Well, the aforementioned Freeview box has arrived and there it sits, under the telly, gathering dust.
And why? Because, as so accurately predicted, we haven’t got a bloody clue how to make it work.
There are, of course, no instructions whatsoever, it being a mate’s cast-off, and all the casual talk down the pub about scart sockets, selection menus and all that stuff went straight over my head.
So me and the Head Gardener/Technician plugged things in where they appeared to fit and, although there is a faint pulse and the eyelids have flickered once or twice, the sodding thing remains stubbornly close to flatlining.
We have tried everything, from being sensible and using the remote control, to playing mellow music, stroking it and wooing it with gentle words of encouragement, none of which made it any more forthcoming. Even swearing and threatening mindless violence left it unblinkingly unconcerned.
And so we remain a four-and-a-half-TV-channel family, doomed to watch repeats of George Gently and the slowly dying embers of Ashes To Ashes which, come to think of it, apart from Have I Got News For You, is pretty much all we watch anyway.
So that begs the question, why do we need a digibox unless, of course, some bright spark has decided to turn off the normal signal from that big pole I can see atop the Mendips and replace it with some digital doobry-firkin.
And that’ll never happen.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Wednesday 3 June 2009
It's in the box
We, mes amis, are going digital, ho yus!
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
Thursday 28 May 2009
Mother of all trips
YOUR heart just had to go out to the poor lad who is taking a year out to travel across Thailand and Australia – watched every inch of the way by his mother.
She’s tracking his every move via one of them there clever little satellite thingummy-jobbies that sends a signal back to good old mum’s computer.
Apart from wondering why a baby boomer generation mother has a computer in the first place, wouldn’t it be better for a19-year-old’s independence if his mother cut those apron strings – and cut the boy a bit of slack at the same time?
Good grief, woman, why do you think he’s going to the other side of the world in the first place? Could it be he’s sending you a not-too-subtle message to get off his back?
OK, back in the black-and-white days the only gap years were the periods between losing your two front teeth and waiting for the next pair to grow.
So this got us talking at Arkwright Towers and The Head Gardener was of the opinion that the world was a safer place 40 years ago and that she, too, would worry if one of ours was globetrotting. Even if they are 26 and 29.
I distinctly remember when I was about eight or nine, being packed off for the day to pick wimberries on what we knew as the Wimberry Moors but which are perhaps better known as the Pennines, nor far from the Saddleworth Moors of Brady and Hindley infamy (no, no, I refuse to do that joke).
The eldest of our little bunch of waifs and strays would be about 11, so we were obviously in safe hands, and we would tramp off carrying duffel bags containing a bit of lunch and a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock pop.
We would straggle back hours later, knackered, dusty, sunburned and with purple lips and tongues, clutching a polythene bag containing half-a-dozen squished little berries from which, miraculously, various mums created wimberry pies.
Never figured that one out.
There were no people, no traffic, no tracking devices, no mobile phones, no personal alarms, no neurotic parents – and absolutely no cares in the world.
She’s tracking his every move via one of them there clever little satellite thingummy-jobbies that sends a signal back to good old mum’s computer.
Apart from wondering why a baby boomer generation mother has a computer in the first place, wouldn’t it be better for a19-year-old’s independence if his mother cut those apron strings – and cut the boy a bit of slack at the same time?
Good grief, woman, why do you think he’s going to the other side of the world in the first place? Could it be he’s sending you a not-too-subtle message to get off his back?
OK, back in the black-and-white days the only gap years were the periods between losing your two front teeth and waiting for the next pair to grow.
So this got us talking at Arkwright Towers and The Head Gardener was of the opinion that the world was a safer place 40 years ago and that she, too, would worry if one of ours was globetrotting. Even if they are 26 and 29.
I distinctly remember when I was about eight or nine, being packed off for the day to pick wimberries on what we knew as the Wimberry Moors but which are perhaps better known as the Pennines, nor far from the Saddleworth Moors of Brady and Hindley infamy (no, no, I refuse to do that joke).
The eldest of our little bunch of waifs and strays would be about 11, so we were obviously in safe hands, and we would tramp off carrying duffel bags containing a bit of lunch and a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock pop.
We would straggle back hours later, knackered, dusty, sunburned and with purple lips and tongues, clutching a polythene bag containing half-a-dozen squished little berries from which, miraculously, various mums created wimberry pies.
Never figured that one out.
There were no people, no traffic, no tracking devices, no mobile phones, no personal alarms, no neurotic parents – and absolutely no cares in the world.
Thursday 21 May 2009
We're all doomed
Isn’t that just bloody typical of women?
Give them an inch and they take mile upon mile.
Not satisfied with getting the vote; not satisfied with equal rights; not satisfied with ending sex discrimination or becoming Prime Minister, now they want to take over the planet and do away with men altogether.
And the bad news, guys, is that Mother Nature is on their side, which I suppose SHE would be. Where the hell is Father Nature when you need him?
The problem that blokes face is that the male Y chromosome is apparently dying out. I say apparently because the claim is made by Professor Jenny Graves, whom I suspect is not the proud owner of testicles and, we might as well get racist as well as sexist here, also happens to be Australian. (it’s an Ashes summer, all is fair).
According to this testosterone-challenged Sheila, this Y bit of giblet had 1,400 genes on it 300 million years ago but is now scratching around on its last 45, so will run out of reasons to exist fairly soon – well, in five million years, give or take a week or two.
This process means that men will gradually become less and less masculine and will eventually morph into females and, witnessing Graham Norton, it seems the change has already begun.
But there is a glimmer of hope for male survival.
One species in Japan has plenty of healthy males running about despite a complete lack of the Y widgety thing.
Sadly, it’s a rat.
Give them an inch and they take mile upon mile.
Not satisfied with getting the vote; not satisfied with equal rights; not satisfied with ending sex discrimination or becoming Prime Minister, now they want to take over the planet and do away with men altogether.
And the bad news, guys, is that Mother Nature is on their side, which I suppose SHE would be. Where the hell is Father Nature when you need him?
The problem that blokes face is that the male Y chromosome is apparently dying out. I say apparently because the claim is made by Professor Jenny Graves, whom I suspect is not the proud owner of testicles and, we might as well get racist as well as sexist here, also happens to be Australian. (it’s an Ashes summer, all is fair).
According to this testosterone-challenged Sheila, this Y bit of giblet had 1,400 genes on it 300 million years ago but is now scratching around on its last 45, so will run out of reasons to exist fairly soon – well, in five million years, give or take a week or two.
This process means that men will gradually become less and less masculine and will eventually morph into females and, witnessing Graham Norton, it seems the change has already begun.
But there is a glimmer of hope for male survival.
One species in Japan has plenty of healthy males running about despite a complete lack of the Y widgety thing.
Sadly, it’s a rat.
Friday 15 May 2009
The gravy train now crashing...
“…an utterly lost and daft system
Which gives a few at fancy prices their fancy lives
While 99 from a hundred who never attend the banquet
Must wash the grease of ages from the knives.”
Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal, 1938.
WHEN a gravy train crashes off the rails we should really have expected the brown stuff to cover everyone on board.
So it is that our MPs find themselves knee deep in the soft and sticky and the air is thick with the rotten stench of hypocrisy.
OK, so the MPs caught with their fingers in the public till are queuing up to buy hair shirts (probably on expenses).
OK, so they are all wringing their hands in contrition and self-flagellating.
OK, so they are all lining up to drop cheques into the box marked ‘Returns’.
And why would that be, do you think?
Are they really that sorry that the rules they made for themselves are open to abuse?
Do they truly feel shamefaced that they are able to freeload it at our expense?
Or might it be that they are simply highly embarrassed that their lucrative little lucre secret is out in the open and now they are scrambling to salvage any last shred of respect they may once have had.
What they need is the lass who casts a suspicious eye over our exes claims and, believe me, we would be glad to see the back of her, or rather, we would all love her to reach such heights in her career at such an important place as Westminster.
But what a joy it has been to watch first, David Cameron, then Gordon Brown, trying to inhabit the high moral ground – if there is any such thing in all this mullarkey – to win some political kudos.
As one famous bloke once nearly put it, “Never have so few owed so much to so many” – or something of that ilk.
No doubt we will all remember this national disgrace when the parties want our votes in next month’s European elections.
Now there IS a gravy train.
Which gives a few at fancy prices their fancy lives
While 99 from a hundred who never attend the banquet
Must wash the grease of ages from the knives.”
Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal, 1938.
WHEN a gravy train crashes off the rails we should really have expected the brown stuff to cover everyone on board.
So it is that our MPs find themselves knee deep in the soft and sticky and the air is thick with the rotten stench of hypocrisy.
OK, so the MPs caught with their fingers in the public till are queuing up to buy hair shirts (probably on expenses).
OK, so they are all wringing their hands in contrition and self-flagellating.
OK, so they are all lining up to drop cheques into the box marked ‘Returns’.
And why would that be, do you think?
Are they really that sorry that the rules they made for themselves are open to abuse?
Do they truly feel shamefaced that they are able to freeload it at our expense?
Or might it be that they are simply highly embarrassed that their lucrative little lucre secret is out in the open and now they are scrambling to salvage any last shred of respect they may once have had.
What they need is the lass who casts a suspicious eye over our exes claims and, believe me, we would be glad to see the back of her, or rather, we would all love her to reach such heights in her career at such an important place as Westminster.
But what a joy it has been to watch first, David Cameron, then Gordon Brown, trying to inhabit the high moral ground – if there is any such thing in all this mullarkey – to win some political kudos.
As one famous bloke once nearly put it, “Never have so few owed so much to so many” – or something of that ilk.
No doubt we will all remember this national disgrace when the parties want our votes in next month’s European elections.
Now there IS a gravy train.
Thursday 7 May 2009
It's only words
You can say what you want about swine flu but it appears to have put an end to the recession - as far as the national papers and TV news are concerned, at least.
It must be over anyway, as Barclay’s Bank has increased its pre-tax profits by 15 per cent, which means my overdraft is safe and won’t have to be nationalised by the Government – and, given its size (my overdraft, not the Government) that will no doubt come as a huge relief to the Treasury.
So now that my immediate financial future is secure, we can turn our attentions to the English language and ponder which word will be the one millionth officially recorded.
According to the Global Language Monitor website, English throws up a new word every 98 minutes and is due to pass the Million Word Mark at 10.22am on June 10. And in case you were wondering where this website is based, it adds “Stratford-on-Avon Time” – so that’ll be across the water, then.
Point is, what will that word be? And how do they know there are already 999,456 words, at the time of writing? Who is going to check? And why?
I was going to suggest that we all have a guess at what the word might be, but that would mean the word would then exist, and so wouldn’t be the millionth.
No doubt The Word will be the latest computer-geek speak invention of the moment but if you are interested in words it’s quite a nail-biter. And yes, I do intend to get out more.
Meanwhile, back to this Monitor website. And a word of warning, don’t go there unless you have, ooooh, a couple of hours to spare at least.
To save you all a few minutes, the following examples were extracted from its Chinglish section, many surfacing during the Beijing Olympics:
No noising (translated as quiet please).
Jumping umbrella (Hang glider).
Airline Pulp (Food served aboard jets, hmmm).
The slippery are very crafty (Slippery when wet).
If you are stolen, call the police (None given, none really needed).
Deformed Man Toilet (Disabled toilets).
Get used to it, the way populations are going, we’ll all be speaking it by the middle of the century.
It must be over anyway, as Barclay’s Bank has increased its pre-tax profits by 15 per cent, which means my overdraft is safe and won’t have to be nationalised by the Government – and, given its size (my overdraft, not the Government) that will no doubt come as a huge relief to the Treasury.
So now that my immediate financial future is secure, we can turn our attentions to the English language and ponder which word will be the one millionth officially recorded.
According to the Global Language Monitor website, English throws up a new word every 98 minutes and is due to pass the Million Word Mark at 10.22am on June 10. And in case you were wondering where this website is based, it adds “Stratford-on-Avon Time” – so that’ll be across the water, then.
Point is, what will that word be? And how do they know there are already 999,456 words, at the time of writing? Who is going to check? And why?
I was going to suggest that we all have a guess at what the word might be, but that would mean the word would then exist, and so wouldn’t be the millionth.
No doubt The Word will be the latest computer-geek speak invention of the moment but if you are interested in words it’s quite a nail-biter. And yes, I do intend to get out more.
Meanwhile, back to this Monitor website. And a word of warning, don’t go there unless you have, ooooh, a couple of hours to spare at least.
To save you all a few minutes, the following examples were extracted from its Chinglish section, many surfacing during the Beijing Olympics:
No noising (translated as quiet please).
Jumping umbrella (Hang glider).
Airline Pulp (Food served aboard jets, hmmm).
The slippery are very crafty (Slippery when wet).
If you are stolen, call the police (None given, none really needed).
Deformed Man Toilet (Disabled toilets).
Get used to it, the way populations are going, we’ll all be speaking it by the middle of the century.
Friday 1 May 2009
Now that's what I call TV heaven
I don’t watch much telly these days because, like millions of others who have switched off, I get easily bored. What we need is some blue skies thinking on revamping the repetitive and tedious dross served up on a regular basis.
So keep your eyes peeled for the new channel, Arkwright TV, which will be showcasing the following proggies and accepting money in brown envelopes from anyone for any reason, as usual:
Naked Celebrity Monocycling on Ice: Remember topless darts? Old hat, brother. This is the future. Watch Terry Wogan, Johnny Vegas, Peter Kay, Fern Britton, Vanessa Feltz, John Sergeant, Dara O’Brien, Russell Grant and Ann Widdecombe whip their kit off and bring tears to your eyes (and theirs, I shouldn’t wonder) as they show off their little foibles atop a one-wheeled scaffolding pole.
Big Bad Brother: The housemates are all psychopaths and homicidal maniacs who are a drain on the taxpayers and the house has a gun in a padlocked case on a wall. The gun contains one bullet. The case is unlocked for only five minutes a day, and nobody knows when, but whoever finds it open must shoot somebody, anybody, even themselves. The winner is the last one standing.
Strictly ER Holby: Each week, one lucky contestant gets to operate on a real patient to remove vitals organs. The two “surgeons” who garner the most votes go head to head against the clock in the grand final, each performing a triple heart bypass operation, one on Bruce Forsyth and one on Robert Powell
Apprentice Reversal: Each week, contestants are given a successful computer company to run, in tandem with a Premiership football club in London who play in white shirts bearing a cockerel on the badge. They are spurred on to make a success of one without screwing up the other, while Sir Alan Sugar tries to run a sushi and Bollinger champagne café outside Hull Kingston Rovers’ rugby league ground on a match day. Which leads us neatly on to …
Hull’s Kitchen: Celebrity chefs are parachuted in to the less-than-salubrious areas of the city to make poncy lunchboxes and nouvelle cuisine evening meals for families of six without using chips, pies or anything fried. Anybody who lasts a week wins a mobile burger bar in a layby on the A38 near Bristol Aiport.
Britain’s Got Swine Flu: Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden are incarcerated in separate bare rooms and hold face-to-face interviews with six people each to try and discover who has the flu and who is hiding the Tamiflu tablets. What they don’t know is that all the contestants have the virus, and only Ant and Dec have the pills. Face masks are not allowed.
I’m A Gardener, Get Me Out Of Here: Alan Titchmarsh is reunited with Charlie and Tommy in the Australian jungle and we watch across 13 astonishing weeks as they set out to obliterate every living thing in their way to produce a decking and gravel area covering 763 square miles, plus a large water feature roughly where Adelaide used to be.
So keep your eyes peeled for the new channel, Arkwright TV, which will be showcasing the following proggies and accepting money in brown envelopes from anyone for any reason, as usual:
Naked Celebrity Monocycling on Ice: Remember topless darts? Old hat, brother. This is the future. Watch Terry Wogan, Johnny Vegas, Peter Kay, Fern Britton, Vanessa Feltz, John Sergeant, Dara O’Brien, Russell Grant and Ann Widdecombe whip their kit off and bring tears to your eyes (and theirs, I shouldn’t wonder) as they show off their little foibles atop a one-wheeled scaffolding pole.
Big Bad Brother: The housemates are all psychopaths and homicidal maniacs who are a drain on the taxpayers and the house has a gun in a padlocked case on a wall. The gun contains one bullet. The case is unlocked for only five minutes a day, and nobody knows when, but whoever finds it open must shoot somebody, anybody, even themselves. The winner is the last one standing.
Strictly ER Holby: Each week, one lucky contestant gets to operate on a real patient to remove vitals organs. The two “surgeons” who garner the most votes go head to head against the clock in the grand final, each performing a triple heart bypass operation, one on Bruce Forsyth and one on Robert Powell
Apprentice Reversal: Each week, contestants are given a successful computer company to run, in tandem with a Premiership football club in London who play in white shirts bearing a cockerel on the badge. They are spurred on to make a success of one without screwing up the other, while Sir Alan Sugar tries to run a sushi and Bollinger champagne café outside Hull Kingston Rovers’ rugby league ground on a match day. Which leads us neatly on to …
Hull’s Kitchen: Celebrity chefs are parachuted in to the less-than-salubrious areas of the city to make poncy lunchboxes and nouvelle cuisine evening meals for families of six without using chips, pies or anything fried. Anybody who lasts a week wins a mobile burger bar in a layby on the A38 near Bristol Aiport.
Britain’s Got Swine Flu: Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden are incarcerated in separate bare rooms and hold face-to-face interviews with six people each to try and discover who has the flu and who is hiding the Tamiflu tablets. What they don’t know is that all the contestants have the virus, and only Ant and Dec have the pills. Face masks are not allowed.
I’m A Gardener, Get Me Out Of Here: Alan Titchmarsh is reunited with Charlie and Tommy in the Australian jungle and we watch across 13 astonishing weeks as they set out to obliterate every living thing in their way to produce a decking and gravel area covering 763 square miles, plus a large water feature roughly where Adelaide used to be.
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