The Life and Times of Miblo del Carpio

(Continuing the story...)

...into a fairly wide variety of venues through the years, beginning with my musical home for the early ones, St. Peter's Primary School Hall; where I started off by playing Guitar 2 (for pieces with more than one part for a certain instrument, the 2nd part would generally be easier to play and require less proficiency than the 1st part) in the Junior Orchestra - although if my memory serves me well, the Junior Orchestra rarely performed, but functioned as a proving ground through which a musician would proceed to the Senior Orchestra. Which I soon did, no doubt, and we would have our rehearsals and play for the school assemblies at the end of each week. This is where I would learn the value of disciplined rehearsal, and discover the joys of playing music in the midst of a largish group of musicians. It was a 'natural joy', I think, inasmuch as it felt no less unusual than breathing, and I found myself feeling fairly at home.

These weekly assemblies (or, rather, the music contained within) weren't the only musical activities at Primary School, for each year in the Summer the whole of the Upper Juniors (Years 5 and 6, I think) and the Senior Orchestra would put on a musical production for all our parents to come and see. For the first ones - although I can't remember in which order we performed them - I would have done a mixture of singing, - I'm not sure that I ever had any dialogue, so no acting, - and playing of the guitar. Then, later on, once I'd learnt to play the bass guitar, I remember playing both that and the classical guitar for a production called 'The Beatles'. The other shows I remember doing were called 'The Apprentices' - all music written by Mr. Brown, and on the subject of Samuel Greg's Quarry Bank Mill in Styal, which we had been to visit to learn about how the poor apprentices were treated; 'Captain Cook' - again, all the music written by Mr. Brown, and about the eponymous explorer who captained HM Bark Endeavour in the first European expedition to Australasia, and about whom we had learnt on a school holiday to Whitby; also my mum remembers my doing 'Joseph' when I was in Year 2, for which Mr. Brown would undoubtedly have arranged the music.

But even further to these yearly productions, I remember recording engineers coming in to record some of our music (one of them evidently perceiving some skill in my bass playing and giving me his card, which I've unfortunately misplaced, but by which I was encouraged in the knowledge that I was going about my bass playing in a way that people enjoyed), and I even took part in two Music for Youth Competitions, and had the wonderful good fortune to play in the most prestigious of all the venues in which I've played to date, London's Royal Festival Hall. I played bass for a small selection of pieces from 'The Apprentices', as a part of a pretty select group of musicians - there being only one line of us, possibly twelve or so, with Mr. Brown playing the piano - and received a special mention from the adjudicators for my timing and being able to keep the music together without a conductor. Still, in my life, I was yet to do anything wrong. My playing was improving year on year.

Also, while we're on the subject - a little bit of a let down for the final paragraph - I once played my Classical Guitar at Stockport Town Hall as a part of our school orchestra in various pieces including Holst's 'Jupiter' from The Planets and Elgar's 'Pomp and Circumstance', with the Mayor in attendance. That may probably be the extent of my musical extravaganzas in Primary School, leaving the remainder of them in High School and those extracurricular extravaganzas for (yet) another article.

(Next part of the story...)

For reasons unbeknownst to me and which I never hope to understand, Channel 4 insists on bringing us the periodical whipping, guffawing and jingling festivities known locally as horse racing, which rudely takes the place of Countdown and the mental stimulation that that programme brings. 'But don't you see, young man, we give the beasts exercise!' a man with whiskers and a hat attempts, continuing, 'Just imagine the poor state they would be in if we didn't take them out of the sloth of the fields and feed them up and make them strong!' The argument he makes is apparently well-rehearsed, by the easy and forceful manner with which he delivers it. And yet he isn't finished, 'And why shouldn't I come and spend my well-earned money on them, urging them on with all my lungs, and in the process exercising my powers of statistics, arithmetic and odds?' The simple answer takes the form of a question: 'Would you enjoy being whipped around a racing course in order to further line the pockets of those who come and bet and shout you on?' Not being an imperialist, I readily acknowledge that differing replies will come from different people, with those being followers and those opposers providing different answers.

The outcome of this moral and scheduling blunder on the part of Channel 4 has meant that Susie isn't here today for me to enjoy her Origin of Words, and so I cannot be inspired by her for my own Word of the Week. Thus I must recourse to the traditional method of me coming up with a word on my own.

Word of the Week

Etymology

etymology n. (pl. -ies) 1 a the historically verifiable sources of the formation of a word and the development of its meaning. b an account of these. 2 the branch of linguistic science concerned with etymologies.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

(Continuing the story...)

...thus, having learnt these instruments (at least to a sufficient proficiency), the logical progression was then into school halls, concert halls, theatres and clubs where I could have some fun and share what I'd learnt with those who cared to come and listen.

However, the full conclusion to this story must wait for yet another day, since I've found the allurement of Facebook to be too strong on this occasion, and have succumbed for many hours while this page has been open, sitting patiently, waiting for me to write. Organising ones thoughts is the key, and then writing them down is made simpler. With some luck that will happen if not tomorrow, then on the next day.

(Next part of the story...)

This is really the most flying of visits, and which very nearly almost wasn't to be, because the computer has been in use until only very recently and, wanting to watch Frida - which is just beginning on BBC1 - I had considered, for the first time in this chapter, not writing an article today.

Amidst a barrage of lightning flashes and crashes of thunder, I make may way home through the night with a second - would you believe it? - a second assignment clasped in my hand. My computing prowess (/me sniffs), it seems, is becoming common knowledge amongst my peers, and, not wishing to miss a trick, two have enlisted me as their internet expert of choice. Of choice, I cannot stress enough, for now in these enlightened days a person acquainted with the arcane art of computing and web design is barely more difficult to find than, say, a cricket devotee at Headingley a week ago, and thus a plethora of such people would surely have been at both of my friends' disposals.

Of course, all this is nonsense, and I barely know more about web design than perhaps the average cricket devotee at Headingley last week; but with my general knowledge of computers and seeming fluency with things pertaining to, I think my friends have developed enough trust in me to manage designing and creating a website, one website each.

The first is no secret, and has been mentioned before: the website of the Ukrainian band in which I play, Yarema. It has been entrusted to me by our drummer Andy, and I'm currently in the process of learning how to use CSS, in an effort to create a tableless web layout. A blog (possibly courtesy of the beautifully open-source WordPress) will be implemented for our news, as well as maybe a forum (perhaps phpBB) as a place for our 'fans' to come and discuss their favourite tracks, band member, and all that kind of stuff. 'Twill also have pages of biographical information for each of us, and information on gigs we've played, with possibly pages dedicated to each venue (although this hasn't yet been discuss - as hasn't the forum, I don't think).

The second website, as commissioned by my old friend Marc, is something more of a secret. It is an original-ish idea, the success of which may suffer if any/too many details are released about it, thus I must leave you to be contented with the scant knowledge that it is to be 'a website'. In fact, it wouldn't harm too much to say that it'll be 'a website dedicated to sport'. It'll also be a more complicated website than Yarema's, because I'll need to learn how to use databases (most probably either MySQL or PostgreSQL, although I won't discount Oracle, because I have a relative who has lines of code in Oracle's source, and his knowledge could be very helpful); yes, I'll need to learn how to use databases to make the site functional.

Who would have thought it? A person of my humble beginnings being elevated to the lofty status of Webmaster!

After plenty of cajoling from various friends to get one of the damn things, I've finally been persuaded, by probably one of the very few people who could have done it, to get my own Facebook account.

The first exhilarating moments were just that, exhilarating; seeking out all the friends I had, and seeing what they're up to now and what they look like. But after having an account for a few days, I now see it in a slightly different light: further to the exhilaration, I now identify it as being a covert attempt to supersede XMoto for the 'Distraction of the Year Award 2008'. It's a little-known fact that, while I ought to be writing on my blog like a good and well-behaved young lad, XMoto is wont to garner my attention, and draw me away from my work. Now in its place, or sitting right beside it, we find Facebook. And this is the reason you now find me blogging way into the middle of the night (currently 3:23), when, were it not for such distractions, it would have been done hours ago.

And it isn't just the Facebook site itself which proves distracting, but the sites I find myself discovering while I browse. The latest discovery has been the Finnish music group Loituma, whom I discovered after joining the Linguistics group on Facebook, and learning of a person being drawn to Finnish after discovering a certain video containing a song they sing, 'Ievan Polkka' (which is the song as sung by them in the video below, although it isn't the video to which the guy referred). I've since spent a fair amount of time seeking them out on YouTube, and on Wikipedia, and then downloading their début album with Nicotine+. A fine enough way to spend ones time, but sleeping at this hour would be far more beneficial.

(Continuing the story...)

...where music seemed to me to be a very exotic subject. It wasn't one of the main subjects in my Primary School, and I'm not even sure that it was taught at all until Mr. Brown arrived in my second year (Year One, after Reception), but when I was fortunate enough to have a music lesson it was to me a real treat.

I think my first introduction to actually playing a musical instrument was when I went for my piano lessons with Mrs. Phipps at the age of six. Through her I was even introduced to an accordion group, and applied my knowledge of the piano to this crazy new instrument. I'm not sure I'd even encountered an accordion before joining this group, and I remember us going on to play our accordions for some festival or other nearby. I don't think it was a competition - just a day of festivities and music. Nothing for me to be festive about (as a lot of things don't seem to be), since all this music and this instrument was completely new to me; but it was fun to play and to bring enjoyment to people.

While all this was going on, I'd already passed the age of seven and begun guitar lessons with Mr. Thompson (pictured, on left, after Mr. Brown's retirement concert). I remember we would have lessons in groups of maybe three or four - something I wasn't accustomed to, after my solitary lessons on the piano - and I found it was as much fun to play in a group, as it was to learn to play the instrument. An interesting way, in fact, to learn, I think, because we each could listen to the others and learn from their as well as our own mistakes. And it was different from the accordion group, because in these guitar lessons the goal was to learn the instrument, whereas with the accordion group the goal seemed to me to be to practice playing pieces for performance - something of a difference of approach, you will no doubt acknowledge.

Then, towards the end of my time at St. Peter's, the guy who had played the Bass Guitar in the school orchestra, Jonathan Wrigley, who was a year above me, left (or was due to leave), and a new bassist was needed. Finding myself the chosen candidate, I wilfully took up the challenge, and needed only a lesson or two with Mr. Thompson, applying my guitar playing skills to the bass, to find myself taking to it like a duck to water, and wholly in the orchestra in my new position; even having to play a little solo for the first assembly, so the school could hear the instrument.

Soon, a group of us in school decided we'd get together and play some music, so I'd find myself (on a Sunday afternoon, if I'm not mistaken) at Michael Hudson's house, with Joe Drury and Luke O'Neill, and we'd play such things as 'Smoke on the Water', the 'James Bond Theme Tune' and the 'Mission Impossible Theme Tune' - which Mike told us was in 5/4. Learning all the time, you see! I'd be on bass, and we'd have a mottly collection of keyboards and drumpads, and another guitar, and Mike on his junior-sized drum kit. During one of these rehearsals, Mike got me seated behind his kit, and taught me the rudimentary 4/4 rhythm (the one commonly heard on Michael Jackson's hit single 'Billie Jean'), and found myself enjoying this just as much as the other instruments.

I'm not sure that we had anywhere in mind to play, and were just happy to be playing and enjoying making music. The current sum total of the instruments I can play (to varying degrees) are documented here, but there have been many memorable events at which I've played, which I'll hope to document in the coming articles.

(Next part of the story...)

Yeah, we're just about two-thirds through this one-a-day fiasco, and it's worth clarifying that, since it all began on the fourth of this month, the next chapter will begin on the fourth of next (or after), thus ending this present one on the third.

Word of the Week

Elixir

elixir n. 1 Alchemy a a preparation supposedly able to change metals into gold. b (in full elixir of life) a preparation supposedly able to prolong life indefinitely. c a supposed remedy for all ills. 2 Pharm. an aromatic solution used as a medicine or flavouring.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

It cannot be underestimated the importance of my very early childhood on my musical development. Before beginning school, and even probably before I took my first breath, music was all around me. Naturally I cannot remember any of it affecting me consciously while I was as yet unborn, and I cannot claim to have felt a profound love for that which I heard as a baby, then as a toddler, and then as a young child; but unconsciously though it happened, I feel that all this music has affected me and contributed to my development.

My dad, you see, is a musician, and as a child (me being the child) he would play his guitar, playing what I think are old folk songs, and music by people like John Denver. Now, I can't claim now to be the founder or leading figure of any John Denver appreciation groups - not because I don't like the man, but because I haven't actually heard him play, apart from the odd snippet I might have seen of him in a music documentary - but I feel that this simple act of my dad's, of playing his guitar within my earshot, did spark my interest in the instrument, and provided the foundation for my great love (some generously disposed people may say 'talent') for music.

Further to my dad's playing, I seem to remember there being music on regularly in the house. There wasn't a profusion, mind you, and it certainly wasn't playing every waking hour of the day, but I remember it being around. However, I cannot remember exactly what music I was hearing back then, but I can safely say that, like my dad's playing, the music I listen to and love now bares little resemblance to the music I heard as a child. But the same principal applies, I think: the mere existence of music around me, whatever it was, so long as it was music - rhythms, melodies, textures, harmonies, etc. - has had a lasting, albeit possibly indirect/inactive, effect on me and my life.

It wasn't till I went to school that I was introduced more fully to the joys of learning and creating music.

(Next part of the story...)

Beginning to write only now (at 1:46 on Tuesday morning), after having been voraciously watching all manner of musical videos (predominantly performances of Ravel's piano music) on YouTube, when a topic as life-affirming and wide-reaching as the musical extravaganzas in which I have been fortunate enough in my life to have participated is due to be documented, is a pretty undesirable and unwise situation to be in.

Since a true and fair coverage of this topic must need to stretch back to the early years of my life, and bring us right up now to the last concert I played on Thursday of last week, nay even up to my playing of Ravel's piano music earlier today (or yesterday on Monday), it is only right that a substantial amount of time and effort goes into the thought and production of the text. To rush it now, and then scoot off to bed, would do the thing a grave disservice; omitting as I must some necessary details and perhaps whole chapters of my life. Thus now a prelude must suffice, with maybe minuets and forlanes, and perhaps a waltz or two, describing portions of my life in music, coming right along to draw the picture.

(First part of the story...)

Thankfully my grandad's condition wasn't terminal. We had him snuggled up in a bed last night, with a hot water bottle at his feet and a bowl by his side, which he did have to use in the night as well as the morning. But after all his sickness he had a glass of water and felt sufficiently recovered to go back home. Sugared and salted peanuts, we think, were the cause.

There has also today been something of an interesting development, viz. it has been discovered that between yesterday and today the registration plate from the front of our car has been either pinched or by some other means become detached from our car. It's lost either way so we've ordered another, and in the mean time dad has made another one out of cardboard and permanent black marker to do the job until the replacement arrives.

Today my grandparents, their neighbours Brian and Angela, and my uncle Stanley came over. We'd had a pleasant enough day, up until it was discovered that my grandad's health isn't quite right. So not right, that he's been sick a few times, felt unable to go back home with grandma et al., and is now staying at ours for the night.

So it's all hands to the pump to put the poor man in as little discomfort as we can, and you'll understand that blogging today is not my highest priority.

Yeah, just quickly, there were a few people present at yesterday's concert who I neglected to mention: the radically changed and grown up (to my eyes, at least, although not to all) Francesca, Daniela's younger sister, who I discovered is going to study the wonderful combination of Spanish and Italian at University; the luxuriantly retired Mr. O'Neil, ex-Headmaster of St. Peter's, who I discovered, upon telling him that I'm studying English Language and Literature, that he studied Literature and that he now spends his time very wisely by making frequent visits to the theatre; and the (presumably) romantically renamed Miss Flynn, who I discovered is no longer so called.

There may in fact be more people I haven't mentioned, who may come to rescue me if/when I find myself short of the sufficient time or health to write the more substantial piece I have in mind about the musical extravaganzas in which I have been luckily involved.

It really was a very moving occasion, this evening. So moving that I was almost crying as it came to its conclusion. So moving, indeed, that it's hard for me to find suitable words befitting such an occasion!

For seventeen years Mr. Brown had filled St. Peter's Primary School with his boundless enthusiasm and dedication for music, beginning the year after I started, in September 1991, after I and all of my year had graduated from Reception to Year 1, and I feel I can honestly say that, were it not for him, it would be quite likely that I wouldn't be so passionate now as I am about music. My guitar teacher, Mr. Thompson (who played this evening, sitting next to me), also helped nurture my feelings for music, so I think without either of those men being in my life I would be a significantly different person (maybe not quite a bad thing as it is at the moment, but I mean it entirely positively with regard to my musical life - which is the most significant part of it) from the one I am today.

This evening's celebrations of Mr. Brown's time at St. Peter's were truly wonderful. Perhaps I didn't feel pangs of nostalgia in quite the force I was expecting while playing songs right from my early childhood, and it's true that I didn't feel entirely at home in the orchestra made up of mostly people I couldn't recognise, but when the old teachers came forward at the end to sing a secretly rehearsed rendition of 'Thank You for the Music' with alternate words, arranged and accompanied on the piano by the fantastic Matt Brown (son of Mr. Brown), and afterwards when speeches were made and presents given, I was finding it pretty hard to suppress the tears and overcome the lump in the throat. Even now, as I write, the memories are threatening to flood the sockets.

But further to the celebrations and the music, I was able to see and speak with people I hadn't seen (or spoke to) in a good few years. My old friend Andy Hyde, I saw, with his girlfriend Natasha (I hope I've remembered that right); Mrs. Guest, my old English teacher (at least I think it was English - it was over eleven years ago, after all!) and mum of Laura - although Laura couldn't make it; Mrs. Mullarkey, another of my teachers, and mum of Simon - him being in Spain to see Leonard Cohen perform on a beach! thus unable to be here; Mr. Thompson, of course, who I also hadn't seen for a while; Nicola Ostrowska had been there playing First Clarinet as she always had done in school (at least, I imagine she did); Laura Blincow, who I was astoundingly surprised to see behind the bar when I went to get a glass of tonic water, but with whom I unfortunately couldn't stay and speak because the second half was looming, and I almost missed the beginning of it as it was!; and, last but certainly not least, the love of my youth, tormentor, and trouble-causer, Daniela Shepherd.

A wonderful end, I think, to an insurmountably wonderful career. Please, let us all hold hands now, and collectively send out hope that Mr. Brown (and Mr. Brown, Jnr., of course) will be back (I'm not advocating dragging the poor man out of retirement, though, you understand; but that he will be back) and we'll all of us be able to get together again, and relive parts of our childhood through the music that he so thoughtfully created for us.

(during the interval, from left to right) Mr. David Brown, Jess, me and Matt Brown

In my enthusiasm to record my scorecard for yesterday's Countdown, associating that words and numbers game with my weekly display of literacy (viz. the Word of the Week), it happened that for the first time in the history of this blog the said Word of the Week was delivered early! Owing to a rehearsal being scheduled for earlier today, I knew that I wouldn't be able to participate in today's contest, so I decided it best to do yesterday's, but forgot to account for it being Tuesday (i.e. not the traditional Wednesday), thus inadvertently offering the Wednesdaily Word of the Week a day early.

The rehearsal was for something of a momentous occasion in the history of my education and musical development, and also for that of all the children who go/went to my Primary School, St. Peter's in Hazel Grove: the hugely inspirational, extraordinarily dedicated head (and the only real teacher there) of music, Mr. Brown is retiring. We (some of us past pupils) have gone back and played for various concerts since leaving the school, and even some of us since leaving High School, College or University, but tomorrow, it seems, will be the last time we'll all get together to play music.

The event is tomorrow, though, so I'll hold off until after it, and then aim to write a proper piece about Mr. Brown and the various musical extravaganzas of which I have been a part due to him and his tireless enthusiasm.

Word of the Week

Moot

moot adj., v., & n. —adj. (orig. the noun used attrib.) 1 debatable, undecided (a moot point). 2 US Law having no practical significance. —v.tr. raise (a question) for discussion. —n. 1 hist. an assembly. 2 Law a discussion of a hypothetical case as an academic exercise.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

See here for today's seafaring offering.

Uncertainly I sit upon a floating crate, and contemplate the choice set out before me: to go aboard and save my skin from further burning by this scorching, salty sun; or carry on, alone, in hope I come across some land. The fear I have is that the outcome of the former ship will hit this second one the same, thus leaving me a fair sight farther from the nearest land. Some time I have to make my mind up, while the ship approaches. Meanwhile, here I sit, the burning permeating deeper in my skin.

And so I find myself in the middle of the ocean, swimming off in search of another patch of land to make my home.

You may remember it being declared in the opening article of this chapter that 'some days may only yield a sentence or two': today is such a day.

The beauty of history is that it is always there for one to draw on in times of strife, when perhaps the time is short, or the imagination yields no fruit. Now is such a time, and thinking back over three years of imaginative writing, I've found the perfect solution to my current predicament.

A little discussion I instigated on a forum to which I was a frequent contributor. Here, in its original form, with a link to it in its original context, is a little bit about love, with the ensuing discussion accessible via said link. To prove I haven't always been a cynical curmudgeon.

19th March 2005, 03:26 PM

Love: as a subtle emotion

The weather is warming up, the sweat glands are beginning to open, and Love is a hot topic on the mind.

I awoke from a dream involving myself and a girl from high school. She was my best friend and, thinking back, I reckon I Loved her - and most probably, continue to do so. Not the lustful, knee-trembling, stomach-turning infatuation, so commonly mistaken as Love by various people: real Love, as I perceive it to be. In this dream, I witnessed a scenario that encapsulated my Love for her, and provided a good metaphor for the idea that Love is a sutble emotion. Here is the scenario:

We were walking along, near the edge of a cliff and suddenly she slipped off and fell. I just sort of lay down quickly and put my hand down to reach her, and I just held her hand really gently and got her back up to safety.

That isn't the entire dream. I have editted out the extraneous scenes and dialogue that add nothing to this metaphor we're concentrating on. To explain this (apparent) metaphor, I'll highlight why it isn't a metaphor for Lust/Infatuation.

If I had been frantically struggling to reach her and grab hold of her to drag her up, that would have been a metaphor for Lust or Infatuation. As I was holding her really gently - as if I almost didn't mind if she fell - that symbolized my Love for her. It's certainly not a perfect metaphor because in relationships (if you want to look at the scenario literally) you're not necessarily falling away from each other, and there's no need to pull your partner back to safety, but if in times of crisis, it could be a pretty perfect metaphor.

An abrupt ending - hopefully a cohesively made point. Any suggestions?

Word of the Week

Silly

silly adj. & n. —adj. (sillier, silliest) 1 lacking sense; foolish, imprudent, unwise. 2 weak-minded. 3 Cricket (of a fielder or position) very close to the batsman (silly mid-off). 4 archaic innocent, simple, helpless. —n. (pl. -ies) colloq. a foolish person.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

Yeah, this farce began on Friday the 4th of this month, July, so, since I've been so unwise as to do it on one of the longer months of the year, it having thirty-one days, it'll last for that long and finish on the 4th of August. And, also, the Word of the Week will not relinquish his place for the purposes of this project, but will continue, as is his wont, to appear every Wednesday.

Incidentally #1: Never in so long a time have I been so disappointed, nay disgruntled, to see the demise of one Countdown contestant with the ascendency of another. Our champion for the day, after beating the Notts County footballer Neil Mackenzie yesterday, Katy was a quietly beautiful research scientist, beautifully spoken, with hair of flaming red. Today she was beaten by a god-loving/fearing old oaf (female). Such disgruntlement.

Incidentally #2: Is it me, or have the buttons for 'Save !' 'Preview' and 'Save draft' been switched around? I keep aiming for the 'Preview' button but end up on the 'Save !' one. I'm now having to think twice when I try to preview my article. 'Save draft' I think is in the same place, but the other two seem to have changed.

Incidentally #3: While taking my daily swim in the ocean earlier on, this ship (pictured, right) swung into view, and I was soon after hauled aboard by its band of merry pirates. Much drinking of rum and the singing of shanties, I've just got awake in a cabin abound with the creaking of wood and the smell of hot sex. The memory is hazy, so I hope to be furnished with details. Let's see what the evening brings.

Can this possibly be possible? Having fairly recently migrated from our previous untrustworthy, blatantly money-hungry broadband supplier to the wonderful ADSL24, it seems we are at last receiving what we want, i.e. the speed for which we pay, and wonderfully helpful service from the chaps just down the road in Oldham.

Previously we were on a 2Mbps unlimited usage package, but no way did we get speeds anywhere near the theoretical maximum transfer speed for such a connection. I think I am correct in calculating that 2Mbps is equal to 2,000,000 bits per second, then to divide that by 8 will obviously give me that number in bytes, and to then divide that by 1024 will give me the number of kilobytes per second I should expect to receive on such a connection: approximately 244KB/sec. We were lucky to get half of that, judging by our rates in KTorrent. The maximum I was getting was about 120KB/sec, and I'm pretty sure it was the 2Mbps package we were on, as opposed to the 1Mbps. I'm not even sure that they do a 1Mbps package (any more), but you're free to check out their deals, if you fancy - for me, I will have nothing more to do with them, not even to give them one single hit on their website, or to search for them in Google.

Our fresh new package with ADSL24 is an 8Mbps, 3GB Peak/30GB Off-peak usage one, and it delivers exactly as it is described. With exactly the same set-up (software-wise), we now get such speeds as depicted in the picture (above). Let us apply the same calculation to this rate as I did to the previous one:

8,000,000 ÷ 8 ÷ 1024 ≈ 977

Thus we know that the theoretical maximum number of kilobytes we can expect to receive per second on a 8Mbps connection is approximately 977KB (976.5625 to be exact). My current maximum, then, of 801.6KB/sec (although that is only the recorded maximum, and it did get even higher than that, however marginally) is not so very far away, on the grand scheme of things, from the theoretical maximum. Doing (801.6 ÷ 976.5625) × 100 tells me that my current recorded maximum speed is 82% of the theoretical maximum. A figure I'm reasonably pleased with, especially considering that I was previously only getting 49% of what I should have been. Knowing this, it seems that had my previous connection been one at 1Mbps I would have been getting speeds at 98% of the theoretical maximum for such a connection, and I can hardly believe that that is so.

Thus, it's a resounding thank you to ADSL24, and long may they continue! Roll on 24Mbps connections, when we can expect speeds in the region of a whopping 2.86MB/sec (or, in kilobytes, 2929KB/sec)! Compare that to my current maximum. The net is speeding up!

About sport one has (I say 'one', really meaning 'I have') no small challenge in attempting to write. Thus, since I need to conserve my energy, imagination and words for the entirety of this project, I won't bother to try. It would just be futile. Photographs tell a fairly good story, but one really needs to be there, or at least to have seen it, for the emotions to be conveyed in their fullest force. Just like music, it's futile to try explaining the emotions experienced during sport. Or is it? Perhaps a real writer could do it wonderfully, to condense it all to its most pure and pungent, that the experience of the actual thing is only half a step away.

Nevertheless, the Wimbledon 2008 Final match between the world number one and defending champion for five consecutive Wimbledons, Roger Federer and his arch-rival and current French Open Champion (after beating Federer in the Final) Rafael Nadal, was absolutely exhilarating.

Rain delayed the scheduled start of play at 14:00, but only for twenty minutes, and at 14:20 the players were out and beginning the preliminaries to the match. Nadal was playing absolutely storming tennis and took the first two sets 6-4. A rain break ensued in the third set, and after coming out Federer won it in a tie-break 7-5. He then went on to take the fourth in yet another tie-break 10-8, and they were into a five-setter, which turned out to be the longest Men's Final in Wimbledon history.

They were thus then two sets apiece, Federer playing very dominantly, but Nadal continuing his amazing form, when it came to deuce at two games all, and the rain began to come again. The players were whisked off for about half an hour, and when they resumed after warming up again, Federer easily served the game out of deuce with a couple of aces. But Nadal wasn't to be quashed, even after having previously being unable to convert three Championship points, and the games went with serve, until they were 7-7, and one of them broke to go 8-7, with the opportunity to serve out the match and win 9-7. Which he went on to do, and then went on a climbing expedition up the stands to hug his family, and then over to the royal box to receive more congratulations.

I've left him unnamed, in case you know not of whom I write. To learn who won, scroll down; to stay blissfully unaware, press 'Back' now.

* * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * *
* * * *
* * *
* *
*

Wimbledon 2008 Champion:
Rafael Nadal

Having never really considered myself a die-hard Trekkie (or, indeed, one at all), it has come as some surprise to be enraptured by BBC2's recent showings of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Two episodes were on last night (Chain of Command, Part II and Ship in a Bottle from Series Six), I stayed up until 3:00am for them both, and during the introduction to the second I even found myself uttering those iconic lines

Space - the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its continuing mission: To explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no one has gone before.

as the Enterprise loomed into view, at the appointed time, as if I'd been a dedicated watcher all my life. Which I'm not sure I have, but I do remember it being around when I was only a little child. My dad is, what I would suppose we call, a fan, and it seems his fondness for the programme may have been inherited by yours truly. Indeed, this fondness seems to have permeated so deeply, that it has delayed my writing this entry, while I have been voraciously hunting for information about it on Wikipedia.

But, it's a funny thing: when one is watching it, it all makes sense, or if it doesn't one yearns to make sense of it. It's a complete, fascinating world, with hints of a rich history, and the technology! - the Holodeck, the ever present and helpful computer, the ability to speak to anyone on the Enterprise at the touch of ones communicator badge - oh, the technology is all wonderful! However, when one is away from it all, thinking about the logistics of this world, it starts to seem much less convincing. At least, the fact that everybody speaks English, and that there is hardly any variation in so much as accent - never mind vocabulary or grammar - is implausible at best; and it strikes me as pretty egotistical on the part of the creators that intelligent beings that are encountered in this Universe (or, at least ones that can speak - not quite the same thing) are all two-legged and upright- walking, and differ not a lot in appearance from humans. It doesn't really ring true with me.

However, if I'm not already, I think I'm on the way to being a devotee. Is this a bad thing? I don't know. It's only a television programme, after all! But I can say with absolute certainty and trust that it doesn't half feed that which is much in need of nourishment: the imagination.

With the consignment to the past of the previous chapter, we now turn our attention to a new endeavour: a month long project entitled One Article Per Day (OAPD). It's a fairly self-explanatory project, but, before we begin, I think a few ground rules and concessions need to be made.

First of all, until now it has always been assumed that the day (unit of time) runs from 00:00.00 until 23:59.59, thus any article published after 23:59.59 of one day, is to be considered a part of the following day. For this chapter, that isn't to be so: we will consider the day to consist of the hours when I am awake, with the night making up the remainder. Thus, if I find myself up and blogging after midnight, the published article will be considered a part of that same day on which I awoke, not the following one. This is the preferred situation. However, if I happen to be blogging and manage to publish an article before midnight (at, say, 23:57) but have yet another article in mind for the following day, I will be entitled to publish it after midnight - with it thus being then the following day in traditional timekeeping - and it will legitimately count as my One Article for that following day.

'Twill be something of a challenge for me (since my current form is usually of one article per week), and it'll be interesting to see just how far the articles disintegrate or improve in quality, throughout these concentrated thirty-one days. They'll unlikely be any great length, and some days may only yield a sentence or two, but let us stick by it, and remember that the important thing is the publishing of one article every day.

The project itself begins with this very article, although, as you may have noticed, I have been blogging each day for the past three articles (not including this one). So I could pull a swift one and count those previous three as a part of this project, but that would really be cheating, and so it must begin with this.

Wish us luck, and let us see how it progresses!

That's it then; we've come to the end of the line. The votes are in, they've been counted and verified, and I am hear now to reveal the results.

Eight items I have selected and argued most insistently for consignment to room 101, and I can proudly say that, out of those eight, a grand total of one has received that full and comprehensive consignment, putting the success rate of this chapter at a whopping 12.5%! That one item in question being Religion, as consigned by SeasideMan. However, I'm stuck as to whether or not to deduct success points due to hebburndellboy's admission of pork scratchings being his religion. Am I to interpret this as an advocacy of religion, and so a refutation of its consignment to room 101, thus deducting points; or ought I plough on regardless and grab the full 1/8th of the available points from SeasideMan's aforementioned assent and contribution to the argument.

However it transpires, nevertheless it stops not there, oh no it doesn't! Following further discussion, after SeasideMan's initial rejection of Money going into room 101, with the suggestion that greed should rather go in instead (and bwale's implied rejection of same), it became that SeasideMan was "half convinced" (albeit seemingly reluctantly), and so I swiftly claim, I venture, half the points of a full consignment, making now 18.75%.

And still it stops not there! (although admittedly it does stop after this.) In the dying moments of the chapter, just before the final article was argued unsuccessfully, along came The_Walrus, with passionate dissent, to agree wholeheartedly with my tirade on Classic FM. However, the words 'throw it in to room 101', or ones to that exact effect, were not forthcoming, and so I cannot claim the full quota of points for this one. But, with your leave I'll take a 1/16th (that being half the worth of an 1/8th), thus taking the whole and final success rate of this chapter to a grand total of 25%.

A rollerblade success story? Perhaps not. But a Chapter Sixteen Room 101 Consignment Day Success Story? Most possibly!

'Now, you listen here, and listen well: If I ever find you have been dishonest to me, dishonest about me, or dishonest about yourself, we're finished! You hear me? I won't lie to you: We're finished!' said the greatly agitated man.

I honestly cannot stand the thing, and it seems to me that dishonesty, the final item I would like to consign to room 101, is possibly the single biggest cause of unhappiness - greater even than imperialism, money and religion - in the world. I would perhaps even go so far as to say that it forms an intrinsic part of those three aforementioned items, and it is this that I see in them which has determined my feelings about them.

It is fairly difficult to describe, but it affects me so greatly that I hardly feel I'm fit to write at length about it. Although, I don't know why that is the case, for I don't think I've been treated particularly dishonestly, or brought up around dishonesty, but I suppose it is that I have always felt compelled, in everything I've done, to be honest and to do it with integrity; and that if I cannot do that, the thing is not worth doing.

I remember reading what Freud had to say about anxiety in his The Interpretation of Dreams (a book I still am yet finish). I cannot quote exactly, but I remember he wrote of it as occurring when one has a thought in their subconscious mind, which, before the thought has surfaced in their consciousness, they have already criticised and rejected as a useless thought. So, since reading this, I've always used that model when thinking about the anxiety from which I suffer, and have always equated it with a type of dishonesty. I mean, having such thoughts as perhaps designing to say 'good morning' to a family-member, but even that being subjected to this effect of anxiety, one gets to feeling that either saying 'good morning' isn't the honest thing to do, or that whatever it is I end up saying, if I accept the rejection of the idea to say 'good morning', isn't an honest thing to say. That may seem to be the greatest leap of logic, but I feel that anxiety can breed (a feeling of) dishonesty, and that dishonesty in turn can feed anxiety and let it fester. For someone so in love with honesty, this state becomes entirely crippling.

Would that we could rid the world of this dishonesty; perhaps as well would go anxiety and all such similar things from which we suffer in the mind.

Word of the Week

Dishonesty

dishonesty n. (pl. -ies) 1 a a lack of honesty. b deceitfulness, fraud. 2 a dishonest or fraudulent act.

Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary

'Oh, not this again! Can't it go off?'
'Why? I thought you liked classical music.'
'Yeah, listen, this isn't classical music.'
'What do you mean "it isn't classical music"? This is Classic FM. Classic FM. Meaning classical music. They play classical music!'
'Not the kind of music I want to hear, I'm afraid. I mean, look: how long have you been listening to this station?'
'Erm... well, ages. Well, a good few years.'
'Yeah, and have you noticed any sort of patterns? I mean, in the stuff they play.'
'...not particularly. Well, they do their "Hall of Fame" every year, when they count down the most popular pieces as voted by the listeners. I suppose that's a pattern - a recurring thing, you know.'
'Yeah, okay. What do you think about that? I mean, this counting down of favourite pieces business?'
'It's okay. It's good, I mean you get to hear what it is people like. They're voted for by the listeners, so it's sort of a nice way to include people in the thing.'
'Don't you think it's pretty cheesy, though? I mean, when I listen to the radio, it's the music I'm interested in. I like to know the background to the music, like the context surrounding the composer at the time of writing it, and then I want the music. I'm not interested in any kind of countdown thing. I mean, I want the music to speak for itself: I don't need this kind of frenzied race-to-the-number-one-spot sort of thing. In that kind of situation, the only real goal is finding out what is "Number #1" - you know, that's the point we're all aiming at - and, for my interests, the stuff making up the juice of the countdown (in this case, music) might as well be anything, for all the purpose it serves. It just seems to me like filler, which is only there to fill up the countdown and give some kind of build-up to the big event: the thing at number one. You know what I mean?'
'I hear what you're saying, but I still think it's a nice idea. I haven't got anything against it.'
'Yeah, right.

'Another thing which does my head in - which is pretty similar to that "Hall of Fame" stuff - is the way the presenters all talk. I mean, it's a little while since I've heard the thing (thankfully!), and I honestly haven't had the heart to do so for the purposes of research for this discussion, but I seem to remember that the presenters seem to have two kind of modes: one is this really self-righteous sort of way of introducing things; and the other is this sort of almost frenzied, Tony Blackburn style, almost to the point of them using a false American accent to bring - I don't know - tension, excitement; all this kind of shite. You know, they kind of manufacture excitement, it seems in an effort to disguise the mundaneness of what they're playing.

'Because, you know I asked if you'd noticed any patterns in what they play? Every time you've had the station on, and I've happened to walk in or be sitting there, I can almost guarantee to myself that they're going to play something that I've heard them play before. Not just the same piece, but the very same recording. I mean, this pattern I was thinking of, was that I reckon, once you've listened to it for, say, a month, you've heard their entire output. There's no sort of innovation, or yearning for anything new. Or anything that is new must fit into some arcane criteria they have for their playlists.

'I mean, one feeling I get when the station's on, is that I'm not going to be challenged. I'm just going to be spoon fed the same stuff they've played over and over again through their whole existence. So if they do happen to play something that's a little out of the ordinary - such as, say, one of Bartok's more accessible pieces - I won't be in a position to listen to it properly, but may be almost forced into rejecting it as "strange", or something like that. Whereas, on the station I listen to, there's no such feeling. I always feel like I'm going to hear something new and fresh, alongside something old and well-established - or perhaps even very old, and just becoming established, like the very early music that is played - and I expect to be challenged, and am thus in the frame of mind to listen attentively, and allow myself time to make up my own mind about it. But with this Classic FM stuff, I can't do that at all. Even though I'm used to listening to this other station, and being challenged by it, this Classic FM nonsense sort of forces me into a different frame of mind. Pretty similar to how religion does.'
'Well.'
'Yeah, and I don't know if you've noticed, but something that really pisses me off is the way they screw around with the music and add either compression, or normalise it - I don't know what they do - but the way you hear on pop music stations, the way it is when there's a (supposed) quiet section of a song, and then it goes into a loud section, the volume seems to be turned down so the timbre of the following loud section may be different from the quiet one, but the volume is about the same. So, basically, the quiet section is too loud, so there isn't the intended change when the loud section appears. It's just something that pisses me off. They may not do it, but it seems to me that they probably do. And another thing that pisses me off about pop music stations is when the DJs talk over the beginnings and ends of songs. Flaming hell! that does my head in. I get the feeling that the DJs (for that's all they are, really, riding the decks - not that all DJs are shite, mind you! I'm not saying that. I grant that innovation is possible with a pair of turntables, and I remember very vaguely hearing one guy playing a sample that was just one frequency, and he was creating melodies with it - I think that's interesting) but these Classic FM DJs, I imagine that if they're not doing this talking over beginnings and ends and fading in and out, they're only a very small step away from doing it.

'Chuck 'em into room 101!'