

My disbelieving eyes first fell upon the shock news at a home visit on Wednesday, where a client showed me a Housing Benefit letter which indicated the increase. Speculation has been rife in the office, to the point where the increase looked 90% certain to be the result of an increase in the threshold. My fears were only confirmed today, however, upon a consultation with a Council spokesperson at the Housing Benefit Helpdesk. Having forced my way through a throng of reporters, I pressed the document to the glass and demanded some fucking answers. They had to come clean - they can now take £9.15 off of a household's weekly Housing Benefit payment, although in this case, they agreed to bring it back down to £9.00. Ahem.

I guess what I have also learnt is that I do actually learn new things in my job. Sadly, I have also confirmed that not everything I learn is necessarily even remotely interesting.

N.B. Having egotistically read through the last month's worth of blogging, I've noticed that I completely forgot to carry on the Quote of the Week feature on Fridays. So, here's today's one:

"The Friday 'Quote of the Week' feature has been discontinued" - Niall, QFK

The Metal

<< Indeed

Today I'm going to talk metal. You can't beat a bit of metal - I should explain that I'm referring to heavy metal, but it'll always be plain old metal to me. I have metal to thank for my sanity - there's no way I'd make it through commuting with my marbles intact if I didn't have a sonic assault blasting each ear so hard it meets in the middle like some kind of righteous fireball in my brain. Woo hah. I am, frankly, a sheep in a slowly moving pen when I'm on the Tube, or the train, so it helps to retain a little individuality. Metal, my friend, is my constant.

I like to look around the carriage at all the people who couldn't stand even a slice of the full-on thrash I'm positively feasting upon. You, over there, in the black jacket. Yeah, you, college boy. You couldn't even get through Metallica's Black Album (an impressive yet highly commercial offering) without literally soiling yourself. And you in the corner, with your iPod. I'm guessing from your hat that you're listening to indie. You may think you're the cheese, but metal's never been in fashion, so I've got some timeless shit pouring into my lugholes.

Sometimes I see the odd character who looks like s/he could swallow a riff or two. That's when I know it's time to take it up a notch. I may not look like much of an adversary, with my rotund frame and sensible shoes, but listen closer. What's that coming from my 'phones? That's right. Dragonforce, my man. Power metal, complete with Dungeons & Dragons lyrics and warp-speed widdly diddly solos. Even I can only take 20 minutes at a time, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the carriage. And that makes me different... doesn't it? Metal fact!

The first use of the phrase 'heavy metal' in a song is in Steppenwolf's Born To Be Wild.

The full line, as if you needed telling, is '"I like smoke and lightning/Heavy metal thunder/Racin' with the wind/And the feelin' that I'm under." One of the first recorded instances is in William Burroughs' novel The Soft Machine, which features a character known as The Heavy Metal Kid. Pah, that skinny beatnik probably thinks Led Zeppelin count as metal.

Try the QFK scale of metalness - download these songs and see where you draw the line:

- Bon Jovi: Livin' on a Prayer

- Metallica: Enter Sandman

- Korn: Freak on a Leash

- Megadeth: Symphony of Destruction

- Trivium: Rain

- Avenged Sevenfold: Beast and the Harlot

- Slipknot: Eyeless

- Slayer: Angel of Death

- Dragonforce: Through the Fire and Flames

- Cradle of Filth: Her Ghost in the Fog

N.B. This is not a list in order of heaviness, or indeed in order of quality. It's more a test of your metalistic limits, as each slice o' metal feels more otherwordly and wrong than the one that went before. Even I draw the line at Cradle of Filth.

Muffin Misdemeanours

<< Wrong Pluto

Today I learnt that the raspberry and white chocolate muffin currently retailing in Waitrose stores has a pouch of raspberry puree hidden within its stump. I have to admit it was not the most pleasant discovery I've made this year. Expecting another mouthful of pillow-soft, subtly fruitful sponge, my senses were ambushed by a burst of sticky, sour red goo, as the muffin emptied the potent contents of its pouch directly into my unsuspecting windpipe. If you think that sounded gay, grow up for god's sake, I'm talking muffins here, it's a serious business.

I had suspected that the muffin was not all it seemed from its doughy brethren on the shelf, which promised dark chocolate with a smooth forest fruit centre. No thank you, I thought to myself, and opted for its lighter, more ambiguous cousin. So I guess you could say I didn't learn anything. Luckily, I have another very interesting fact gleaned from a friend, who I would thank if I'd ever remembered to tell them about this blog:

The Moon is bigger than Pluto.

Pluto is no longer classified as a planet, due to it's diminutive stature, but it will always be a planet to me - it was in all the books when I was a kid, so there. These young hipsters with their eight-planet solar systems - well I remember the good old days, when we made lonely asteroids a part of the planetary gang. Sorry, I appear to have lapsed into astronomy jokes. This site is running an in-no-way horrendously spoddy campaign to reinstate Pluto as a planet. Look, we'd all like everything to be how it was in the Nineties, but what's done is done. I like the picture.

The Moon, complete with resident Man, is about 5 times bigger than Pluto. To give you a scaled-down representation, if the Moon is the muffin, then Pluto is the pustule of lukewarm jam contained therein. I'm really not happy about that muffin...

Hey, Mona

<< It'd just be obvious to put a picture of the Mona Lisa here, so here's early 90s Aussie love machine and performer of hit single 'Mona', Mr Craig McLachlan

There's not been much in the way of entertaining facts knocking about lately - again, I've had to resort to scraping the Google barrel. So, apropos of nothing:

The figure depicted in Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci is Lisa del Giocondo.

Lisa lived from 1479 to 1542 in Florence, and was the wife of a silk and cloth merchant. Her life was an unassuming, fairly comfotable middle class affair, and she came to be da Vinci's model following a request from her husband. It is only in the last few years that she has been definitively identified as the person in the painting, and rumours still persist that the painting is in fact a self-portrait, as she bears a likeness to da Vinci. We've enough trouble with people poring over his Last Supper painting, so let's just not go there. The painting is known as La Gioconda in Leo's native Italian.

The Mona Lisa has only become the world's most famous painting in the last century. It's success is hard to explain, being as it is a basic portrait of an unknown person. It's an example of an otherwise ordinary individual being propelled into the heart of modern culture through their use in a portrait or picture. Slightly less highbrow versions of this occurrence include that bloke from the Arctic Monkeys album, and the girl scratching her arse whilst playing tennis.

Down Under

<< At some point, I actually thought people in Australia walked around like this. Minus the bucket of course

I wonder how long that picture of the guy in the beanie is gonna be on the login screen. Sorry, thinking out loud. Today was one of those occasions when I dug a genuinely interesting nugget of fact from the coalface of desperation. I began by reading an article on scenic train journeys (Clapham Junction to Twickenham is a doozy, but I've got to keep up with the competition) and read that the Auckland-Wellington line in New Zealand 'runs between the country's administrative and economic capitals'. Two capitals, I thought, that doesn't sound right. Indeed, it's not (although we'll assume that Auckland's status as as economic capital is figurative), but I still hadn't learned anything.

For my next trick, I decided to pay my annual visit to Google Earth, the most pointless piece of brilliance in all the world, to see if New Zealand really is on the other side of the world. I actually sat and worked it out, using the co-ordinates and everything. The things I'll do to avoid washing up. Well, it turns out that the Antipodes Islands are almost directly opposite the UK (I measured it from London, M25-centric infidel that I am), hence the name - because:

The word 'antipodes', commonly used to describe Australia and New Zealand, means 'the other side of the world'.

The Antipodes Islands are the closest land mass to the antipodal point on the globe to Greenwich. Their antipodal point is actually a few kilometres east of Cherbourg, in France (OK, I sense you're losing interest). Have a look at some snazzy maps while I wipe my fevered brow. This shows the eastern hemisphere's antipodal points, and consequently those of the western hemisphere. What's incredible is how little the continents overlap - there are very few cities or landmarks that are antipodal to each other (the only virtually exact example of two cities I've actually heard of is Hamilton in New Zealand and Cordoba in Spain). America fills the Southern Ocean, Australia the Caribbean and the entire mass of continental Europe, Africa and Asia very nearly fits into the Pacific. Pretty freaky, man.

Of course, the fact that we refer to Australia and New Zealand as Antipodean, or Down Under (Australia's name even means southern) is pretty disparaging - who's to say that, as this map suggests, it's us on the bottom and them on the top. Maybe not - Australia beats us at every sport, we need to at least win the map battle.

Wasteroos

<< An apple pictured moments before being tossed into a rampant sea of fetid garbage. Probably

Here at Knowledge Towers, our latest edition of Ethical Consumer (the only magazine we subscribe to) has come harrumphing through the letterbox, complaining about the lack of vegetarian shoes on the rack before rifling through our fridge for Unilever products. It's a bit of a hardline publication, encouraging you to buy ethical products whilst repeatedly pointing out that really, buying anything at all is pretty unethical. Anyway, it has a feature on how little companies are doing about climate change, including nominating their most pointlessly wasteful product of the year - an electric toothbrush loaded with power-sapping gadgets that costs £180 and works as well as a £4 manual brush. While we're on the subject, you don't need to brush your tongue either.

The lack of action on climate change was highlighted by our trip to Salisbury, where recycling is now allowed in the city centre because the black boxes 'clutter the pavements' - unlike the black bags, which are a thing of wonder of course. Then to top off that and the juice-guzzling toothbrush, I found out the following:

4.4 million apples are thrown away in the U.K. every day.

Every DAY. That would be too many for an all-time figure, but every day? Jesus. Nearly 5 million apples are flown or driven into supermarkets, only to be thrown in the bin. I feel like a tiny green bag of recycling in a gargantuan, teeming ocean of landfill. My Sunday just got a lot more depressing. Did these people never watch Sesame Street? If you wasted water, or electricity, or food, you would be a wasteroo. And if I remember correctly, that was something that you shouldn't want to do.

Sorvodinium

<< Salisbury: Officially nicer than Swindon



I'm blogging at this unseemly hour of the day, where I'd much rather still be asleep, because we're heading off to Salisbury, to visit my dad's new flat. I grew up in Wiltshire, and Salisbury was always my favourite of the 'big three' - namely, the three large towns with shops that were all an hour's bus ride away (the others being Bath and Swindon). It's a place with a lot of significance for me - I met Claire there (by Robert Dyas) and, in a slightly less positive incident, got refused entry to a pub due to lack of ID (why didn't I just take it with me? Ah, the impudence of youth) only to watch all my friends go in without me. I then had to mooch about in the car park for two hours until they came back out. Not that I'm still really bitter about it or anything.



Anyway, some interesting things about Salisbury (most of which I have to say I already knew) - it's cathedral has the tallest spire in the country; it's known in modern Welsh as Caersallog (what on Earth is the point of giving it a Welsh name? Like Welsh people won't be able to find it if it's just called Salisbury... it's best not to get me started on that) and it has the postcode SP, even though there's no P in Salisbury (well, maybe on Friday nights). Salisbury also shares its name with towns in Canada, Australia and the U.S., as well as being the former name for Harare, capital of Zimbabwe. But anyway, before I run out entirely, here's my Salisbury-related fact of the day:



The Romans knew Salisbury as Sorvodinium.



Something else I know about Salisbury is that it's not near any motorways, so the journey there will consist of an hour-long crawl to the M25, a traffic-clogged barrel down the M3, and a tedious, windy denouement into the city centre. So we'd better get started.

Through The Keyhole

<< Grossman: "My GAAHD, my keyhole's full of GLUUUUW"



I've learned a lot of London facts today, for instance that the London Marathon only began in 1981, and runs from Blackheath to Buckingham Palace, or that Shazia from The Apprentice runs a shop that I pass on the way to the Tube (presumably the business hasn't grown because she keeps going home halfway through stocktaking). All very exciting, but I think I've had enough London facts for a while - it's time to head somewhere a bit more exotic, like Palermo in Sicily. Famous for the football team's brilliant kit, and not a lot else. OK, famous for the Mafia - those Sicilians really need to diversify. And, like a man with a credit card bill and a glamorous wife who's packing her suitcase, we're turning in desperation to the Cosa Nostra for today's fact:


To signify that they intend to claim protection money from small business owners, Mafiosi will put glue in their keyholes.


That's not a euphemism, by the way - the poor proprietor comes home to find they can't get back into their house, a sure sign that the boys in black are after a slice of pizzo (the term given to protection money in Sicily, and yes, it was a good pun, wasn't it). The Mafia basically demand a 'negotiable' sum to protect small businesses - if they refuse, the Mafia turn the places over. So basically you may money to the Mafia, so they protect you against themselves. There's a rip off if ever I heard one.


Some residents are now standing up to the mobsters, flat-out refusing to pay them off, which I'll freely admit I'd never have the balls to do. There's a very interesting article about it here, but I still haven't finished that cursed application form, so that's your lot.

Master William

<< A disappointingly sass-free Smith

I think today's fact ably demonstrates how my lust for trivia can kick in even during the most depressing, heart-wrenching pieces of literature. I was reading an article, admittedly in crap free paper Shortlist - by the way guys, you don't have to put a caption on EVERY SINGLE PICTURE - about the fateful epidemic of gun crime amongst African-Americans in Philadelphia, but to be honest, all I can remember is this:

Will Smith really was born and raised in Philadelphia.

Specifically, he was in fact actually brought up in West Philadelphia, just as the funky theme tune to the Fresh Prince testifies. This is on a couple of different sites, although someone's pushed it too far on Wikipedia by claiming that 'he would spend most of his time in the playground, playing basketball, outside of the school', to which the moderators have attached a snippy 'citation needed' footnote. Uh, it's in the song? Freaking idiots. It seems that The Fresh Prince was pretty much autobiographical for ol' Big Willy - he did indeed move to Beverley Hills and live the high life, riding a wave of success as part of immortal U.S. duo Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince.

Admittedly, they did decide to omit this part of his life story from the song - as far as I recall, he is transported from playground to mansion because his mum was worried about him getting beaten up, and then apparently gets a cab all the way to California (or they just cut half the credits out after the pilot overran by 2 minutes). You can check out the full, only-ever-seen-once (well, probably about four times with all the repeats) pilot credits here, but I still don't think it mentions a rap group, a car in a swimming pool and a slow embarrassing fall from limelight, to the point where he was prepared to do some stupid show called 'The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air'.

I've got a lot of time for The Fresh Prince though. There's always one funny bit (Carlton does a dance, Will gives Phil some sass, G delivers a put-down that varies from dry wit to all-out slander) and always a serious, moral bit at the end. It's like The Simpsons that knew when to quit. And I mean, just look at the DVD cover. How could it fail? That's all for today - I've got to do the other half of that application, and I think I'd better remove my desperate mention of this very blog, which I described as a commentary on current affairs, when it is in fact quite clearly a jibbering diatribe on 20-year-old TV shows...

Guns and Ammo

I have but 15 minutes to burst forth with the fruits of my ever-learning brain, as I've been doing an application form, and it's now only quarter of an hour until Sir Alan Sugar slumps into his boardroom chair and gazes incredulously at the shower of idiots in front of him, rememberingly forlornly that he actually has to give one of them a six-figure salary, and emitted a weary, frustrated sigh. He will then send them off to do an insultingly menial task - clean dirty pants, hawk fish out the back of a lorry, whatever - in vain hope of at least finding common sense and motor skills amongst the gaggle of apes we call the candidates. They will return having unilaterally failed every task put in front of them. We will cackle with delight.

Sorry. Only got ten minutes now. God, I love the Apprentice. Anyway, speaking of job hunts, I am indeed looking for a way of the housing game, but of course, had pretty much the best day yet at my current work. It's what I think of as haircut syndrome - the moment you book an appointment to get your straggly, sweaty mane sheared off at the barber's, it suddenly looks thoroughly becoming, almost poetic. I never have haircuts - I guess that's why my hair never looks good. Anyway, I'm pondering how I go about moving into a different field, so I've gone for a job that combines what I do now with a bit of journalism. An ideal sidestep, you might think, but is it all a touch too logical? Turning to Fact of the Day for a slice of knowledge, I think I may have got a little fate wafer on the side:

St. Adrian Nicomedia is the patron saint of arms dealers.

OK, so maybe I'm a little too pasty, softly spoken and in possession of a soul to be the next Adnan Khashoggi, but maybe after a couple of years working in care professions, it's time for a change of pace. I reckon I've bought me enough karma to spend, ooh, 30 seconds selling guns to orphans. To be honest, I consider working in a newsagent to be beyond my moral code, but that's what fate is telling me - time to scrap the journalism and buy me some guns 'n' ammo. Hang on though - Adrian Nicomedia? I guess I'll have to combine the two. The NRA's PR department has a vacancy, after all...

The King Is Dead, Long Live The King Singers

<< Checkmate, or as it's known in modern parlance, 'You're fired'

It's back to Iran today, but purely by coincidence - I don't have any more ill-informed views on their system of governance to offer just yet. Instead, I'm looking at a more light-hearted subject, although perhaps not to those who play it. I'm talking chess, which in many ways is symbolic of the battles at the heart of global politics, with the masses as mere pawns, pushed around by really big hands... OK, I won't go down that road. Here's the fact:

The term 'checkmate' comes from the Persian phrase 'shah mat' which loosely translates as 'the king has been ambushed'.

It is claimed by many sources (including the notoriously unreliable rag that is Servite Housing's weekly e-newsletter) that 'checkmate', preferably followed by a swift Countdown-style sip of water (you know, when they get the conundrum), actually means 'the king is dead'. Unfortunately it doesn't - 'mat' comes from the verb 'mandan' which (again, loosely) means 'abandoned' or 'ambushed'. Although if he has been abandoned and ambushed, he'd have to be a bloody good King to avoid becoming dead as a consequence.

I can play chess reasonably well, and it is really my last experience of taking part in a knockout competition. For an overweight, apathetic slob, I'm pretty competitive when there's a title to be won - hence my love of Mario & Sonic at the Olympics, where I'm not ashamed to admit I've brought home the gold on a pretty regular basis. Sadly, I've never found a real-life pursuit I'm good enough at to enter competitions in, so I'm stuck with a semi-final place at the Rowde School Junior Chess Club knockout cup competition.

I was pitted against a kid called Wayne who baffled everyone by being relentlessly average at everything, except for chess, which he was amazing at. Nowadays we'd have picked up on the glaring signs of advanced autism, but this was a simpler time. I was the rank outsider versus the Bobby Fischer of central Wiltshire, with a shot at glory within my grasp. He crushed me like an insect. I have never returned to the sporting arena since, despite my third-place play-off victory against a 6-year-old with white hair who seemed to be breathing through the top of his head.

Who's The Daddy

<< A rare moment of cordiality in the ongoing Iran-USA playground dust-up

For the second day running the Quest has turned to vaguely political matters (rest assured fart gags and gameshow references will return shortly). The Olympic torch continued its cataclysmic jaunt around Europe, getting extinguished four times on its way round Paris. It's just disgusting - The French are beating us at everything! Better food, nicer weather, a more charismatic leader, and now they've turned us over 4-0 at symbolic torch snuffing. Britannia is weeping.

I'm not set to impart another Olympic fact (though rest assured, I have plenty in the locker) but am turning from China to another nation that likes to sit at the back of the UN chamber, chewing gum with their walkman blaring while carving a large 'I' in the desk - I'm talking, of course, about Iran. It's long been next on George Bush's hitlist (I won't call him Dubya - it makes him sound like a cartoonish oaf rather than the deeply sinister man he really is), but has so far avoided being forcibly introduced to liberty. I wonder that the odds were 2 years ago on Bush (a) not invading Iran and (b) being replaced by a black guy - stratospheric, I should imagine.

But what of the leader of Iran? Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a controversial figure, to put it mildly - his Chavez-esque antagonism of the Western world had gone some way to endearing him to me, but sadly he appears to be a right-wing loon of the highest order. He has stated that the Holocaust is a myth, and that Israel should be wiped off the map, before claiming that he is not anti-Semitic. I'd have to say that you couldn't really get much more anti-Semitic than that. He appears to be sending his country back onto a more conservative path, following the kiboshed efforts of the previous president, Mohammad Khatami, to introduce widespread reforms. But who was stopping him? After all, Ahmadinejad has been built up as some kind of crazed dictator by the Western press, so surely he, and the presidents before, answer to no-one? Well, while I'm sure most people know the answer to this, I did not.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is the president of Iran, but he is not the leader. Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, successor to Ayatollah Khomeini, is the supreme leader of the country.

Now, I'd like to point out before I come across as an ignorant doofus, that I was aware that Ayatollah Khomeini was once the leader of Iran. However, the media attention afforded to the new president led me to believe that he was now the daddy, so to speak. But no, he answers to the new Ayatollah, who has been supreme leader since 1989 and who technically controls all aspects of the nation's economy, politics and media. A crazy, embarrassingly outdated system, I think you'll agree. Khamenei has even stepped in to cool the fires created by the president, claiming that "Iran has never threatened and will never threaten another country", the diplomatic equivalent of leave it George, he's not worth it. Ahmadinejad has, according to Wikipedia anyway, attempted diplomatic discourse with the U.S. administration on a number of occasions, only to be told to do one. So, the malevolent world leader we've all seen on our front pages appears to be quite different in reality.

The fact that I'm so in the dark about the leadership of such an influential nation is a sad indictment of not only my ignorance, but that of so many around the world. A client I have at work, who was born in Iran, informed me that you only need an MOT every ten years. I realised that in spite of my best efforts to be culturally aware and globally minded, my subconscious still perceived Iran as a place stuck in the Dark Ages, with a people dominated and broken down by religious and cultural oppression. I didn't imagine people popping to the garage to get their brake pads checked (admittedly, they don't have to go that often). I guess that's a drop in the ocean of mutual suspicion and misunderstanding that will one day destroy the world. Like I said, fart gags and gameshow references will be back soon.

Keep The Fire Burnin'

<< If you've missed the real thing, catch the Olympic burning bag of recycling, just off Mitcham Rd this afternoon

The Olympic flame travels through old London town today, bringing with it images of great sporting triumph, hastily papered over a less appealing vista of human rights being slowly eroded. The torch is travelling from Wembley to the O2 (OK, the Millennium Dome) on public transport, so don't expect it to be back in Beijing by August. The torch will be passed through a frankly insane 135 cities in 20 different countries, and comes equipped with 3 flame attendants and all manner of gadgets to ensure it doesn't go out:

The Olympic flame can keep burning through 65mph winds and rain of up to 50mm an hour.

It made it all the way to Athens last time, only to go out in the Olympic Stadium. So what happened next? Well, they relit it. The Olympics did not have to be called off. All of which makes you wonder what the point is - even I can't feign interest in watching an artificial fire being marched through Stratford on a wintry Sunday afternoon, and I can get excited about pretty much any meaningless sporting event. Also, in this era of supposed climate change awareness, hauling an inanimate object around the world and booking it plane seats and hotel rooms just makes me want to throw my recycling into the garden and start a bonfire with it. Anyway, if you're in the capital and fancy glimpsing this majestic symbol of human oppression and carbon carelessness, it's currently approaching the British Museum before an in-no-way-tokenistic trip to Chinatown...

The Gambler

<< Iron Man: only marginally slower than his equine namesake, and better at jumping

It's Grand National Day, which as we all know is a fine excuse for some reckless gambling. Here at Knowledge Towers we cleared out the savings and put £10 on six different horses. Yeah, we like to hedge our bets, but we managed to pick the winner, second place and fourth, so it paid off. Admittedly, my 100-1 shot and Foinavon for the Millennium, Iron Man, ran into the second fence while all the others carried on - a sort of reverse Foinavon, then.

We could have had a clean sweep had Claire's pick, Mr Pointment, not given up the ghost from a winning position. I guess that's what you get for picking a pun to win the Grand National. Anyway, I was pleased to pick the top two, but slightly dejected to only win about £12. It got me thinking - how much money can you really make from gambling? There may have been reports of footballers getting sent off deliberately to appease bookmakers that have their balls in a juicer to the tune of £50,000, but try telling this Midwest couple that gambling doesn't pay:

Leslie Robbins and Colleen de Vries from Wisconsin won $111,240,463.10 in the US Powerball Lottery, the largest single sum ever won through gambling.

It makes a mockery of my ability to buy M&Ms instead of Somerfield chocolate thanks to Comply Or Die's victory, but for those tempted to lay a little more on the line in the name of gambling, a cautionary tale that proves there's no such thing as a dead cert. Anyway, I'd better go, the Gaelic football season's started and Paddy Power are offering 6-4 on Cork to beat County Monaghan. It's a steal I tell ya, Cork are due. Hand me that credit card...

P.S. While we're on the Grand National, have a look at this clip from the farcical 1993 race, which was declared null and void. I remember being 10 years old and a guy in a shop telling me that it had been cancelled, and thinking to myself what a truly rotten attempt at a fib it was. But it was true, much to the horror of the winning jockey. Fast forward to the end - he crosses the line in first, fist clenched in triumph, only to be told by his competitors that the race has been chalked off. He pulls off his goggles, wipes away a tear and utters the only word that comes to mind...

Quote of the Week: Our Survey Said...

<< One of these men will be appearing in a panto near you this Christmas

A new feature for Fridays (maybe) - it's Quote of the Week! I've seen two good quotes this week, so it's a dead heat between the following:

"Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities" - Voltaire

"You know (Tony) Hancock - I had his torture without his genius" - Les Dennis

I've always seen quoting verbatim as being a bit pretentious, but I've got to admit both of these are zingers. I do, however, still need a fact to bring the whole thing together. So what could possibly connect these equally great men, planted in different spheres, across different centuries? They both just won Quote of the Week, but apart from that it's looking bleak. Hang on a minute though:

Voltaire and Les Dennis both used stage names.

Voltaire is an all-out pseudonym - the cheeky Renaissance scamp was really called Francois-Marie Arouet. No wonder he changed it - he had a girl's name. Voltaire was an outspoken supporter of religious freedom, social reform and civil liberties, and is quite partial to an episode of Family Fortunes with his Chinese takeaway. Les Dennis - real name Leslie Dennis Heseltine - was asked to comment on Voltaire's treatises on philosophical optimism, and exclusively told us "I don't really know"...

A Can of Red Bull & a Bargain Bucket

To celebrate the exceedingly dry nature of today's fact supply, it's time to debunk a watery myth that I've never quite believed:

You don't need to drink eight glasses of water each day to avoid dehydration.

I seem to get by on a can of Red Bull and a glass of fizz most days, and while I do occasionally have the minor side-effect of waking up at 6am with my brain feeling like it's been set on fire, I seem to get by. If I had to have averaged eight glasses over my adult life, my body would resemble a large sultana and my wee would be the colour and consistency of oxtail soup. It seems instead that the liquid you take in from food is actually just about sufficient to maintain bodily hydration, although I'd like to stress that I'm not advocating this approach - particularly if your daily food intake happens to consist of two Snickers and a bargain bucket of chicken. Of course, experts advise that you drink some water during the day as sweet fizz, tea and coffee contain things that aren't quite so good for you. To which I say - whatever, I do what I want...

If You're Inuit

<< A drunken Inuit searches desperately for his front door key

With an impending evening engagement to attend to, and with nothing learnt thus far today, I'm clutching at straws. I tried a bit of random fact generation by using this site and going for the 27th category, then the 27th sub-category, and then the 27th fact, but ended up reading about whether you can convert from a front-row to a second-row forward in rugby. The only rugby-based transformation I was ever interested in was moving from playing rugby to not playing rugby, and I managed that ten years ago, so we'll move on. So, to something completely different:

Traditional igloos were built only by Inuits who lived in particular areas of Canada and Greenland, and were used as temporary shelters.

Igloos used for longer-term living were generally much larger, and connected to other buildings by tunnels. They were also lined with whale hides. Some Inuit villages were basically groups of large, interconnecting igloos. That must have been cool. It doesn't seem that igloos are all that prevalent any more - I guess Travelodge have started making inroads into the Arctic already...

I Pity The Fool

<< If Murdoch played one more plane-based April Fool on T, he was gonna meet his friend Pain

Another themed slice of knowledge coming up, as we delve into the murky history of April Fools' Day. Maybe it's just because I've got older, but it just doesn't seem to be the occasion that it once was - I feel as though spring japes are the property of newspapers, and there's little imagination amongst the general public. I think the draconian midday deadline doesn't help - it only takes one superbly executed, yet slightly mistimed practical joke, and the subsequent status of fool being unfairly placed upon you, and it's never the same again.

Another wet flannel on the face of foolery is that I now appear to have a job that is far too serious and responsible. What kind of tricks can I play? "I'm sorry, I know your rent arrears are only £30, but we've had enough. We want you and your children out by teatime. Um... April Fool. Please stop crying..." I'd like to point out that my job does not actually entail evicting families from their homes, but if you work in housing, rent is your lord and master. Maybe it's just the British who have lost their sense of humour, what with the invisible recession looming and all. In Denmark, it seems, they can't fit all the skylarkings into one day:

Denmark has two days each year devoted to practical jokes - Aprilsnar on 1 April, and Majkat on 1 May.

At least some people in the UK are still making the effort - Real Radio announced earlier today that a space shuttle was due to land at Cumbernauld Airport - several exceedingly gullible people headed down there to see it arrive. Other famous April Fools' Day japes can be found here - my personal favourites being Taco Bell's renaming of the Liberty Bell to - you guessed it - the Taco Liberty Bell (good because it's only just beyond the realms of possibility) and the Guardian inventing an island named and shaped after printing terminology. You know you're reading a broadsheet when they play a font-based practical joke on you...