I’m feeling remarkably happy today – and not only because it’s Friday (seventeen working days till I’m outta there!). This morning, I was late getting up, and so reached the station thirty seconds after my train was scheduled to leave. However, in what can only be regarded as a miraculous occurrence (my application for canonization has already gone off to the Vatican), said train had been delayed, and it rolled in four minutes later. Even the usual cattle-truck overcrowding, my face stuck in the armpit of some sweaty businessman, couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, for of such small things are tranquility and nirvana made.

I think it’s true to say that the daily commuting grind is something I will not miss in the slightest once I leave London for pastures Arizonan. Of course, it will probably be replaced by a different daily grind, as I drive to work instead — that in itself promises to be an experience, not having been behind a wheel in five years or so. I’m already nervous about having to take another driving test to get an American licence (or even “license”) — a Brit in his 30’s alongside all those 90210-styled teens. At least on American roads, you have a great deal more room to manoeuvre (or even, “maneuver”).

And, from what I’ve seen, American drivers are a good deal more polite, cheerfully waving away behaviour which would provoke a severe attack of road-rage – perhaps just a severe attack – if you tried them going round the Elephant & Castle. Perhaps it’s indeed true that an armed society is a polite society, and that you are less inclined to be rude if you can’t tell whether the other guy is packing. But it seems that driving, in itself, it less stressful than in London; or at least, it’s a different kind of stress, one born of fatigue and the fact that popping down to the corner shop for a pint of milk now requires a 30-minute drive. Each way.

This is still, however, preferable to London. I had been working on Litany of Hate 2 a sequel to (unsurprisingly) Litany of Hate, a list of things which piss me off. But I realised how many of these were linked to transport, even as a pedestrian who only has to dodge the shrapnel of car-related stress, as drivers explode in plumes of fury. Particular peeves include motorists who think that blowing their horns at pedestrians is the same thing as giving them the right of way. Or, as mentioned last time, there’s those who accelerate across the pedestrian crossing as they see you step onto it — inevitably getting a whole ten yards further up the road before the traffic brings them to a halt anyway. You may recall that I perfected the technique of clipping their rear wing hard with my briefcase as they whizz past, which creates a most satisfying sound. It scares the life out of them and is far less risky and more satisfying than shouting obscenities. Well, I have since discovered the additional tactic of then walking on as if nothing has happened, which really confuses them…

Then there’s cyclists… Oh, yes… No group of road-users probably whines more about how badly they’re treated – but no group of road-users has less respect for the rules of the road. One-way streets, stop lights, pavements — these are all things that apply to other people, as they swerve their way through the traffic like frantically-pedalling lemmings. For the death-toll among cyclists is perilously high — and I can see why. Once, when bus, tube and train all went on strike simultaneously, I cycled to work; even though the traffic was stationary, it wasn’t an experience I want to repeat. But until cyclists learn to behave like sensible road-users, why should they be treated like sensible road-users? Best just regard the annual death-toll as a cull of the most stupid and/or unlucky.

How can you tell the Japanese tourists on a whale-watching boat?
They’re the ones carrying the knives and forks aboard…

Having had my interest piqued by the latest batch of TC weird news, I was at the Japanese Whaling Society site the other day, a fascinating place which mounts a stoic defence of their right to harpoon any tasty-looking morsel of mammalian blubber within reach. Its suggestion is that whales are not that intelligent – the ratio of brain to weight is way below a dolphin’s – and that they’re more like ocean-dwelling cows than sentient beings. This is refreshingly robust, certainly a cut above the usual apologist nonsense over whaling for “scientific” reasons. Such are the joys of the Net: the ability to get points of view that are normally suppressed – sometimes for the best of reasons, but no truly democratic society can pick and choose who gets freedom of speech, and who doesn’t, based on whether you agree with their opinions.

I doubt that such views will be tolerated by those who manage “ethical investments”. These are funds who don’t invest your money in dubious companies that pollute the environment, say, or torture small furry animals. It’s one of those nice, woolly ideals – hell, even the name hijacks the moral high ground with the implication that other investments are somehow evil and immoral. It is interesting to speculate briefly as to whether proudly unethical investment funds do exist, advertising the fact that they don’t give a damn about morality, but they’ll do lots more with your money?

For the concept appeals only to the already-rich who can afford to take the hit. Ethical investments will, overall, do less well than normal ones, since if you make your choice based on factors other than pure financial performance, this is inevitable. It also seems to deny the inter-related nature of the modern economy, where no-one is innocent. Sure, there are degrees of guilt, but this is strangely bypassed: they aren’t called “slightly less unethical than average investments”.

In its simplest form, this is a boycott, which is the thin end of the wedge when it comes to campaigning tactics. For example: GM foods. It wasn’t enough for those who didn’t want to eat them, to buy from places that didn’t use genetically-modified ingredients, or simply read the freakin’ packet. Instead, there was a campaign of embarrassment, near-intimidation and vandalism aimed at forcing stores and farmers to cave in. Clearly, the arguments had failed to convince people, but as is all too often the case, who needs facts or evidence when you’ve got a good publicity campaign?

This intolerance for the views of others is characteristic of many a liberal cause: they’re right, you’re wrong, and you have to change to suit them. When was the last time you went to a vegetarian restaurant and saw a “Carnivores Option” on the menu? It’s the way that a small group will often attempt to enforce their own beliefs on others which irritates me. “I don’t want to wear fur, so all fur shops should be closed.” I don’t inflict my morality on others – much as the idea of skinning a few PETA activists does appeal – and I would appreciate it if others would give me the same respect.

So, if you don’t want to eat whale-meat, that’s fine. But if you can’t convince the Japanese not to do so, respect their views and let them get on with their lives.

Groan…I must not watch rhythmic gymnastics…I must not watch rhythmic gymnastics… Only five days into the marathon which is the 2000 Olympics coverage, and the strain is beginning to tell. Thanks to the ten-hour time difference, I have spent the past week being lulled to sleep by the sound of coxless fours on Radio 5, and woken up by cheers from the badminton arena. My days are spent pouring over collated table tennis results on the Reuters news feed at work, and cheering as Britain passes the Bulgarians in the medal table. Thank heavens it’s only once every four years.

At least it’s in Australia – it would have been ten times worse had it been in Manchester, who were defeated in the final round of voting for the honour of staging the games. I still treasure the memory of the crowd in Manchester spontaneously bursting into Always Look on the Bright Side of Life as the news of their rejection came through. All credit to the Aussies though, for running what seems so far to have been a strikingly well-organised event: I doubt Manchester would have done quite so well, even in Moss Side would have offered ideal territory for the shooting competitions. Sawn-off shotgun from the prone position, anyone?

It’s weird how the Olympics capture such a hold on the collective imagination, when few of the sports which are popular the rest of the time take a full part: no golf or motor racing at all, while the top competitors in football and baseball don’t take part. But for me, the joy is less to be seen in these events, than in the ones which you rarely or never get to see: they flower briefly, enjoying a day in the sun, then vanish for another four years. Would you know what “double-trap” was if we hadn’t won the gold medal in it? It’s a miracle we manage to compete in shooting at all, since post-Dunblane, possession of anything much bigger than a pea-shooter has been forbidden. Similarly in gymnastics where the British women had to deal with the problem of possessing actual breasts, unlike most of the other competitors.

Which brings me to beach volleyball, which is the complete opposite, being a sport in which silicone implants appear to be part of the rigorously enforced, minimalist dress code. It’s not a game we can expect the Afghan Taleban to be submitting a team for in the near future. This Olympic version of Baywatch, all teeth, tans and tits, also features the best-named pairing of the Games so far – or at least, the couple most likely to be mistaken for a lesbian porno double act – the magnificently-monikered American duo of Holly McPeak and Misty May. Although for sheer class, you can’t beat another fog-influenced American, swimmer Misty Hyman.

Still, you can’t deny that beach volleyball actually is a sport, unlike certain I could mention – let’s just say that anything where marks are given for “artistic impression” and the like are on dubious grounds, at least until oil-painting and ballet become Olympic events as well. The decisions over which sports are in, and which are out, seem almost random: it’s clearly nothing to do with popularity (Graeco-Roman wrestling, anyone), but gratifyingly, neither are commercial or televisual potential apparently anything to do with it. Badminton is in; squash isn’t. Go figure. But who wants to watch athletics anyway? A sport with all the spectator appeal of horse-racing, as far as I’m concerned — the sprinters take three times as long to get ready as they do to race, while you might as well tune all but the final lap of the long-distance races. And as for race walking…what the hell is that all about? Hey, make it a three-legged race and have done with it. Me, I’ll be eagerly tuning in to the climax of the sail-boarding instead – that’s real sport…

My, what an interesting week. For a while there, I felt like I was inhabiting a 70’s TV series (remember Survivors?), with the entire fabric of the country about to collapse into anarchy and chaos. No such luck, however, even if the petrol companies obviously were not trying too hard to get the tankers out the gates.

I can see their point, even if the (hastily changed) decision to increase the price the same day the blockades finished must go down as one of the stupidest in the history of capitalism. They do all the hard work, take the risks and make a couple of pence profit. The government comes along, in its wide-brimmed hat and platform soles, smacks them around a bit and rakes in 60 pence on every litre. That’s the kind of mark-up any pimp would be proud of. They bleat about how it’s an “environment tax”, to dissuade people from using their cars but, to extend the metaphor, would you give credence to a drug lord justifying who jacks up the price of heroin and says it’s for your own good? You need to stop people wanting to use their cars, by removing the need (how many mega-malls have the government allowed to be built outside of towns?), and giving them alternatives, in the shape of a good public transport network. I don’t have a car – haven’t had one for five years or so – because it’s simply not necessary in London. But if I still lived in Forres, it would be a necessity.

It was almost inevitable that sooner or later, people would say “enough’s enough”. Seeing the French complain, at lower tax rates didn’t help, and nor did the general perception that huge piles of public money are being poured down the drain in Greenwich. If we’ve got so much cash to throw around, why are we taxed so heavily? Fair question. It’s been seen by successive governments as an easy cash-cow to milk, with each Chancellor squeezing the udders ever tighter, each budget jacking up the price a bit more. But unlike booze and fags, fuel is now – as we’ve seen – essential to everyday life. [Booze is merely essential to get you through everyday life…] It’s hard to see why petrol should be so heavily taxed when, for example, electricity isn’t.

What was startling was how few people it took to bring everything to a grinding halt, and the speed at which the crisis exploded was also very encouraging to any would-be revolutionaries. The modern approach of minimising stocks may be efficient, but if the chain of supply breaks down, for whatever reason, you’re stuffed. When Thatcher took on the miners, in the last comparable action, she prepared by making sure coal stocks were built up in advance. With no such chance this time, the crisis rapidly exploded from nothing. And so much for the Blitz spirit — fist-fights on forecourts, panic-buying in supermarkets, the works. Hell, I even went to the bother of killing my neighbours and salting their corpses in the cellar for emergency consumption. I’ll miss them…

I find Blair’s refusal to bow to the protestors also very interesting, given his government’s willingess to accede to the demands of the far more violent anti-hunt lobby. I always thought democracy was about the government doing what the people wanted. Silly me. I’ll end with a quote: “This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.” Which radical expressed such anarchic views? Karl Marx? Che Guevera? Mao Tse-Tung? Nope. Abraham Lincoln, in his 1861 inaugural address. Somehow, I feel politics, and politicians, have changed in the 140 years since, and not for the better.

I am, in general, a big fan of technology. But let me add a couple of important qualifications to that statement, for experience has tempered my enthusiasm markedly. I discount what might be called “selfish technology”, which is anything that improves things for you, while irritating everyone else. Mobile phones are the most obvious examples, and I’d also add those little folding scooters to the same category, having been nearly mown down – on the pavement, I might add – by some idiot yuppie more often than I’d like to remember. And can anyone over the age of 18 ride one of those things without looking a complete twat? I think not.

The second caveat is that the freakin’ stuff must work. Few things are capable of causing more irritation than lame gadgetry which fails to function in the intended manner. It should serve man, make progress through everyday life a bit smoother, yet some cases appear to have the opposite effect. My Walkman, for example, has been teetering on the edge of breaking down for the past year – never reliable, yet never quite faulty enough to merit buying a replacement. It’s one of those “soft logic” players, and this is perhaps the problem, since the buttons are so sensitive that stepping off a kerb can cause it to switch on, off, or change the direction of play. When this happens four times inside two minutes (beep-reach-in-switch-on-beep-reach-in-switch-on), I start to dream happily of the day when it ceases to work altogether, and I can take it out of my pocket, and introduce it repeatedly to the nearest hard surface. For the moment, it usually responds, at least temporarily, to a hard slap. So if you see an individual who appears to be punching themselves in the heart, Fight Club style, that’ll be me, releasing a bit of tension by smacking the shit out of the recalcitrant beast in my breast pocket.

Every bit as irritating is my current nemesis, a piece of software excrement called Front Page, which I have grown to hate with genuine venom over the past month or so. It is supposed to be an aid to web designers, allowing the easy creation and maintenance of pages and sites. If you still believe this after working with it for a few months, you probably also think that paperclip thing in Word 97 is an endearing character. I’ve never used Front Page and already loathe it, because it has reduced people I care about to the brink of tears. When I witness intelligent human beings reduced to nervous wrecks, by psychological terrorism on a CD-Rom, I get mad.

I am, I admit, biased, having learned HTML from the bottom up – Front Page is thus, to me, a redundant piece of software, doing nothing I can’t, and what it does, it does with a startling lack of efficiency. Just as a one-line Word document bloats up to 20K, so the output from Front Page is grossly top-heavy, with unnecessary tags and entire sections which are only of significance to…Front Page. If you want to try and debug the results, it’s hard to pick through the badly-formatted verbose garbage. For someone who hasn’t been grounded in HTML first, it must be almost impossible. Even more insidiously, it has a nasty habit of corrupting pages written by other methods. It tries to seduce them to the dark side of the force, by inserting additional code, or simply over-writes them with its own version, doing so without telling the user [It strikes me that if something arrived from the Phillippines and did this, it would be referred to as a virus — but since it comes from Seattle, it’s called a Microsoft product, and will probably be compulsory before too long.] Trying to prevent it doing so appears to be futile: it may be the first piece of software with an ego coded into it, which refuses to tolerate the existence of any other method of working.

I’m sure there’s a place for such programs, to take the hackwork out of generating large volumes of code – and I’ve heard some good things about Dreamweaver, which is a little more expensive, but apparently superior. But my bad experiences have left me feeling highly suspicious of the overall benefits. It seems to me that, just as with guns, radioactive material and Backstreet Boys CDs, access to the current generation of HTML editors should be limited to those who can prove a genuine need for them. The rest of us should stick to writing the stuff by hand; it may leave the Net less graphically groovy for a bit, but in the long run, it will turn us into lean, mean coding machines rather than coached potatoes.