The moving finger rants

In 1787, Robert Burns the Ploughman Poet walked along the riverside by the Falls of Bruar. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; said he, misspelling ‘Atholl’ as he did so, but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. Thus inspired to action, he did what any of us would do. He wrote a poem and addressed it to the landowner.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadow's wat'ry bed:
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn;

and so on and so on

There was already a birk adorning those cliffs, but he'd gone home to write a poem.

As a result the Duke of Atholl instituted a massive tree-planting programme. Because some inkstained twit wrote a poem. Is that how you get a public works project approved? Is some latter-day Bard even now penning A Humble Petition to just get the damn trams finished already? Or is that, as I suspect, a niche that these days is filled by the letters page of the Scotsman?

Nonetheless, a couple of weeks ago I popped up north to view the result. The Falls of Bruar is an area of outstanding natural beauty, and these days you can't see any of it because there are trees everywhere.

I already can't stand Robert Burns. Now he's actively ruining things I like to do (viz., looking at waterfalls). I'm inclined to start taking this personal.

I can't write like Burns (thank Christ), so perhaps a humble petition after the style of Scotland's other favourite son will suffice.

Ohh, 'twas in the month of July two thousand and twelve,
Into the woods around the Falls of Bruar did we delve,
And tho' the scenery was beautiful like a painting or a frieze,
None of it could we see because of all the bloody trees,
and ooowhhh ...

I may have slipped into a Milligoon voice towards the end there, but in my defence, it's hard not to.

Remainder of the photoset is here. I had to climb down slippery rocks on cliff edges to get some of these shots. Rabbie is actually trying to kill me.

So, apparently, yesterday some people propelled a ball into a rectangle slightly more frequently than some other people propelled the same ball into a different rectangle. As a result, today thousands and thousands of people gathered in the street, all wearing clothing of a particular colour, to watch a bus go past. The bus had some overpaid teenagers on it. There was singing. Did I miss anything?

We couldn't get that many people out on the street when they dismantled the NHS, ohhh no. But apparently propelling a ball into a rectangle is important.

Auntie has an article about the hatefulness that is Comic Sans today. In the comments is the following gem:

I like it. I wouldn't use it in a business e-mail, but it's my choice of font for less formal conversations in the corporate version of MSN that's used where I work. I was completely unaware that it was controversial!

S Weekes, Cardiff

Dear S Weekes from Cardiff: everyone in your office secretly hates you. They wish death upon you every time you send an email. Out of your hearing, you are known as the one that uses Comic Sans, and the person thus addressed always rolls their eyes and says, oh, God, yeah. You'd never have known about this if it wasn't for the information you receive from an unbiased media outlet. Murdoch would have just let you continue oblivious as a despicable excuse for a human being.

Seriously. The BBC has educated ≥1 person about the awfulness of Comic Sans. That's worth the licence fee even if I didn't already get Doctor Who.

A spectacular new low for The Scotsman today, reporting news 3,000 years old. It's dead-tree only in that illustrious Edinburgh organ, so here's a link to the almost identical online version from the Torygraph, regurgitated no doubt from the same press release.

Dixson found the same formula for what men favoured in women came up every single time—a waist-to-hip ratio of 0.7. In other words, a waist measurement exactly 70 per cent of the hip circumference.

[The Torygraph gets a picture of Jessica Alba, but we get a bonus sentence fragment. Good literary device. Will use more later.]

Yes. It's called the Golden Ratio. The ancient Greeks knew about it.

I know that the dead-tree press is struggling to keep up in the Internet Age, but printing a Fascinating New Discovery that was originally published by Euclid is just embarrassing. It's a concept so common that it has its own Greek letter. And this apparently justifies an entire column on page three.

As if that wasn't enough, they got the ratio upside down.

This paper needs a science correspondent so badly I could spit. Or at least someone who finished high school.

Don't get me started on Barnaby Dixson, the alleged anthropologist who apparently got funding for this.

I think I've worked out what pisses me off about the Scottish independence movement. Apart from the fact that nobody cares except for Our Eck and five or six of his big-mouthed chums. It's that they won't stop whining.

I grew up in Yorkshire. We're just as marginalized by Westminster in Yorkshire, treated as a bunch of straw-sucking rustics with ferrets. The only television that ever mentioned us was Last of the Summer Wine and that one episode of Only Fools and Horses. Later on Jimmy Nail got big, and he was from the North, but by then I'd stopped watching television because it was full of people who weren't like me. I grew up thinking London was where things happened and that, up here, we didn't count.

We don't even have a Barnett formula for Yorkshire. We used to dream of havin' a Barnett formula. It would have bin a palace to us.

And yet there's no Yorkshire independence movement. Because in Yorkshire, people know how to suck it up and get on with life.

It's the single-minded rah-rah-rah-Independence tubthumping to the avoidance of all else that bugs me, as if nothing else could possibly matter until we get our own flag for no adequately expressed reason. The televized leaders' debate last night was apparently more interesting than anyone had any right to expect—Eck's comment: BUT THEY DIDN'T MENTION SCOTLAND.

They didn't specifically mention Weston-super-Mare either, or Torquay. Do you see them whinging?

I will freely concede that the joke about except for viewers in Scotland was pretty funny—when Armando Iannucci did it in 2001.

They stayed the fuck away from discussing devolved matters because those matters are devolved. Devolution was Eck's magnum opus; you'd think that he, of all people, would be able to grasp the concept by now. They didn't discuss the taxi fares in Mombasa either, because they're not fucking lunatics. Well, except for Cameron obviously. What do you want, Eck? You want them to go away and leave you alone, and then you complain when they do?

It was a debate between the leaders of the three main political parties in the UK. Minor regional concerns, like Scottish independence, Cornish nationalism, or the drains in Hackney do not get considered in a broad-ranging national debate, and people with a sense of proportion will understand this.

Eck Salmond is like that one disabled guy—you all know him, that one guy—who constantly bellows BUT DON'T YOU KNOW I'M DISABLED when you're trying to have a conversation about the weather, or what to have for dinner. Yes, Eck. We know. But it's not relevant to every single fucking thing. Sometimes you need to know when to shut the fuck up.

Besides, arbitrary political boundaries are so last century. Would life really be improved if we had our own flag? We'd be a smaller country with less money and less presence on the world stage, and we wouldn't even be able to hang onto the coat-tails of those people who remember when we still had an Empire. It's an awful lot to give up for the sake of Flower of Scotland and a non-existent industrial base.

If Scotland was independent it would just mean that we'd have a lot more fat, jowly, spittle-flecked old men like Eck stamping around waving their dicks about. Count me out.

Eight hours of rugby morons— we had to hire a Rug Doctor™ at two pm, three hours before the match even started, to clean up the carpet-vomit—and then, blessedly, back home.

I'm sittin in Apocalypse Laboratories, drinkin sazeracs, and listenin to Classic FM. They can't touch me in here. Life couldn't be better.

Well, admittedly, toga-clad redheads could be feeding me grapes, but other than that, life couldn't be better.

Next weekend, on the other hand, scares the shit out of me.

The Royal Society of Edinburgh recently released a report damning VisitScotland and calling for it to be scrapped. Or so the Scotsman tells me. Actually, the RSE's press release says nothing of the kind: it barely mentions VisitScotland at all, and merely recommends that they (for a suitably nebulous they) radically reform the support structures for tourism. I haven't read the report: perhaps the report has stronger language. Perhaps the Scotsman is just being sensationalist again.

It's true that VisitScotland are, often, a bunch of incompetent morons who seem to have difficulty in the important business field of arse/elbow distinction. I'm wildly in favour of sweeping reforms, or, on bad days, the tactical nuking of Livingston; nonetheless I think scrapped is a bit strong. First of all they need to decide whether or not they're working with, or against, the accommodation providers, and then I think we can work upwards from there.

However, the knives are out now. Apparently (so the Scotsman tells me) VisitScotland had to change their information on rail travel, because FirstScotrail complained that they were being OMGMEEEAN to them. This is ironic, because the bandwagon that FirstScotrail are jumping on is just about the only movement-related thing that's happening to wagons of any kind at the moment.

Laying aside for a moment the astounding fact that VisitScotland actually got something right for once—namely, that the state of the railways is woeful and unless you're travelling between Edinburgh and Glasgow you'd better get a car, and if you are travelling between Edinburgh and Glasgow it would be faster to walk—this presents me with a moral dilemma. I loathe both organizations, and now they're fighting, so which do I root for?

I have to come down on the side of VisitScotland, because, while it is bungling, inept, and sometimes belligerent, there have been occasions when they've sent us a guest and nothing has gone catastrophically wrong. With FirstScotrail, on the other hand, I've learned to take a massive dose of opiate-based painkillers before even setting foot in the station. There has been one single occasion that I can recall in the last eight years when I've got on a train and not wanted to kill everyone before it starts to move. (Notable example here, and there are many others that languish unblogged because they are too painful to recall.)

Besides, in this case VisitScotland were being entirely accurate and honest, and they were reporting unbiased facts that tourists should know. This is their job, and I wish they'd do it more often. They didn't describe the rail network as skeletal, they said that it was at its most skeletal in the Highlands [emphasis mine, exactitude-fans]—that's a comparative, and to my knowledge it's not libellous or legally actionable in any way. They also apparently had a picture of a sign that said Beware of the trains. This is good advice. Even if the rail network was marvellous, if you get hit by a train it's really going to put a crimp in your day. This is the sort of thing that, in my experience, a lot of tourists need to be told.

I see what's going on here. Not only is it open season on VisitScotland, but one of the most notable complaints in the RSE report (so the Scotsman tells me) is that VisitScotland focuses too much on the central areas, as opposed to the outlying ones that need support. The tourism industry in those areas is struggling for a number of reasons, but key to them is not that VisitScotland has abandoned them, it's that tourists can't bloody get to them in the first place. This is, of course, the fault of FirstScotrail, not VisitScotland^[0], and as a result FirstScotrail has noted that the best defence is a good offence, and that, conveniently, that VisitScotland is now fair game.

Actually, no, there's no moral dilemma here for me at all. I am still on the side of Right as always. Both of you are cretins and should learn to do your jobs. You, provide public transport to places that people want to go; and you, provide information for tourists. It shouldn't be that hard. It's what you're paid to do.

If that's too difficult for you, could you try not to be complete bastards while you're at it? That would be nice, thanks.

~

Holy damn, there were a lot of StudlyCaps in this post. Do businesses think that extra capital letters give them an extra competitive edge?

It doesn't. Even if Scotland's rail network is a bit dodgy is a controversial statement, this isn't: BiCapitalization makes you look like a wanker. This is Truth.

Dear Tourists:

Welcome to Edinburgh. We hope you enjoy our fabulous cultural festival. Please feel free to monopolize our entire pavements for your personal convenience.

~

Dear Tesco:

I think it's really great that we have a nationwide network of washing-powder shops, offering such a wide range of virtually indistinguishable options. Have you considered diversifying into maybe selling some food?

~

Dear The City of Edinburgh Council:

I'm told you're on strike today. Thank you. Please continue.

~

Dear Nokia:

I don't appreciate getting ear-fucked by a Dalek who claims to be my girlfriend. I feel like I'm carrying on a torrid affair with Nicholas Briggs. Make phones that work, kthx.

~

Dear pajh's subconscious:

I'm advised that I was cackling maniacally in my sleep again. If you're going to give me awesome dreams, could you at least fix it so that I can remember them?

Sunday Times columnist Rachel Johnson doesn't get blogging:

I don’t get blogging. It’s not only that I’m reluctant to write for nothing. There are all those people who ask, Do you blog? at parties (our own sad neutered version of the Do you swing? question), and who warble about wikis and web presence. Still, a few weeks ago I started to write one. It’s very easy - even a middle-aged woman can do it. I wrote about what I was making for supper that night. And food shopping in the Portobello market. Then I checked to see the global response to my debut. Nothing. On my next five posts? Zero comments.

I shall refrain from making any obvious comment, because that would be cheap of me, and after all I am writing for nothing here. It's important for we poor slovenly non-professionals to maintain some dignity.^[0]

Nonetheless, this leads me neatly on to something I actually wanted to talk about.

Saturday was the first Farmers' market since the Fife Diet week that I've had any money (the Fife Diet is expensive). stormsearch and I picked up a cheap gigot roast and a couple of packets of 40p bacon offcuts, and a bunch of organic vegetables. None of it was from Fife. As far as I know it was all from East Lothian, which actually has food in it.

It was a huge relief just to be able to go to stalls and not have to say are you from Fife?, but instead to simply look at produce and pick what I wanted to eat. Everything was still organic, locally-sourced and from small producers, but without any ridiculous artificial restrictions.

Likewise, whenI got into the kitchen it was a huge relief to be able to use stock cubes. I made a random soup with potato and parsnip, and I could add extra stuff like smoked garlic and nutmeg. The result was bloody marvellous, hearty and warming with texture and flavour. Hello, taste buds! Long time no see. You've had a nice holiday, now let's get you back to work.

~

stormsearch and I have been talking about getting a weekly organic box delivered, and doing something like this regularly on the cheap. Bloody hell, I think this might be getting serious afer five years.

~

I've been thinking about Bouvrage, the Fife Diet-approved raspberry drink that was pretty much all I was allowed last week. I don't actually like Bouvrage that much. I'll drink it if it's there, but it's always had this really harsh alkalinity to it that spoils any enjoyment I might otherwise have got.

Last week, though, I really started to develop a taste for it. After a few days with a choice between Bouvrage and tap water, it became delicious nectar, sweet and refreshing. I'd bought five bottles of it for the week, and had one left at the beginning of the post-Diet frenzy of consumption.

Frenzy completed, it's back to the status quo. I've got a bottle of this stuff left. Better drink it before it goes off. Good thing I like Bouvrage these days, huh? I raised the sweet elixir to my lips, and drank... harsh, brackish, regular old-fashioned Bouvrage from the bad old days before I'd learned the value of vegetables.

Hypothesis: my standard, non-Diet blood sugar is so high that Bouvrage doesn't register as sugary. My body chemistry is naturally sweet^[1].

This is because I naturally have a shitty diet high in sugar and saturated fats.

This raises Gastronomic Implications (wbaenfarb). If taste is dependent upon preexisting body chemisty, I won't taste the same things as someone who ordinarily eats a lot of vegetables or is on a different diet. The restaurant experience is partially determined by what I had to eat for the rest of that week.

It seems obvious, but this sort of thing becomes really significant when the tasting menu at the Fat Duck costs £125 a head.

--
[0] Although I should observe that the lassie's blog, rachelsjohnson, has a somewhat unfortunate title that could be read as Rachel S. Johnson or Rachel's Johnson. If it's the latter then I'm not surprised that she's not getting many comments, because that sounds like a really specialist type of blog. The Internet can be a complex place for the traditionally-minded, the mainstream, the professionals.
[1] Just like my personality, then.

Today at the Farmers' Market was the Great Scottish Sausage Taste-Off, although they spelled it differently. (Taste off, without a hyphen, is what the sausages do when you've left them out for too long.) Three of the finest local farms went head-to-head, or rather skin-to-skin, with the Finest™ range from three of our mighty supermarket chains.

A blind tasting was arranged, with paper plates labelled A to F, cocktail sticks at ten paces, and a thronging crowd of blue-rinsed biddies who gave every impression they were standing in a queue when they were, in fact, merely dithering. The cocktail sticks provided were insufficient for me to rectify this situation to my satisfaction, and stormsearch wouldn't allow me to appropriate the knife they were using to cut up soss.

Of the soss on offer (sossonoffer—try saying that with a mouthful of the aforementioned), it was easy to tell the superior locally-sourced farm produce from their inferior, wraithlike mass-produced counterparts. If nothing else, the amount of added water gave it away. On the one hand we had soulless cylinders of reconstituted offal and tubular forcemeat. On the other... was Sausage.

It was quite interesting—one of the supermarket sausages actually had a really nice balance of herbs and spices, but even so the meat itself was pale and bland. (Pigling Bland?) Despite the best efforts of a whole team of food scientists paid fuck-you money by a multinational corporation, there's still no substitute for looking after your animals and not cramming in stupid crap to reduce costs. And thus, as I have always said, do Happy Pigs Make The Best Bacon.

Of the three True Sausages, the one that both stormsearch and I rated most highly was—we were told in nudge-nudge wink-wink say-no-more fashion by the vaguely disturbing chap organizing the Taste-Off—Piperfield Pork, suppliers to no less a luminary than Dr B himself and, oddly enough, the only one of the three I haven't tried yet. My freezer (and J's too) is already way too full of meat, so I shall have to wait until next week's market to acquire some, when the results of the Taste-Off are announced.

( Spoilers! )

Today I are mostly eatin' Rannoch smoked chicken on organic rye bread, which I picked up from a deli near work. I am having a good day. And I have been organic and locally-sourced, and my Food Miles have been minimal. Much more importantly, the food has been fantastic.