Potential Games for the Olympics What I Invented

#1 Bungalow Ball

Overview

Bungalow Ball is a game between two teams of even players. Players line up either side of a single storey building, normally a bungalow. Sides take it in turns to throw the ball over the bungalow.

The Playing Area

Professional Bungalow Ball is played over the roof of a mid-seventies built bungalow, tiled in standard 1-foot black tiles. The ball is a Fisher Price Sea Life ball.

The Game

The starting side throw the ball over the bungalow roof. The receiving team must catch the ball without it bouncing. Failure to do so means that the thrower earns 5 points and can mock the masculinity of said receiver. If the thrower fails to throw the ball over the roof he loses 2 points and the opposing side must not only mock the thrower’s masculinity, but also call into question the thrower’s sexuality.

A point is scored for the number of times it bounces on the far side roof slope. Three points are scored for each time the ball bounces on the thrower’s own slope (assuming that it still goes over the ridge).

The game is played in sets of 21 points, best of 3. Alternatively the game may be halted by the wife because the baby has just been put in bed and if she is woken then you can sort her out.

Reasons Why I Don’t Do Jokes

I tend not to tell the jokes I make up.

Apparently Dr Brian Cox is recording a new series of his excellent "Wonders of the Universe" thing. I like his stuff. He is obviously enthusiastic about stars and planets. And the moon.

The problem for Brian is that he has to explain all this stuff to us, simple lay people. It must infuriate him with his big brain, trying to get through our thick skulls about the composition of the gas giants, the atmosphere of Titan and why we can't shoot our rubbish into the sun (still not satisfactorily answered in my opinion). Meanwhile we sit with a slightly vacant stare, giggling everytime he mentions the rings of Uranus.

What Brian really wants to do is show us the really clever stuff, like the special relativistic redshift formula or the Polyakov action of super strings. But he can't because we're too stupid, (Christ, we can't even understand simplified M-theory).

So Brian has to resort to making comparisons. "If you imagine this tennis ball was the planet Mars", he will say, "Then the furrows of Andy Murray's brow represent the Martian Canals". This helps us to visualise the complex things he knows, and the physicist will use them a lot.

Unfortunately for Brian, this way of describing phenomena has resulted in him having to delay the recording of the second series.

During a particularly complex explanation of the Horsehead nebulae, Brian is painting a picture through the medium of speech. He begins to compare the interstellar cloud to a 250g packet of pistachios.

Suddenly he starts choking, and grabs his throat. He falls to his knees and is quickly rushed off to Arizona State Hospital.

Turns out he has a particularly bad nut analogy.

Ahem.

Like I said, I don't tend to tell jokes.

The Onion

Over the past 10 years, Grand Theft Auto has been the only computer game I've had more than a passing interest in. And The Onion is just great. Hence I really enjoyed this article.

Sandford Music Festival

Saturday night I missed the European Song Contest for the first time in probably 10 years. (As an aside, if we want to win it again, why don't we let ITV do the coverage, fronted by Ant and Dec? I'm sure they could arrange the necessary phone vote result). It was time that I took a break. I've come to realise that it is not natural, and probably not good for my health.

Fortunately for me I ventured out to the Sandford music festival, which was of a really high quality. In particular was this guy Kit Hawes, who unfortunately has little decent video on youtube, but what there is conveys a little of how good he was/is. I'd advise trying these: Video 1 Video 2.

Now normally I dismiss those both younger and more talented than me surprisingly easily, but Kit was incredible - I admit I was slightly inebriated, but I swear his fingers were moving quicker than the refresh rate of my eyes. (Eeew - IT metaphor...)

A highlight had to be a rendition of Bach's cello concerto during which he detuned his E-string AS HE WAS FREAKING PLAYING. If I had been wearing a hat (and I feel that I should do more often), I would have taken it off to him.

Other fine performances were seen of a lovely Irish woman called Sarah McQuaid and a band called the Swamp Gods  or something that were like the Talking Heads mixed with the Velvets and Stooges. "Social Leper" was a particularly catchy number.

Nestle Cereal

Tonight I shall be ranting.

**Breathes In**

The absolute worst thing about the information revolution thing, what with the Internet and mobile phones and such-like, is that the Man decided our opinion mattered. Or at least, he could make us think it mattered. Hence it is now impossible to watch anything "live" without the word interactive rearing its head and spitting numbers and email addresses over the TV screen and radio airwaves. If I had managed to keep much hair into the new century I would have torn it out, burnt it and sent the ashes in to Terry Wogan's Points of View. I'm not sure what my point would have been by doing this, but I would surely have made it.

It's been going on for a few years now and is ingrained into every tract of broadcast material. Radio shows read out the most inane and tedious of anecdotes that even the sender's own family wouldn't want to hear. Five now does something called Your News. (Warning! The following sentence contains the excessive use of quote marks in a way some readers may find annoying) This involves members of the public "covering" "stories" of "interest" about their own insignificant world. About mobile phone masts and bus routes and corner shops. Well here's a headline for Natasha Ker-Ching-sky (I made that up and no-one else can use it without first acknowledging that fact): Man from Crediton Doesn't Care.

The one place where you could usually get some solace was during the adverts. Because these are over-engineered to the 19th degree, people in them aren't real. They are zero-dimensional. That's why when a stuffed monkey or small robot comes along they are considered quite deep characters.

Take the Muller lid lickers. If for one moment I thought they were real people, then from the moment the guy struggles out "Do you lick the lid of life?" with what must surely be among his final breaths, I would be found down at the Post Office trying to trace my envelope of burnt hair so I could redirect it to the French gone-off-milk factory HQ.

The Kleenex advert is another abomination that is too ridiculous to be considered true. Man with sofa makes members of the public cry. What the hell is he asking them? What kind of man would do this? What kind of company would employ a man to do this, and then advertise the fact they did it to sell their product?

The final example of stupid stupid stupid public involved advertising is in the Nestle cereal spots. This advert brings together not one, not two but three (yes, three) of the most annoying things in the world today to advertise their product. These are:

1. Using a sentence with the words "experts say" in it. Scientists are never more happy then when proving other scientists wrong. If you want to find one to support your theory, just ring a few up and say something along the lines of "Well Dr. Kronsky said wholegrain is definitely unnecessary". Next thing you know, you'll have some experts saying that it isn't pointless and is needed. You've just got yourself scientific ratification! Yipee!

2. Another thing about scientists, especially ones involved with nutrition, is that they like games. They like Simon Says. "Simon Says... eat 5 fruit a day". "Simon Says... drink a pint of beer". "Eat five different coloured fruit". "Haha - got you". They're always trying to catch us out - they're just so damn pesky.And the 5-a-day thing worked so well, everyone wants to turn it onto their product: "Crisps - a great source of your 6 a day" "Tiser - one of your four-a-day" "Cheesestrings - your complete one a day". Do we need 3 wholegrain portions a day? Is that how we put men on the moon, traversed the Antarctic and made it through the Credi-Ten? I guess so.

3. Using members of the public. For some reason, and I can only think this is because of the need to allow the people to have their say, Nestle ask members of the public what they think about... I don't know ... their aim to give people a source of wholegrain (???). The advert is unclear. A bald man, with a gut, says in a strong accent "Oh, I think it is great, I really do". He is not an advert for healthy eating. He is dressed badly. He probably smells slightly. Most of all I have no doubt he knows nothing about what is right for me to be eating. But here he is, given a sentence during prime-time TV shows, as if his opinion matters. It Doesn't. It DOESN'T. IT DOESN'T.

**At this point, Gary was dragged off and shown 3mins 15 seconds from Love Actually. His head exploded**

Free Newspapers

This blog has become a bit like Quentin Tarantino films. Less and less frequent, with each one appearing to be more obviously a rehash of someone else's work, and more often than not itself. Sure there's always been violence, but now it appears to be a substitute for the intelligent writing that created all the fuss in the first place. Exactly like this blog.

But now I have a new laptop. In my lounge. This turn of events has already shown itself to be a dangerous situation.

Ebay is no longer a trip up the stairs. You no longer are accused of being anti-social by shopping for three hours in a distant room on Amazon. And those moments when you think "I'll look that up on the Internet" no longer drift harmlessly off into the ether, but can materialise into real purchases from the comfort of your Ikea sofa. Hence my current obsession with watches that you can't really tell the time on: TokyoFlash.

To aid in the fight against possible financial ruin, I've returned to my old blogging ground, with the hope of keeping my busy hands, er, busy.

In the time between my last post in August and now, much has happened. Much has been baby related. Alas, I don't care for baby blogs, so there isn't much there in the way of material for SYi2. Out of the past 20 weeks, the least baby of them was my 5-day course in London. There were highlights (meeting uni friends I hadn't seen in 6 years; catching up with San Fran ex-pats; learning about the joys of VBScript, ADSI and WMI), but undoubtedly the best bit was rediscovering that the Spanish for "Do Not Disturb" is "No Moleste". Ho Ho Ho.

The thing that stood out most about this trip to London though was the number of free newspapers. They carpet the streets. At the end of the day they sit bundled in corners and doorways like hunched homeless. Distributors stand outside tube stations, thrusting them into your midriff like quarterbacks off-loading to a backfield rusher (NFL references anyone?).

But you know all this. That was 3-months ago and for all I know they've been replaced with free podcasts downloaded straight into your brain. I just wanted to get in the "No Moleste" door sign and link it to the thing I was actually going to blog about.

For we get a free newspaper in Crediton, the Mid Devon Star. To call it a newspaper is maybe pushing the definition slightly. It is more of a wrapper for a big wad of advertising pamphlets. The paper itself is more advertising. It's a bit like if QVC started putting out 5min news bulletins every 20mins or so. However, it is a newspaper, so it does contain articles that at least attempt to contain some element of news.

As it is published weekly, you might think that it would be able to find something of interest to write about in the 40mile area from Crediton to Tiverton to Honiton. However they fail. Rather than having a number of stories from which they choose the most pertinent and interesting, the MDS appears to only ever have stories relating to minor crime or planning.

Take today's edition. The front-page consists of four stories: CCTV being installed at a primary school, police in Tiverton getting a new speed-gun and the Mid Devon Council's new website publishing planning details on play areas and road works. Another page to add to my daily checked favourites.

The final frontpage story related to Crediton. But not any old part of Crediton, but my part. The toilets by the War Memorial opposite:

Public Loos Fire

Two fire crews were called out to extinguish a fire in the public toilets in union Road, Crediton, on Monday night. The crews arrived just before 8pm and extinguished a small fire involving a toilet roll.

It's not a big write-up, and I think that the MDS might have missed the bigger picture. How much does it cost to callout two fire-engines? I'm thinking the fire could have been quenched with a small extinguisher or maybe a damp tea-towel. Perhaps an interesting discussion could be drawn, what with the threats of cuts to fire services.

In fact there are four more fire related stories including blazes in a Clothes Bank (the big page 3 story) and a fire in a microwave. And that's kind of weird because until tonight I hadn't ever read a single page of the paper, but had used it regularly as a fire-lighter. And there's a kind of warming irony in that.

Neighbours

Every marriage has it's bombshells. Some are nuclear ("It appears I'm your sister", "Ah... I've got one of those too", "Murder is such a strong word"); others are mere air pellets. Without becoming to0 personal, Mrs P and myself haven't had too many.

Or at least we hadn't.

The other evening I returned from my work day, everything looking tickety. My tea sitting on the table. Pipe and slippers poised next to my favourite chair. Oh yes, I could get used to having a housewife. The sun was making a rare appearence, so Mrs P had set up for al fresco dining on the balcony (or the roof of the old outdoor toilets as it is otherwise known).

Dabbing my top lip with my freshly starched napkin, I said, as I do every evening at 5:35pm "Let's adjourn to the television room and watch Neighbours".

"But it's nice out here." Came Mrs P's reply.

"But.." I stuttered, "..Neighbours."

"Let's eat our dessert out here."

"But..."

And then it came, the first major bombshell of our 4 and a bit years of marriage:

"I don't even like Neighbours."

Gobsmacked, I reeled. Fortunately my stunned stagger brought me to the sofa where I fell and lay for 25 mins. I never knew. I really never knew. Sure, I didn't expect Mrs P's appreciation of the highest level of Antipodian culture since... ever... to rank with mine, but still... I thought she liked it.

*Sigh*

As the days have past, I have stopped hurting - almost - and have begun a journey of self-reflection. Why do I like Neighbours? What is about a 25 min soap featuring numerous attractive young women that I find so appealing? I just don't know.

Maybe it's Karl Kennedy - my favorite male soap character ever (with Toady second). Who can forget him singing River of Dreams in slo-mo. How can one not admire his mastery of every aspect of medicine, from General Practitioner, to head surgeon, gynacologist and psychotherapist? And how much poorer would the world of comedy be without his farcical storylines worthy of Coward, Ayckbourn or Cleese? Much poorer is the answer.

Or maybe it is the Episode titles. How can someone not love a program that takes Bob Dylan tracks and puns 'em up good? You want examples of great episode names? How about "Tangled Up in Roo"? "Eye of the Steiger"? "For Whom Janelle Tolls"?

Perhaps it's because the show doesn't take itself too seriously. I mean, surely it can't what with some of its recent storylines. Take this little beauty.

Stingray (a young fun-lovin' chap) dies. Sky, his on/off parnter, really misses him. Up turns a charlatan Terrence who says he can channel Stingray. Sky believes him and Terrence begins to push his luck by saying he can allow Stingray control of his body. He starts saying things like "Stingray thinks you should kiss" and then puckering up. (Richard Dawkins should watch this to show how deconstruction of unfounded beleifs is really done). Sky finally cottons on and smacks him around the head with a sugar shaker.

Terrence's partner in crime Charlotte (pretending - really badly - to be a doctor) finds him k.o.'d and finishes him off. She's worried Erinsborough is getting too hot, so announces to a fellow character (dumbass Boyd) she is leaving town. Boyd goes next door to the lawyer's office where Toady says the police are watching the town to see if anyone tries to leave, because that's what they expect. Boyd returns to Charlotte (who overheard). She says "Hmm, actually I don't think I will leave.". "Ok" says Boyd, not suspecting a damn thing.

Genius.

Thus endeth the lesson on why I am right and Neighbours is not that bad. Storylines, Episode Titles and Karl. And girls in bikinis. But mainly the storylines.