This morning, I woke up with a slight hangover, but it pales into insignificance alongside the one which Demon, the ISP through whom you’re reading this, must have. For, after losing a landmark Internet libel case, they are facing a bill for damages and costs which could be around five hundred grand — not the sort of headache that can be cured with a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich. It’s really the first time that libel laws have been applied to the Internet in this country, and the main thrust of the decision is that ISPs are now deemed to be liable for the content held by them. That cracking sound you hear is a huge can of worms being opened…

I have to say that Demon’s behaviour in this case is at least somewhat curious. Some of the messages in question were faked to make them appear as if the plaintiff, Dr Lawrence Godfrey, had written them: despite informing Demon of this, they took no action, which seems to indicate a severely laissez-faire approach. While you can certainly defend almost any content under the banner of free speech, it’s much harder to explain why you allowed forgery. In addition, having decided to rack up legal costs running into six figures, they then decided to capitulate shortly before the case went to trial.

The implications of this don’t really need to be spelled out, nor the inherent impossibilities. ISPs are now deemed liable for what they carry, but it would take a Chinese army of dedicated surfers to make the slightest dent in the volume of Net traffic. Even if they relied on responding to user complaints, the potential workload is huge: anyone who has been on Usenet will have seen the flame wars that break out. The number of potentially or actually libellous statements posted each day is no less enormous.

Much of the appeal of Usenet is its unfettered nature, but perhaps it should come with a big disclaimer: don’t believe all you read. For both the best and worst thing about the Internet is that anyone can post what they want. There is no quality control of any sort, and while there is a lot of accurate information to be found, there is also a whole load of dreck. The problem is telling the two apart, but this is really down to the surfer. Anyone who believes something just because it’s on the Net, is gullible in the extreme, and by extension, suing someone because the less rigorously-minded might accept it seems a tad unfair.

To some extent, what we’re seeing here is technofear. Any new technology will be posed as a threat to civilization, particularly when it becomes available to the masses — for an example, see the ‘video nasties’ scare of the 1980’s. This may partly because the smaller something is, the easier it is for it to slip under the wire, legally speaking, but I can’t help feeling there is something elitist here: an “is this the kind of book you want your servants to read?” thing. And particularly with the Net, they may have a point: it’s probably true to say that as the number of users increase, the average intelligence of them decreases, and with it the ability to sort out the wheat from the chaff.

In the early days, connection to the Net required industrial-strength computing equipment. Now, anyone with a PC and a modem can get on, and soon, even the PC is becoming more and more optional as things like games consoles come on-line. The problem with letting any idiot log onto the Net, is that there’s no shortage of idiots keen to try. Maybe we should add a healthy scepticism to the pre-requisites, alongside a working phone line.

We’d like to welcome guest columnist and TC-icon Lino to the editorial chair for this edition, his own special blend of understated social observation bringing a much-needed dose of sophisticated wit to this poor site. So, without further ado, heeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Lino!

MUST……. VENT……… SPLEEN!!!!!

You know, I thought I’d made my point quite clear last year when we talked about the whole Opal Fruit/Starburst thing, but no, some people didn’t get it. This has been gnawing away at my brain for quite some time now. I’ve let it pass as I’ve had better things to do, but we’re terribly quiet at work just now, and if I don’t do something I’ll just end up ripping someone a new “asshole”. (Or arsehole for people who haven’t quite forgotten how to spell properly… Shut UP, I know that I don’t spell properly, but if I wanted a session of introspection I’d shell out 50 quid for an hour with a “councillor”). Right, where was I.. Ohhhhhhhh, yes.

Sugar Puffs, you know, the great old breakfast cereal that tastes of honey and if you eat too much of it, makes your urine smell of the cereal you’ve just eaten. No problem with that over here at Raffa Towers at all, no Sir. For years now, it’s various cheerful television advertising campaigns all had the same loveable big old yellow “Honey Monster” fronting them. For a while there, it all got a bit silly (big breasted Australian ex-soap opera “stars” appearing as love interest, rapping, playing “football” etc), but I stuck with them (even though I don’t eat the ruddy cereal). All this changed a few months ago when I happened to see a commercial for a great new breakfast product called “Cocopuffs”, and who was the spokesperson for this fabulous chocolatey tasting cereal feast? The Chocobunny? The Cocoshunter? No, they used the Honey Monster….

Does that make any sense to you??!!

Because it ruddy well doesn’t to me, he likes honey, he’s not ever mentioned his liking for anything even slightly chocolatey… The bastard.

Of course, since I saw that commercial, I saw the Ford commercial featuring the moose having his life flash before his eyes, and the Penguin biscuit commercial featuring the giant penguin trying to get into the aquarium (two quid, mate? Is that per fish?), so I’m feeling a lot happier.

OK, off you go….
     Lino

I feel his pain. My personal bugbear is companies who rebrand their products, usually in a desperate attempt to make them seem less crap. Pepsi spent 330 million pounds on relaunching their cola in (gasp!) a blue can, and sales still went down 15% because, guess what? It was still more fizzy dreck than fizzy drink. And now Marks and Spencers are up to the same sort of thing, to try and shore up their plummeting sales.

I have never had any sympathy for them, ever since I went in and tried to buy a suit. After fending off M&S card sales people, I discovered that the only credit card they accepted was their own one. I strongly suspect the decline of the company is connected less to the colour of its carrier bags (something they are apparently changing), and more to this selfish disregard for customer preference.

However, they do have one genius-level product: non-polish shoes, which form my entire work footwear wardrobe. I’ve no idea how it’s done (and why it wasn’t done before) but months after buying them, they still have that just-polished look. Well, at least I assume that’s what “just-polished” looks like, I think my last pair went their entire lives without feeling the caress of bristle… More of that kind of thing, and fewer prawn-and-avocado sandwiches, will soon see the company back on its (just-polished…) feet.

An early update this week, since I’m off to Southampton for the Minami anime convention tomorrow. And, indeed, not that much of an update, since my lifestyle has been destroyed by my VCR quietly grinding to a halt last Friday. “F05”, it said. “Refer to dealer”, replied the manual. “Where’s the bloody receipt?”, added Jim: though still (just) within the guarantee period, I can’t really take it back because of the absence of that little slip of paper. I found the receipt for the previous machine, of course… Phoned a repair shop or two, and they all breezily assured me it was a loading motor problem, and quite easy to fix. “Easy” is one thing, “cheap” is another. Hence, there will be a short delay before I get to review all the stuff I took back from the States.

Indeed, household appliances, and the house in general, seem to have dominated spending in TC Towers lately. The oven, long a source of interestingly clangy noises which made a simple pizza sound like a Test Dept concert, finally gave up the ghost. It’s been replaced, but by a gas oven, which is different enough to ensure I have been consuming my food either cold or carbonated. It doesn’t bother with anything sensible on the front like a temperature: it just goes from 1 to 9. The manual, even less usefully, describes 1 as “Cool” and 9 as “Very hot”. I think I could probably have worked this out myself. Expect sales of microwave-ready meals in the Tulse Hill area to increase.

We also discovered that roots belonging to the 1:1 Amazonian scale-model, thinly disguised as a hedge, which is planted in front of the house, are rapidly heading towards becoming an integral part of the foundations. The problem is, if we get rid of it now (perhaps we should have bought a wood-burning stove!), the cure might be nastier than the disease, involving the rebuilding of the entire front wall, before my bedroom suddenly acquires a genuinely “airy view”. I knew we should have Agent Orange’d the bastard the day we moved in.

Instead, now it’s going to cost a sum which is currently indeterminate, but likely to make the costs of new ovens and VCR repairs, pale into insignificance. Hang on, I thought we were simply trying to sell the house – y’know, get money out of it? I understand than you can only buy a house if you have money, but now it appears that you also need money if you want to sell it, too. I guess this is no more than we deserve, after seven years of largely neglected maintenance. The chickens (albeit more floral than faunal) are now coming home to roost…

Finally, went to the WCW wrestling at London Arena last weekend. Though the wrestling was thoroughly enjoyable, and the venue suitably spectacular, perhaps the two most memorable moments were outside. Firstly, Canary Wharf tube station, on the Jubilee Line extension: is it just me, or has the designer of it seen Logan’s Run once too often? I almost expected to see Jenny Agutter in a short skirt (“Look! There’s Jenny-bush!”) on the other escalator. And most amusingly, after the event, I was actually asked for my autograph. No, I don’t think I was mistaken for Sting or Bret Hart — the black-and-white striped shirt I had on just made me look like a ref! Hell, I signed anyway, and even added “referee” helpfully underneath. Somewhere out there, is a very confused kid carefully scanning each program to see whether his ref can be found…

As I left Phoenix, any legendary bird attempting to rise from the flames fire would have been distinctly soggy, doused by the sheets of rain pouring down from a severely un-Arizonan sky. They may not get much rain there, but they do tend to get an entire month’s worth in one American-sized helping. This was the same storm which succeeded in flushing a jet off the runway in California, parking it on the forecourt of a nearby garage: the pilot has now bought a house with the Green Shield stamps. Actually, that little incident brushed a little nearer home than I’d like as three days prior, I’d flown on the very same airline, Southwest, out of the very same airport, Las Vegas. Luckily, at that point conditions were a little calmer and Chris + I endured nothing traumatic than a surfeit of in-flight peanuts.

Las Vegas itself, on the other hand, was its usual wonderful, insane, excessive self. Since last visit, three more mega-hotels had popped up, including the Paris and the Venetian: the former had a 2/3 scale model of the Eiffel Tower in front, while the latter boasts a quarter-mile long Grand Canal, complete with gondolas (on the second floor, no less!) and a lobby which made the Sistine Chapel look like the daubings of a ten-year old. Bear in mind that this is all being built out of the quarters we drop into the slots…

Though we didn’t do too badly on this score. We were pleased to renew our acquaintance with our favourite Safebuster machines, though they are getting harder to find as newer, flashier models replace them. The wonderful thing about Safebuster is that you can tell when it’s going to pay out: the top is a safe with a combination lock which spins, and when you get three numbers in the right order, it goes into jackpot mode, paying out anywhere from $4 to $10,000. As you get the numbers, it “crosses them off” a panel at the top, and it’s surprising how many people walk away when two are gone, and the machine is on the verge of coughing up.

Thus, we have learned to “predate” on these machines; lurk innocently in the background, breathing discouragements under our breath, while some wizened granny fills it up for us, only to pounce the second she walks away. Then we nail the final cross down and rejoice in the resounding jingle of quarters, spilling out of the machine like guts from a freshly-slaughtered buffalo. We never quite managed enough to send that resignation fax, but on the last day, we left with over a hundred dollars. Plus, it’s just such fun — when you win, you win, and when you lose, the combination lock turns for an additional adrenaline boost.

Unfortunately, these machines are getting rarer – the condition of the ones we found was distinctly shabby – and I fear for their future. It may not be long before they are replaced by the bane of my gambling life: video slots. There’s something reassuringly solid about a machine with proper reels and I feel I’m getting some kind of mechanical recompense for my quarter, not just a flashing screen. Plus, frankly, I don’t trust video games — I’ve played enough of them to know that they can cheat the player without the slightest qualm. No matter the flashy features they may have, give me something with a handle on the side, that doesn’t gives you an electric shock if you are wearing the wrong kind of jumper.

It would be wrong to think that all our time in Vegas was spent gambling, or even that all my time in America was spent in Vegas, but here is not the place to reveal lurid details of a connection between the George Foreman Fat-Reducing Party Grill and cherry-liqueur chocolates. However, I will add that any readers looking for an alarm clock should check out the brutally kitsch wake-up calls currently on offer from Trash City’s commercial depot, as located at a trade show we bumped into behind the Venetian…

By the time you read this, odds are I’ll be elsewhere, since tomorrow begins the first full-blown TC Trip of 2000. Once again, the destination is Western America, with Phoenix and Las Vegas the main targets. British Airways will be flying me out, and I hope the in-flight entertainment system doesn’t break down on the way, as it did last time — it is particularly irritating to see semi-random five minute chunks of a film, but such are the joys of what used to be Economy class, but is now called “World Traveller”. However, at current rate of air-mile collection, I should get into the BA Executive Club later this year – and not the scummy blue card anyone can get, a proper Silver one. I look forward to striking fear and terror into Executive Lounges around the world.

There are multiple facets to this trip, not least of which is preparation for eventual emigration. There are three big hurdles to be overcome: house, visa, and job. The first-named is largely a case of catching up with seven years of unexecuted maintenance, though given the current housing market, we could probably sell it in milliseconds for more than we paid for it. The job & visa things are inextricably intertwined, and Chris + I are still ploughing through the bureaucratic web of green cards and H1Bs, up to and including the possibility of marriage — a prospect that no longer quite sends me running and screaming, I may add, but I’d rather wait and do it for the right reasons! This has also caused some frantic searching: I know I graduated from Aberdeen University back in 1987, but do I have any bits of paper to prove it? Needless to say my mother, inevitably, came up trumps on that one…

There will, however, be plenty of time for pleasure, in a variety of delightful ways, including my third trip to Las Vegas. I doubt if I’ll ever be able to recapture the heady shock of that first drive down the Strip, gawking at olympic gold-medal levels, but it’s always fun to try. No doubt Chris + I will some time “predating”, Velociraptor-like, around the casinos, stalking the senior citizens who don’t know how the hell to play the fruit machines. Merciless and ruthless it may be, but it’s a jungle out there… Back in Phoenix and Tempe, there will also be the first baseball games of the year (I will finally get to see my beloved Arizona Diamondbacks play!), as well as the, er, local Scottish Highland Games.

There is something bizarre about this: I never usually bothered going to the Forres Highland Games, when they were in the park at the end of our road, but fly 5,000 miles and they suddenly become an object of great interest. I saw video of last year’s event, and the severely surreal imagery of people tossing the caber, while palm trees swayed gently in the background, takes a lot of beating. But home culture never seems so appealing as when you’re away from it — I remember an English pub on Sunset Boulevard serving draught Newcastle Brown Ale, and this Scottish ex-pat is far more patriotic than I was when I actually lived there.

But that’s part of the joy of travel. In these days of the “global village”, there is very little truly local culture, unless your idea of a holiday involves festering swamps and the casual fending off of cannibalistic natives. For a satellite- and Internet-handy individual, the world is shrinking and, so for this as well as other reasons, it’s very comforting to realise that I won’t be thinking of myself as emigrating, so much as coming home. After all, home is where the heart is,

See you in a fortnight!