Hooptedoodle #494 - Google AI Gives Us the Lowdown...

 A friend of mine - who must be remarkably short of things to think about - asked Google AI about my blog (this very one you are reading), and he sent me an extract from the reply, since he thought it would amuse me. At least I hope that is why he sent it.

Here it is:

Can't really protest too much about any of that, though I am maybe a little saddened by the perceived balance. It makes no direct reference to bullshit, for which I guess I should be grateful. You probably expect me to set about checking out all sorts of AI reports now, but no. 

Not going to.

Out of perversity, I asked Google AI to describe Google AI (yes, I used to watch Star Trek many years ago - I know how to upset robots). Disappointingly, the description read much more like a marketing push than an analysis - I shall not reproduce any of it. There is enough bullshit around already... 

Hooptedoodle #493 - Cherry Cake - They'll Never Believe It

As I get older and less receptive, I am saddened to note the increasing importance of Schadenfreude as part of my life mission.

Despite my better judgement, I spent some time yesterday watching highlights of US Attorney General Bondi's Congressional Reality Show on TV. American politics is really none of my business, but decency and the future of the planet are certainly worthy of focus.

If the facts are against you, argue the law. 

If the law is against you, argue the facts.

If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell

― Carl Sandburg

 

It seems to me that, years from today, people all over the world may remember that there was once a very strange woman who postured and smirked and overacted her way through a very serious, very noble and very visible forum, and committed the most public career suicide in history.

 

I can only assume that she is getting paid an awful lot of money and has the promise of a very big piece of cherry cake. I doubt whether anyone will remember her name.

 

Speaking of names, I have a little list of them, and I have a special bottle of wine put aside for Prizegiving Day. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Hooptedoodle #492 - The Business Model of the Souq - a little Xmas karma for me

 I hope anyone who reads this has had an enjoyable, relaxing Christmas period. We've had a very quiet spell - my mother passed away at the end of November, so things have been a bit distracted, but I'm very pleased that she had such a peaceful end, and I do not have much to discuss about that.

It would be wretched to come up with a miserable, Scrooge-like theme for a Xmas post, but I thought I'd share with you a small, recent personal triumph from among the extended tangle of my coping with the way business works these days.

Here are a couple of parables - the first one is obviously fiction, and silly fiction at that.

Parable A: An elderly man takes a sliced loaf to the checkout at his regular food supermarket. The checkout girl tells him the cost of this loaf is £3; the old chap protests that this is very expensive, and that he can get the same loaf for £1.58 at the local ASDA store. The girl says, "Well, we can't match that, but since you are a regular customer, you can have the loaf for £2".

The customer is not happy, but he can't be bothered going somewhere else for his loaf, so reluctantly pays the £2, and leaves, muttering. He feels that this doesn't seem very fair.

Parable B: The setting for this one is about a year ago. I received a renewal reminder and quotation for my car insurance, from a firm I have dealt with for many years, and was disappointed by how high it was. I contacted them, and pointed out that I could get the same cover for about half the cost from another provider. The customer service rep on the phone never missed a breath, and immediately reduced the quoted premium to a figure which was rather more than half of the original figure. No problem at all - they obviously expected people to phone up and haggle. I was pleased that I had reduced the cost, but the system seemed unfair - especially in a world where the possibility to shop around online has apparently removed any slight concern that not everyone has the opportunity to do such comparison, and may in any case not be inclined to waste so much effort on a routine transaction. This unfairness was emphasised to me last year since the same pantomime had been acted out the year before.

My insurance renews on 16th January, and, sure enough, the quotation for my insurance for 2026 arrived a week ago. The insurer (let us say, for the sake of the story, that they may be called Direct Line) requires me to pay £697 for the year; I realise that this is just them chancing their arm with an opening bid, in case I am daft enough to fail to notice, but I am well tired of this game. I have no wish to waste time and blood pressure phoning to negotiate.

Without contacting them, this year I have arranged identical cover, online, simply and quickly, from the mighty Automobile Association, no less, for the cost of £395. When the documents arrive, next week, I shall ask Direct Line to place their esteemed policy where the sun does not shine. I have, in fact, merely shuffled out into the modern world and shopped around, but it still stinks. 

A small matter, but gratifying. The world does not muck around with Scrooge McFoy, I can tell you. 

Hooptedoodle #490 - Power Supply Management in the Post-Truth Age?

 

Last night I received a text message from our electricity supply company, apologising for frequent short outages over the last few months, and especially during 27th-30th Sept (?). This remarkable note explains that these are due to environmental situations such as trees touching overhead lines and cattle rubbing against electricity poles - yes - you did read that last bit correctly. They go on to state that they are going to build some fences and do some tree-trimming to address these problems.

 

Of course we have to be grateful, and one is keen not to say the wrong thing, but it seems there may be evidence of bulls making a bit of a mess as well. I would be more convinced if the lady on the supply company's helpdesk in Birkenhead hadn't told me a month ago that the problem seemed to be the supply being (automatically?) switched between areas at times of peak load. [We the customers have already done some investigation to check whether the outages coincided with time-switches turning on the big grain dryers on the local farms, which was interesting, though inconclusive.]

 

It also surprises me that cattle should rub against the poles at exactly 6:30am or 7pm each day - creatures of habit, obviously. I consider it unlikely that there are any livestock (apart from horses, which are fenced away from poles, and pigs, which are kept indoors) within 30 miles of here. Generally, I'd be more convinced if the note didn't read as if it were written by AI, or maybe Ms McOswald's class at the primary school.

Hooptedoodle #489 - It's a Living

 My compliments to Count Goya, who has outed me. He sent this evidence of my current gig in the real world. Well, in Fife, actually.

It isn't easy keeping things together when you are a a 250-year old retired general without a Skilled Worker visa. If you live near Kinghorn and you want a little plastering or light joinery work done, I might know someone. Cash only, please.  

Hooptedoodle #487 - A Taste for Alternative History

 This last week I took the opportunity to read the starter volume for the Very British Civil War. It has taken me a very long time to get round to this, and my interest is not because I have any particular wish to play the game; I just have a great fondness for what-ifs, how history might have been if the wind had blown the other way. What prompted my renewed interest was some other reading about the 1930s in Europe and (all right, I'll admit it) my watching, also after a very long delay, the movie The King's Speech.

 

The VBCW booklet is absorbing - a thorough, thought-provoking job - I do like my fantasy with detailed embroidery.

Right on cue, in the last few days, one Mr Huckabee, a man described without apparent irony as a diplomat, former Fox News host and current US ambassador to Israel, voiced his opinion that if Sir Keir Starmer had been the British leader during WW2, the United Kingdom would be German-speaking now. 

Maybe that's true, I have no idea; interesting. More alternative history. If we're playing this game, it also seems to me that if the present US Administration had been in charge in Washington in 1939, they would have been solidly aligned with the Axis, so WW2, if it had happened, would have been a walkover. Which means that Huckabee's current gig in Israel wouldn't have existed either; interesting.

 

Major rally of the German American Bund in Madison Square in Feb 1939 - maybe they didn't get a fair chance?

Möge sein Arsch eitern, as Anton Drexler used to say. 

Hooptedoodle #484 - Unwanted Immigrant

 

I am depressed to be reminded that Jeffrey's ugly friend will be arriving on Friday for a 5-day visit to Scotland. 

Why is he coming? We certainly don't want him here, and - given his record - I'm surprised they would let him in.

It seems he will visit his own golf courses at Turnberry and Aberdeen. No doubt he will break the course record at each, and there may be some carefully vetted press sessions, so that he may rant incontinently about irrelevancies. I certainly expect that any incidental exposure he has to the actual Scottish public will leave him in no doubt how much he is loved and respected here.

 

The clubhouse at Trump Turnberry was not looking its best in April this year, after it was subjected to an attack of what is officially termed "malicious mischief". It has been cleaned up now, and there are also some very expensive enhancements to the course. No doubt our VIP visitor will be reopening it. I hope it pisses with rain.

Our Prime Minister is to travel up here for a meeting of some sort in Aberdeen. Whatever. Why a meeting in Aberdeen? Maybe it will be easier to avoid someone punching the Orange Nose this far from London? Starmer's attendance has something to do with refinements to an earth-shaking non-event masquerading as a trade deal. Why Sir Keir would waste his time having a discussion with a lunatic who changes his mind every day, and who hasn't the merest grasp of the basics of trade, diplomacy or integrity, escapes me. 

[Digression: In an idle moment, I was wondering whether anyone knows whether Washington or Lincoln used to spend all their time making stuff up and spouting about how great they were? Maybe they had other things to do - history doesn't seem to mention it, anyway. I think I am sufficiently interested in this idea to see if AI could manage a suitably edited re-write of the Gettysburg Address.]

Mostly I'm avoiding news topics like this at present, and I must say my health appears to be showing some benefit as a result. However, I also have to say that I am very uncomfortable about the forthcoming state visit (no capitalisation) when the Unmentionable One is to visit our King at Windsor Castle. It is probably polite to extend the hand of hospitality to heads of state, but this visit is going to be met with considerable public hostility, which potentially places His Majesty (that's His REAL Majesty) in a difficult position politically. Maybe, to ensure there is no trouble at dinner, a company of Beefeaters could attend, in full dress?  It goes without saying, the beefeater joke would be further enhanced by the serving of a vegan dinner.

Also, King Charles might take the opportunity to ask his guest where he was educated, since his spoken English is clearly not anyone's first language. 

Hooptedoodle #483 - A Little Help Goes a Long Way [Artificial WHAT?]

 Two days ago, I am awake at 05:00. It looks a bit gloomy outside, so I am pondering whether I will need to do my early morning pyjama run, watering the shrubs, and whether I will get a chance to do a little more weedkiller spraying of the gravel driveway today.

I decide to get advice from the electronic friend and helper on my phone, who is always faithfully awaiting a chance to serve.

05:06 - "Siri, what is the forecast today?"

Siri - "Today it will be mostly clear; daytime temperatures will rise to 18degC, with overnight lows of 13degC"

Fair enough - maybe I should keep an extra sweater handy, but that sounds OK. My alarm is set for 06:30, so I can enjoy a preparatory snooze until then. Better just check...

05:10 - "Siri, will it rain today?"

Siri - "There is very little chance of rain"

Righto - that will do nicely.

My snooze is suddenly disturbed by heavy rain hammering on the Velux window above my head. What the...? What is the story now?

06:15 - "Siri, will it rain today?" 

Siri - "There is very little chance of rain"

Maybe an alternative approach is required...

06:16 - "Siri, at what time will it rain?"

Siri - "It's raining now"

 

It's OK - this is a library photo of someone else's garden, for dramatic effect

We have to be grateful, I know, but I may go back to keeping a piece of seaweed in a jam jar on the window-sill. 

Hooptedoodle #481 - The King's Card

 

It will be my mother's 100th birthday on Monday. She doesn't know it will be her birthday, and she will not notice when it happens. The poor old soul is resident in a nursing home in Berwick upon Tweed, where she is wonderfully well looked after and is as comfortable as we can possibly make her, but she cannot walk, or see, or make sense of any sounds. She sleeps most of the time - they get her into some sort of semi-conscious state to feed her, but she doesn't communicate and as far as I am aware she has no idea where she is or what is going on.

I visit once a week, though she is not aware of my visits, and in fact she hasn't known me for about 5 years now. That's OK - it's a routine - I visit this very old lady, who doesn't remember me and appears to have nothing to do with any mother I ever had. Mostly, I think, I do it for my own peace of mind. I sit with her for an hour or so each week - I haven't seen her awake in about 6 months. I make sure her radio is quietly tuned to her favourite classical station (just in case she can hear it) and before I leave I chat with the staff about how she has been.  

A 100th birthday is a serious business in the UK. You get a greeting card from the Monarch. One advance in recent years has been that, if you are in receipt of the State Pension, this all goes ahead automatically. So I have been waiting to see how it all works.

About a month ago I received an undated letter from the DWP, the main message of which was:

We have attempted to contact you to organise congratulatory messages for their 100th birthday.

As their representative, you can arrange for cards to be issued from the King via the Centenarian Team.

All we need is for you to confirm that the personal information we hold on the Department for Work and Pensions' records is correct.

What to do next

If you would like the team to organise the messages on your behalf, or you would like more information, please get in touch with us. Our contact details are at the top of this letter.

Yours sincerely

 

W R Swanson
Office manager

Righto - here we go - the system has everything under control. Only slight concerns were:

(1) There was no mention of what personal information they wish to have confirmed, though they gave my mother's name and National Insurance number, and they obviously have some idea that she is going to be 100.

(2) The National Insurance number was incorrect. [Goodness me - don't tell me that all this digital magnificence is manned by idiots, after all? Surely no-one expected that?]

 I leaped into action - I spent a singularly unproductive 45 minutes waiting for someone to answer the supplied phone number (which is in Newcastle), and then typed up an old-fashioned letter and sent it to the supplied postal address (which is in Wolverhampton), confirming that, yes, I did want the Centenarian Team to send out a card, thank you very much, and pointing out the error in the NI number.

Two weeks later I received another letter from the DWP, which turned out to be an exact repeat of the original undated letter, complete with incorrect NI number. With some vague idea that I was already in the system, I refused to worry about this, and waited for a meaningful reply, aware that the time left for arranging a greetings card was disappearing fast.

I received what was clearly a reply to my letter - this dated 3rd June, though I received it on the 9th. All it contained was some generalised acknowledgement of my notifying them of a "change of circumstances" - there was no mention of greetings cards, and the Newcastle phone number no longer appeared. I am left to assume that the DWP's computer is very busy. 

In two days I shall travel down to Berwick for the "big" day. I expect that no card will be sent to me before then; it is possible that there may be one sent direct to the nursing home (the DWP have that address), but I doubt it. Since my mum will not know that it is her birthday, and since no-one would in any case be able to explain to her that she had received a card, or what a card was, I have to accept that it really doesn't matter. I may be pilloried by the nursing home staff for failing to arrange the King's card, but that is the least of my worries. 

 

I understand that this is what the card looks like, if you get one. I have to say that I am very impressed with the idea of sending a picture of oneself as a birthday greeting, and am thinking seriously of getting a supply of suitable cards printed up. No expense spared for my friends, I assure you - I know how much they'll appreciate it

 

***** Late Edit *****

 

Well, the card did turn up on time, so all due credit and respect to those involved. The system works, even if it does not feel very robust during the process. I knew the King wouldn't let my mum down...

 

 

********************* 

Hooptedoodle #480 - Something to Do with Having Your Cake

 I've always been fascinated by how memory works. Part of this has been reinforced recently by living through my mother's mental decline, and also by my occasional sifting through the big box of old photos I rescued when we sold her house. 

The photos themselves can become a little misleading, since sometimes I can remember seeing a photo before, and am no longer sure whether I can remember the actual event depicted. This may also have something to do with having a strong impression that my early childhood was all in monochrome!

How far back can we really remember? They say that between ages 2½ and 3½ is when we start to put together coherent memories - it probably depends on how spectacular one's early years were. I have some photos here of a weekend I spent with my parents at the seaside at Borth-y-Gest during the Summer when I was 2. There are pictures of me playing with my toys, and I can remember some of these toys from having known them in my later childhood, but I don't remember being there. I don't even remember that my dad almost drowned us all by taking us out in a rowing boat when there was a gale warning, which must have been fairly memorable. 

I am sure there must be bits of real memories in the early mixture, but the first definite event I can remember and put a date on was shortly after my 3rd birthday. I went to stay for a few days at my Uncle Ernie's house, across the river in the Wirral, because my mother was in hospital giving birth to my sister, and unfortunately (always having been a klutz) I fell off the swing in Ernie's garden and broke my left leg. I can't remember the swing or any of the trauma, but I have very vivid memories of two days spent in Birkenhead General Hospital; I remember the strangely-coloured lights they had on at night in the ward, and I remember very clearly playing in my cot with a Dinky Toys refuse truck which Ernie brought me by way of apology.

Just like this one, in fact:

 Dinky Toys model no. 25

I also have pretty clear memories of travelling with my mother by bus back to the hospital however-many weeks later to get my plaster cast removed. 

One thing that doesn't necessarily attach itself to old remembered images is how I felt about what was going on. However, during the recent annual festival of Gorging on Chocolate which has replaced the religious themes of Easter, I was reminded of The Incident of the Easter Chick Cake, and this may be a very early sample of my feelings about events.

This must have been my 4th Easter, so I would be 3-and-a-bit. My mother came in with some groceries, and she handed me a small paper bag, which contained a simple little novelty cake she had bought at the baker's. It was a very plain likeness of a small Easter Chick, not much bigger than a real live one, I guess, made of two balls of sponge cake, covered with yellow icing, with currants for eyes and a little beak of folded orange marzipan. It must have been pretty crude, really, but I loved it, and no-one had ever bought me a cake before. I spent some of the afternoon staring at it, being its friend; at teatime it was served up on a little plate, and I ate it.

I was heart-broken. Inconsolable. It hadn't been all that wonderful to eat, and I now knew for a fact that I would much rather have kept the cake as a friend. My mother was actually quite worried, and the following day she quietly went out and brought me another little bag. Yes - that's right; she had gone back to Mr Osborne the Baker (in South Street) and they had one Chick Cake left. I can still just about remember how wildly happy I was - all of a sudden life contained the possibility that something you had lost could be replaced. I had maybe never thought of that before. It probably ruined me for life, in fact...

This time, I decided, I was going to keep my cake safe, forever - you may have some concerns that this might not have gone very well. What actually happened was that the replacement cake was served up on the same plate, at teatime on the day of its arrival, and I happily scoffed it without hesitation and without any subsequent qualms. It seems that, once I had explored and enjoyed the personal tragedy of having eaten and lost the first one, I was ready to move on to more orthodox gluttony. I have never looked back. 

I find this interesting. We must put together a whole life-set of values and feelings based on personal experiences; I'm sure mine started a long time before the cake, but this is the first one I can identify.

And you know what? Both the Chick Cake and the Dinky refuse truck are remembered in full colour. Hmmm. 

Hooptedoodle #478 - Don't Go Down the Market, Daddy - Death by Cookies

This post may be for Neil, I'm not sure. This is something that happens to me now and then.

A couple of evenings ago, I was reading the website of MSNBC, which - if you don't know (and even if you do) - is an American news and media channel with somewhat liberal leanings. I was attempting to catch up with the latest doings of the FBI*.

While I was in there I was interested - pleased, you might say - to note that the bots that work for the agencies who buy advertising space on the site had sent me a personalised ad. Imagine, if you will - they had used unauthorised access to the personal and location information on my computer to target this ad just at me. I was flattered. Maybe I fit some desirable class of potential client - wealthy? sophisticated? Maybe this is why YouTube sends me all those notes from single women in the Ukraine? Maybe they also know I tend to buy Terry's Chocolate Orange Minis when I visit Tesco's? I'm digressing here, but you will gather that I was a bit excited.

I mentioned this to my friend, Charlie Farley, who knows about these things. He was disappointingly sceptical. Since the advertisers seem to know all about me and where I live, I was surprised they had not found a better picture of North Berwick harbour, which, as far as I remember, looks like this:

 

I was also concerned about these spare 2024 cruise cabins; did this mean that I would have to take my reduced-price cruise in 2024? How does this work, Charlie?

Charlie dismissed the whole deal as a con. Not only are there no actual cruises available, says Charlie, but if I click on this ad something very bad will happen to my bank account, and those trainers I bought from Hotter last month for working in the garden will no longer fit properly. Someone in the old Balkan States will steal my identity, and then absolutely everything will go down the toilet.

Of course I am disappointed that I am not getting a cheap cruise out of this, and I am also scared by what seems to have happened to That Internet, but I'm also not a little angry. I have come to trust MSNBC to tell me the news with the sort of spin I approve of, but they will not let me read it unless I allow these adverts to appear. That in itself is not too serious, but it seems there is a layer of scuffling piracy in there as well - there are, as Charlie says, invisible, bad people just waiting to trip me up and leave my body somewhere behind the recycling bins down at the harbour.

That really is a bit much. I might add, in passing, that if someone does pinch my identity then I hope they get better value from it than I did.

 

* Fat, Brainless Idiot

Hooptedoodle #477 - Årstid and the Acer - a week for time travel

 No garden progress this week, since it has been raining steadily (which is, of course, perfect for new plants). I've been doing Other Things, an underrated pastime in my opinion; as ever, Nature likes to chip in with the odd minor accident or inconvenient coincidence, but it's all part of the Great Plan.

Årstid

I really don't wish to know how this is pronounced. One small event which could have been a big nuisance is that the bedside lamp in the attic room has packed up. Broken switch. Needs to be replaced, and the first obvious issue here is that it must be 25 years old. I realise these little domestic mishaps are sent to test our faith, so I don't take it personally.

I had a look online to see what is available, and felt a familiar sinking of the heart as I was confronted by the riches of endless, bewildering choice. I find much of this choice is not what I'm looking for, since, stupidly, I have no interest in a lamp which is rechargeable, or has a USB socket for charging my devices, or is dimmable, or is touch sensitive, or can be spoken to, or switched on while I'm still on the train, via my phone, or is light sensitive. What I do want is something very like the old one, which takes big, screw-in bulbs, is tall enough and has a big enough shade to light up the room yet not be scorched by the big LED bulbs I use. I want it to have a simple pull-switch, which I can operate without upsetting everything when I wake up - in the dark, for goodness sake. Cheap and simple would be good characteristics.

My wife, who is extremely good at this stuff, found that what we currently have is an old IKEA design called Årstid. She also found - wonder of wonders - that IKEA still sell it, and it is very cheap. Here it is:

With a bit of luck I should have a new one up and working by tonight. My ability to read in bed is depending on this, so it is not a trifling matter. One great thing about this big old-fashioned model is that modern LED bulbs will create an astonishing amount of illumination without offending the current or heat limits of the old 40w-rated design. 

The Acer

Tonight I am hosting a Zoom wargame to test a modified version of my Corporal John rules. This version is deliberately designed to facilitate remote gaming, and also to cope with games involving more than two players. I mention this (briefly) to remind myself that this is supposed to be a wargaming blog, but will say no more for the moment, other than to take this opportunity to thank Jon Freitag and the Jolly Broom Man for their generosity, patience and wisdom in helping me with a couple of the proposed changes in the rules. Gentlemen, I am in your debt.

Part of the changes requires some thorough testing of dice systems for combat, and, as often happens nowadays, I found myself lamenting that I no longer have access to my old QBASIC facility on the PC, which made it very simple to run extended series of simulations, varying the conditions and the numbers of dice. Stochastic testing for idiots, which I used to find enjoyable and useful. Same thread as the broken lamp story; the world has moved on. It is probably possible to install a virtual environment to simulate DOS on my iMac or my current Windows laptop, but - while such a project would have been very stimulating some years ago - I find the very idea of attempting it now brings a great weariness. To be honest, I would rather have a cup of something and get on with my book.

The laptop screams at me, every time I switch it on, that I had better upgrade to Windows 11 or I shall be excommunicated. A few key programs (that's "apps", sorry) will not run if the machine is not connected to the Internet, since the software has to check online that my licences are up to date. Sapristi. 

I find that in some ways I miss laptops which I had in the past, which were less user-friendly but actually let you use the machine in useful ways by getting behind the Eternal User Interface (EUI) without going on a nightschool course first.

And then, out of nowhere, I remembered that, somewhere in the bottom of the Junk Trunk in the attic, there is a little Acer Aspire One which I bought in about 2009 - specifically so that I could keep in touch while on holiday. It has a 10inch screen, runs Windows XP, and will allow me to duck behind all that front end and run in old-fashioned DOS. The QBASIC editor should be there, along with my old testing suites, not to mention various bits of the old Elan game I wrote to manage solo Napoleonic miniatures games (last time I played Elan was with Clive Smithers, about 15 years ago, and he was impressed enough to take a copy of the software, though he never installed it. Life is a bit like that). 

I still have my QBASIC textbook - if this works, I could get a little useful fun and keep a few neurons firing.  

Because the Acer will not be able to connect to the Internet (since we have changed our modem/router/hub at least 3 times since it was last switched on), I can't think of any reason why DOS and Windows XP shouldn't still work. If they are not supported into the future, well I couldn't care less. I have found the machine - it looks OK, and is charging up now. I suspect the wireless mouse may have died, but I have a few suitable museum-piece mice with wires which will do the job. 

That should keep me entertained for an hour or two tomorrow.

In the meantime, today's priority task is to set up the table and the cameras for the Zoom test game.

Busy, busy.

Hooptedoodle #476 - Macdonald Road Library (Leith Walk, Edinburgh)

 I read recently that the public library in Macdonald Road was 120 years old last year - I confess that I was rather surprised to learn that it is still open; Leith is well out of my usual stomping ground these days, and public libraries are not doing too well, I fear, since Google has made it unfashionable to actually know anything.

Why mention it, then?

Well, back in the early 1970s I had a fleeting acquaintance with the old place - bear with me, and I shall attempt to explain in a pleasantly businesslike manner...

 

Appropriate monochrome photo of the library in 1930 - note the tram cars in Leith Walk. For some reason, my memories of Edinburgh in the early 1970s seem to be monochrome as well - maybe it was that sort of place

 

 

I think that military and wargaming books were indexed under code U - not that I wasted my study time with such matters, of course

Back in those days I was working as an actuarial trainee with a big (old) insurance company in Edinburgh, and part of the deal was that I got two half-day study periods a week during the winter (90 minutes each, in fact), which I had to take in the designated study room, in the attic above Accounts, which was filthy and unheated, and my recollection is that most of the students chain-smoked. Grim.

One winter my department moved. This sort of thing didn't happen often at the time, but the company's group pensions business was expanding quickly, and some of the pensions departments were relocated to a new building, in Leith, a good distance from the main offices in George Street. If the mention of a new building sounds promising, it must be borne in mind that the building in question had been built as an investment, but the proposed new occupant (Scottish Gas, I think) disliked it so much that they ducked the contract, so my employer cut their losses by using it themselves; it was probably good enough for us peasants in Pensions, anyway.

I now had an additional snag in that my twice a week study periods would be on the other end of a 30-minute journey each way. I made the mistake of asking the Personnel people if some other arrangement might be possible, and contempt was served up from a great height. If I chose not to use the facilities which were so generously offered, then that was my problem, etc etc.

As it happened, my boss was a nice old guy, and I agreed with him informally that I could absent myself on Tuesday mornings, and spend 3 hours in Macdonald Road library, which was only a few minutes away.

This worked well. The library was large, and very quiet indeed, and my 3 hour visits were much better for serious studying than the filth-hole up in George Street. I was surprised how deserted the place was - there were 3, sometimes 4, pensioners who came in to keep warm in the cold weather, otherwise there was very little happening. Maybe it was crowded in the evenings.

One of the pensioners was always very busy, scribbling away - the others seemed to sleep most of the time.

Eventually I struck up a nodding-terms relationship with the librarian in charge - Miss Gilhooley, who was a rather timid-looking young lady - pale, with red hair - and sometimes she would offer to make an extra cup of tea for me. This was kindness of a sort that actuarial trainees were not used to.

It turned out that Miss Gilhooley lived somewhere on the South Side, as did I, and on one occasion she sat next to me on the morning bus into the city. I learned a little of daily goings-on at Macdonald Road. It seems that the pensioner who did all the writing was a Mr Duguid [I have no idea how or why I remember this stuff], and what he liked to do was to bring in a ballpoint pen, and fill in all the letters o, e, a, b, d, p, q (etc) in the library's public copy of the Scotsman newspaper - he also liked to draw spectacles on the photographs of people in the news. I am pleased to add that as far as I know he didn't do anything worse than this, but what he did was relentless - he worked at it for most of the day. Miss Gilhooley used a cunning plan, and would lay out an old newspaper for Mr Duguid's use, but this didn't work, since one of his companions could read (Mr Duguid could not), and tipped hm off that it was not today's edition. Mr Duguid refused (quite correctly) to waste his effort destroying an out-of-date newspaper, so a Plan B came into use. Miss Gilhooley did a very brave, unofficial thing, and ordered a special second copy of the Scotsman for Mr Duguid. This seemed to be working, though the auditors would no doubt find out eventually.

Miss Gilhooley's worst experience had been a morning when another elderly chap came in, but he was wearing a Rangers FC scarf. This caused an actual punch-up with the regulars - Macdonald Road is right in Hibernians territory - and Miss Gilhooley had not witnessed hooliganism of this sort before or since. The only casualty was the maintenance man, who was struck with a fire extinguisher - or claimed he had been.

As I recall, my visits to the library only lasted for one winter. I can't remember why, but I know that you didn't get study time if you had to resit an exam failure, so maybe there is a clue in there somewhere.

Lovely city, Edinburgh, but I have a strong memory of it being a cold, grey, unfriendly place for a young man far from home! And there is some lingering whiff of the Council's disinfectant...

Hooptedoodle #473 - a New Beginning

 I must start off here with an apology to my various American friends; nothing personal, chaps.

It's been a bewildering few weeks at the start of what is obviously to be a New Age. All previously assumed givens about ethics, patriotism, honesty, justice, democracy, diplomacy and a lot more besides are going out of the window. Maybe it's overdue; maybe I just don't understand.

OK - deal with it.

I have to hope everything works out all right, and try to avoid saying the wrong thing. Stay out of the way.

However, there are some fundamentals. Since Mr Trump has decided to stamp out world trade (out of spite, as far as I can see), I had better climb aboard, dizzy with excitement, and cast off anything I ever learned or believed. I even propose to have a little initiative of my own. Not quite a New Year's resolution, but I'll give it a bash.

The markets are everything, so out of respect I propose to follow the new lead. If European goods are  to be subjected to the rumoured 25% US import tariff, then I shall follow suit, like a good fellow. From this point, as far as possible, I shall avoid purchasing any products which are made or branded in America, or which contain American ingredients.

I don't suppose the USA will notice, but if a billion other people follow my example, that would make a difference.

Hooptedoodle #472 - Odd One Out?

 Naturally I am not clever enough to understand this stuff, but a friend sent me this idea. No prizes, it goes without saying...

Which of the following places is the odd one out?

* SUDETENLAND

* UKRAINE

* GREENLAND 

* PANAMA

* GAZA

 

There are probably various different answers, but as far as I know Gaza is the only one which has been considered for annexation as a theme park

 

Hooptedoodle #471 - Whatever happened to...?

 This follows a lighthearted conversation with a friend, in which we were lamenting things from our past which, somehow or other, seem to have slipped into ancient history when we weren't paying attention.

For example, what happened to:

 

Comfortable shoes...

 

Proper, cheap, French vin ordinaire...

 

 

Google+...

 

I'd be interested to get some suggestions for other things which we might miss in wistful moments - the sillier the better, of course.

Hooptedoodle #469 - Hitler's Motorbikes, and Their Part in My Upbringing

 The title, of course, is a joke. This is just going to be the usual self-indulgent stuff about me, me, me, but let's sustain the pretence for a minute, and start with the motorbikes.

Most of you will recognise this as the iconic Zündapp KS750 sidecar unit, of which the Wehrmacht bought some 18,000 during WW2.  Zündapp were the most successful German maker of motorcycles; it is less well known that they were also the sponsors of the experimental Porsche 12 of 1931, which was one of the forerunners of Hitler's People's Car. The Zündapp effort was very advanced, having a flat-5 watercooled engine, and it may have been dropped on the grounds of cost. Here's a postwar reconstruction of the Porsche 12, which never made it into production; I understand that there were 3 running prototypes, of which the last was destroyed in a bombing raid on Stuttgart in 1945.

After the war, Zündapp moved their operation to Munich, and production was restricted to small, 2-stroke engined motorcycles. They produced a range of what became known as "mo-peds", and also introduced the excellent Bella scooter, which in the 1960s should by rights have been a very serious challenger to the Vespa and the Lambretta - maybe it was too ugly?

 Changes in regulations and international trading agreements meant that Germany's protected motor cycle industry was suddenly thrown open to competition from Japan, and Zündapp eventually went bankrupt.

Right, back to my own history.

My family moved to a more suburban district of Liverpool when I was 10, and my dad got a better job, at English Electric, in Aintree. This was too far to cycle, and he detested public transport, which he always considered to be primarily an uncomfortable way to spread infection. So he bought himself a 50cc moped - a Zündapp, in fact - for his commute. This would do something amazing like 150mpg on 2-stroke fuel. The build quality was exceptional, and the device was very strong (and heavy, of course). Officially it would do 35mph, but my dad fitted his with steel leg guards, and with a mighty perspex windscreen, which had a clear apron hanging down to the leg guards, so it had the aerodynamic properties of a garden shed. He also fitted it with an improvised pillion seat. With me on the back, 25mph was about the limit, and up anything like a significant slope I would often have to get off and jog up the hill behind him. It was not a huge amount of fun, as I recall.

Since I have given the general impression that this was no kind of sophisticated or comfortable means of transport, it makes obvious sense that the first serious run my dad took me on with his noisy, stinking, wheezing moped should be a 3-day jaunt to the Lake District "and beyond" (which I think meant "whatever we can manage"). I spent a lot of this trip jogging up steep hills, as you might imagine, thinking silent, dark thoughts. We went on the old A6 road over Shap Fell; we got as far as the Scottish border (just about); neither of us had been to Scotland before, so never mind the physical torture and the driving rain. Then we came back via the Pennines (he wanted to take a photo of the waterfall, High Force, near Middleton in Teesdale, with his ridiculous little Ensign box camera), cut back into the Lakes for our second night, and dawdled our way home the following day. How we survived, and why no-one ever murdered him, remain topics of wonder to this day.

During that trip, apart from my first sight of Scotland, I recall that we also spent a night's bed and breakfast upstairs in a pub in Stainton, Penrith - I had never been in a pub before!

This all comes to mind now because I recently rescued some of my mother's old family photo albums from her care home, and I now have some evidence. Here am I, with the moped, on the shore at Coniston Water, in the Lake District, on that very trip. Note short trousers, school socks and non-aerodynamic hairstyle.

And here, just to prove we got there, is the ritual photo of Gretna Green. I think that the wretch in the plastic mac in the middle is me.

 

A year or so later the Zündapp was replaced by a Lambretta scooter (by this time we are getting into the age of crash helmets), but serious upgrades to the transport situation waited until I had gone away to university, after which my mum and dad owned motor cars, and started going on nice continental holidays. [I've always wondered about that...].

It was interesting for me (if not for you) to find these old snapshots, which I haven't seen for 60 years at least. I should keep them handy, in case I am ever guilty of thinking that life gets a little tough some days.

 

Tonight I propose to work on touching up my growing collection of gabions. I may also paint some chevaux de frises. I have some excellent CDs of the Danish String Quartet playing folk music to keep me entertained, of which I may say more on another occasion.

***** Late Edit *****

I mentioned the Danish String Quartet briefly above - here's one of my favourite tracks from the painting session - the DSQ reinforced with a couple of friends:

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

A Whiff of Entitlement?

Over the last 14 years my hobby activities have benefited immensely, and often, from the kindness and generosity of others; many friends, but also on numerous occasions from complete strangers. It has been one of the most uplifting aspects of my involvement in the internet and social media. Accordingly, I always try to conduct myself in that spirit; after all, if we can't help each other, what else have we to offer?

About five or six weeks ago MSFoy received an email from Henschel, who lives in the USA. I have in place an arrangement by which MSF's incoming emails (and there aren't a great many) are forwarded to my personal account. This is in this same spirit of helping out, as mentioned, since poor old Monsieur Foy has been dead now for nearly 200 years. Henschel's message was certainly not impolite, but it came straight to the point; he had read somewhere about my "Corporal John" rules for the Wars of the Spanish Succession, but he hadn't found a download link on my blog, so where was it?

I pondered this for a day or two, since my experience of sending off the humble fruits of my labours to anyone who asks has not always been positive. About 48 hours later, MSFoy received another email (that's two in a week, which is almost a frenzy of activity), this time from Scotty, who is also in the USA, and again it expressed disappointment at the lack of a facility to download the Corporal John game, and requested that MSF send the materials to him.

I thought about it, and I put the rules booklet, with its current supplements and the images for the two card decks, into a zip archive file, and sent it off to Henschel and Scotty, with my best wishes and a brief explanation:

* The game is currently a mature draft, it works pretty well, and the rate of change has slowed right down.
* I regret I cannot send a set of the correct dice, since they are available only from the makers of the "Tricorne" board game (who refuse to sell them independently, by the way); they are, however, easy to make up with blank dice and coloured Sharpie pens.
* Although this is not commercially published work, I would appreciate the usual courtesies if the material is passed on or reproduced, including giving credit to the original source. In particular, the artwork is the work of a professional artist, and is copyright. I do not make a living out of writing wargame rules (fortunately...), but he does make a living out of drawing pictures.

All fine, I do not expect anyone to get too excited about anything, and I'm happy to forward the stuff if it is of some use.

Another three weeks passed, and old MSF received another request for Corporal John - this time from Alessandro, who lives in Italy. Same story - he had read a discussion somewhere which mentioned Corporal John and the lack of a download site, so could I please send it along - thanks in anticipation, etc, etc.

Yeah - whatever - I still had the zip file handy - I just sent off the same files and the same story. I'm quite happy with all that.

You know what? I haven't had a word from any of the three of them. It doesn't matter at all, of course, and I am not going to be offended, but no acknowledgement of receipt, no thanks. Not a dicky bird, as someone or other used to say. It's possible that they have all realised instantly that it is crap, or maybe they haven't had a chance to have a look at it yet. I really don't care, but I'm left with a faint feeling of weariness for reasons I can't put my finger on.

Have our collective expectations of the internet evolved in all the right ways?

Hooptedoodle #466 - Willie and the Bluetooth

 I was supposed to be busy spraying the drive this morning, but rain is forecast. Instead, I decided to phone my pal Willie, to see how he's doing, and if he fancies a spot of lunch at the pub in his village, since it is my turn to pay.

So I rang Willie. I took care to call his mobile, since he and his family have now had their landline phone removed (which is maybe something I should think about myself, though the potential hassle of having to inform the whole world of the change in my contact details puts me off).

Not for the first time, this was a more strange experience than I expected. Willie, you understand, is a big fan of new domestic technology, and is especially keen on spending his money on it, and talking about it in the pub. 

The phone rang, and Willie answered. His voice sounded very far away, and had a serious echo.

Willie - and I could only just hear him - said, "is that you Tony? - this is a terrible line - you are very faint. Do you want to try phoning me again?"

So I rang off, and tried again; same result. This time I could hear Willie, and my own voice delayed a couple of seconds, very faint and muffled.

It took a few moments, but I suddenly understood.

"Hi Willie," I heard myself say, somewhere in another galaxy, "am I, by any chance, speaking to your watch...?"

And, it transpired, I was. This has happened before; the only way out of this situation is for Willie to ring me back - that seems to work OK.

You may picture Willie, at home, with his iPhone in his pocket and his Apple Watch ready for action, listening to Earth, Wind and Fire (courtesy of his Apple Music subscription) on his Bluetooth Air Buds. When an incoming call arrives, all he has to do is press something (or other...) and the call will become the focus of world attention. Excellent. Problem is, Willie doesn't get very many calls these days, and his switchover needs more practice. I regularly find I am attempting conversation with some random device within his Bluetooth range.

He has made a hefty investment in a massive Smart TV, which is networked into his wi-fi, and from his phone he can access almost the entire back-catalogue of the world's movies and music - he has top-notch hi-fi speakers, too, so there is great scope for entertainment, all at the touch of a screen (or something). I'm sure that Mr & Mrs Willie get great value from all this kit, but I have to say that it has never actually worked in my presence. Perhaps my phone disrupted the network. Maybe it was just me. It could be the tin-foil in my hat.

I am not a non-believer, I hasten to add; sometimes I'm just a little slow to be properly impressed.

***** Late Edit *****

This morning, two days after this post, I drove to the post office in the next village, and, since they have a farm shop and tea-room on the same premises as the PO, I ordered myself a cup of hot chocolate and a bacon roll. The place was quite busy, so I took an empty seat at the last table in the row. I enjoyed my breakfast, but seem to have been singled out for some special treatment by the digital gods. Perhaps I should be more careful what I say. 

At the table next to mine were seated 4 visitors with backpacks and heavy boots, so I guess they were en route for Traprain Law, which would have been a squelchy and fairly hazardous climb in the pouring rain. They were holding a loud (and I thought rather competitive) debate about which phone app they found most life-enhancing; subsequently they moved on to apps they had downloaded but never used. This all went on for about 30 minutes, then they left. Presumably they continued to talk about this stuff while they scaled Traprain Law in the rain. I hope they had a mountain rescue app between them.

Seated at my table was a man with a big red beard, who was drinking a large mug of coffee, and he was fully absorbed in his phone - never spoke, which is fine with me. Whatever he was reading, he was also listening to music. I couldn't hear it - I must say these modern ear-buds are very cleverly designed to eliminated acoustic leakage - but I know he was listening to music because he tapped both feet and also whistled along with it, throughout my breakfast.

Of course, I should have brought along my own headphones, so I couldn't hear any of this, but there is something a bit wrong here, maybe? Anyway, I had a good laugh, at my own expense. Serves me right.

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

Siege of Liverpool 1644: Prince Rupert Postscript

 Following the comments and discussion on my previous post, I liked the idea of interweaving a couple of the emerging threads (see what I did there?).

Accordingly, here is an alternative view of Prince Rupert, featuring his signature neckwear, with acknowledgement to well-known earlier works by Gerrit van Honthorst and Alfred Edmeades Bestall, and very special thanks to my good friend Peter at PaK Cartoons.

Bold Rupert's chance reduced by half
When he forgot his lucky scarf

 

 

Please do not copy or reproduce this original piece without giving due credit to the source, or the Copyright Fairies will come and get you in the night.