I’ve been on the early shift at work this week, which is about the nearest thing to hell I can envisage. “Early” in this context, means being at my desk at 7 a.m which, the more I think about it, goes beyond merely hellish to positively Satanic. This means getting up in the dark, and going out into a freezing, damp and miserable morning when any sane person is still curled up with dreams of [insert favoured sex-god(dess) here]. It sucks.

Admittedly, I’ve not exactly helped things, by averaging about six hours sleep this week. But you go to bed early on Sunday night, in preparation, and find yourself deeply acquainted with the cracks in the ceiling because you are, of course, not tired. But, boy, do you know the meaning of that word by about Wednesday night, especially as I resent having to go to bed when civilised society is still down the pub. So I don’t. Oddly, though, the most easily survived day was Thursday, when I got a mere four hours of kip: I think four is better than six, for some reason connected with sleep cycles.

Thankfully it’s only one week in four, but that’s still one week in four too much. And I was thus grateful for the following rant which appeared in my mailbox courtesy of regular TC contributor Lino. It saves me having to think up anything when my brain is curled up in a corner demanding large quantities of R.E.M. — and I don’t mean the dumb band. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you…

PUBLISH THIS!!

So, anyway, it’s 12:30am on Tuesday morning, and I’m downloading “blueprints” from usenet, surfing and with my third eye am watching “Late Show with David Letterman” on Sky One, an ad break appears… blah blah, small Japanese car, blah blah, Burger King, blah blah, usual bland crap… then… I see two men in lab jackets standing in front of a chimp… one of the men is holding a picture of a packet of sweets… not just any sweets… Opal Fruits, but you see, and this is where my world starts falling apart, they’re not marked up as Opal Fruits… the wacky duo are testing out new names on the chimp… the chimp getting excited and pushing the “OK” button when they show him the name “Starburst”…

Yes, the new name for Opal Fruits is Starburst… now, look, I love Americans, I love America, in fact I’m IN love with an American… and I’ve tasted Starbursts, and I like them (America having discovered that there are more than two fruit flavours…), but I will NOT accept this name change… ok, so a few years back, in the spirit of corporate greed they changed the name of my favourite nutty chocolate bar from Marathon to Snickers (In an attempt to make the world a happy place and flood the UK with these horrible generic advertising campaigns[*]), I accepted that (Although I do happily confuse stupid looking newsagents by asking where they keep the Marathons), because, while I enjoy them, my childhood wasn’t bombarded with mind altering ad campaigns for Marathon bars…

It was warped forever by mind altering ad campaigns for Opal Fruits… “Opal Fruitssssssss, made to make your mouth waaaaaaaater”… OK, I accept that they weren’t designed to make my mouth water, they were infact designed to be hard, then soft, and consisting of only a couple of flavours…. But they were Opal Fruits damnit…. OPAL FRUITS!!! Good God, I’m 32 on Saturday, I don’t need to have my rapidly dimishing grip on reality jarred by evil plans like this…. STOP IT NOW!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! WHERE WILL IT ENDDDDDDDDD!!

[*] These horrid generic advertising campaigns get worse. The latest Doritos advertisment being the American one. The worst offender so far are the series of Eurodisney ads where they cleverly place cups etc, in front of the “actors” mouths, thus making it easy to dub a foreign voiceover on it and ship it Europe wide…

OK, that’s it, I’m going to find some Americans on IRC and abuse them….

Goodnight

Indeed. Now THAT’s a sentence I can agree with…

Goodnight…

I have in the past bitched about the trivial and petty nature of my employers. On Wednesday, I received the following memo, which I reproduce, virtually in full, with editorial interruptions.

Date: 25/02/98 09:00
Subject: Use of Internet Email by IT staff

With immediate effect all contract staff will have their access to Internet Mail removed. This should not impact us as a group because very few of our contract staff need access to Internet Mail to effectively carry out their duties.

…neither do many permanent staff. Indeed, in the near-year I’ve had it, I don’t think I have sent one single work-related e-mail. So why the hell did they give it to me to begin with? What did they expect I was going to do? Not that I really care, because their system sucks. One message I forwarded to myself took 36 hours to get here, a pace which would have been matched by a valium-crazed slug.

Permanent staff should have been aware of the policy regarding the use of Internet Mail, although we have examples where permanent staff have clearly behaved in breach of policy. All permanent staff will receive a copy of the policy for the use of Internet Mail, with their payslips for February, which they must countersign and return to the administration team. This will be held on the files in HR. Any further breaches of the Internet Mail policy will result in disciplinary action.

Ah, yes, the famed Internet mail policy. To a large part this consists of a program which scans incoming and outgoing mail for rude words. I talked about this before. It is perhaps noteworthy that things at work have become rapidly more Stalinist since China took over Hong Kong — which might give you a clue as to who my employers actually are…

These steps would have been avoided if staff had been sensible in the use of the mail facility. If you are tempted to question this action you should be aware that over one four day period of monitoring the use of Internet Mail over 625 messages were intercepted which had inappropriate material in their content.

“Inappropriate material” — a phrase which covers a multitude of sins. What exactly do they MEAN by this, given that strong rumour has it that the list of banned words includes “Clinton”? If you’ve ever been on a securities dealing floor, you’ll know that the language used tends to be, shall we say, on the robust side. Yet I am unaware of any attempts to forbid dealers from saying “fuck” — so why is it deemed worthy of disciplinary action if I put it in an email to a friend whom I’ve known for years?

In addition there have been several examples of inappropriate material being sent to the wrong address, giving significant potential for possible offence.

Rumour also has it that part of the trigger behind this putsch, was a report in a Sunday paper on the use and abuse of email. This included a sample post with, embarrassingly, the HSBC disclaimer at the bottom. This disclaimer basically denies everything the post says, is automatically added to ALL posts originating from the company. Oops! Shot ourselves in the foot a bit there, didn’t we?

The misuse of the Internet has caused significant problems…

Oh, really? Such as what, precisely? How has the circulation of jokes about Bill Clinton, or at worst, the VERY occasional picture, threatened the survival of a company which, this very week, announced 1997 profits within an ace of five billion quid? The timing of the announcement sucked; if any people were contemplating whether to jump ship (it being annual bonus time), this will have been admirable encouragement.

…and has used up substantial amounts of disk capacity.

If that’s a problem, I think we’d quite happily pass the hat round, and raise the massive cost of 300 pounds for an 8Gb hard-disk drive. Should provide room for quite a few Clinton jokes.

Management have responded with appropriate actions to prevent repetition of this misuse. The blame for the loss of this facility lies with the individuals who contravened policy in the first place.

A policy which is vague in the extreme — we have never been told precisely what constitutes “misuse” beyond the inevitable bleatings against sending “abusive, sexist, racist or defamatory messages”. As far as I’m aware, there has been precisely NO discussion over or information on what this means — one man’s harmless joke is someone else’s racist abuse. Without such details being clearly mapped out, the policy will inevitably be breached, through sheer ignorance at the very least. The reaction is a typical over-reaction: some contractors misused it, so all pay: it’s worse than being back at school.

Attached was another piece of email from a level higher up, from which I’ll excerpt a choice part or two.

Subject: Use of Internet Email by IT staff
Date: 17/02/98 14:35

I have always been of the view that when it comes to the use of technology, IT staff should lead by example and should always work to the highest standards.

An extremely naive view, and one not rooted in reality. IT staff are inevitably the FIRST to exploit and abuse any technology. The vast majority of computer crime is not commited by hackers, but is an inside job.

Contract staff charge our company for each hour they are on-site, and we must ensure that time spent on unproductive activities is minimised.

…while we pay our permanent staff just for turning up — who cares what they do, since they get significantly less than the market rate anyway. That is the insidious implication of the above statement. But why stop with email? No phone calls! Coffee breaks! Toilet visits! Yes, in future, just supply all contractors with a large cork…

It’s all very symptomatic of the neo-Luddite approach to technology inherent here. Rather than embracing the Net, and trying to find ways in which it could be used, they seem to view it as the spawn of Satan, and the root of all evil. Never mind that phones, faxes and personal chit-chat can all be used in exactly the same way – I’ve heard far more “abusive, sexist, racist or defamatory” stuff standing at the coffee machine, than I’ve ever received through the Internet – the nasty big ogre of e-mail must be stopped.

Welcome to the 19th century, guys.

At threatened, a later-than-usual update this week, having just been to the airport to wave a friendly good-bye to TC’s American ambassador who has been over here for the past eight days — see last time for details, as I worried about how best to amuse a first-time visitor.

In the end, it proved remarkably easy, because there are so many things which we residents take for granted, but which are deeply interesting to tourists. I’d quite forgotten how architecturally interesting a city London actually is, once you raise your eyes above the street level rubbish of burger bars and bureaux de change. It’s a complete mess, in terms of periods, with Edwardian, Victorian and modern piled together, but it does make for interesting viewing.

I also visited the Tower of London, for the first time ever. S’ok, I suppose, though all the REALLY cool stuff i.e. the arms + armour, and the exhibition about instruments of torture and execution, were closed. Not that they mentioned this when we paid our nine quid to get in, of course… Made up for it by going to the London Dungeon instead, which satisfactorily assuaged Chris’s hunger for things icky and morbid, and is rather more fun than queuing for hours to see some poxy jewels.

Speaking of hunger, I was given a wide brief when it came to Feeding the Chris: “stuff I haven’t had before that’s not gross”. Hmmm, sounds like an opportunity to show off traditional British cuisine i.e. curry, in all its delicate flavours and forms: balti, masala, madras and vindaloo. I must confess that the boundaries of “not gross” were stretched a little bit by including haggis on the menu, but Chris seemed to enjoy it. Most visitors are keen to try it, only until they discover how it’s made — it’s the bit about hanging the sheep’s windpipe over the side of the pot when you’re boiling the stomach that usually does them in…

Transport presented one or two problems: while double-decker buses were thoroughly enjoyed, I lost count of the number of times I had to yank on Chris to prevent a sudden claim on the medical insurance, as the result of a vehicle sneaking up on the blind side. Even the trains drive on the left, and the Tube presented the severest test to the sensibilities of someone more used to the wide open spaces of Arizona. The first time a train pulled in, only mildly crowded, Chris’s aghast reaction of “Are we getting ON that?” revealed a certain nervousness, and the favourite way of passing the journey seemed to be playing “Spot the Psycho” — though on London Underground, *everyone* is a viable candidate.

Regardless of such trifles, I think Chris had a good time (the weather was far more Arizona-esque than I could have hoped for!) — I know I certainly did, having obtained a fresh regard for the wide and varied delights of our capital city, and respect for those who come here to appreciate them. Which, I suspect, will last roughly until 9am on Monday morning, when I shall resume my usual surly and aggressive approach to all those twats standing on the wrong side of the escalator…

This weekend, TC plays host to Chris Fata, our American ambassador, and does the tourist thing round London. It promises to be interesting, with some measure of revenge included as part of the proceedings, since Chris had the opportunity to snigger quietly while this Limey gawped senselessly at the neon-clad excesses of Las Vegas during the October jaunt to America. Now, the boot is on the other foot, and we will be able to see how well an American adapts to British culture…

Of course, this assumes there are no unforeseen problems. At the 1997 Shinnenkai Japanese animation convention, the American guest failed to turn up because he didn’t realise he needed a passport to get to Britain. At the 1998 Shinnekai, the American guest failed to turn up because he didn’t get his passport in time. It never ceases to amaze me that so many American don’t HAVE passports, because they just don’t need them, but Chris has been well warned about this and is, I am confidently informed, passported-up. I hope…

So, what to show someone coming to London, and indeed Britain, for the very first time? The problem is that familiarity has bred contempt, so many of the things that seem incredibly popular with tourists – Madam Tussaud’s, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace – are places for which I have an instinctive, kneejerk phobia. In some cases, that’s “phobia” as in “irrational” (I have never been to Tussaud’s), but in others, such as Covent Garden, it is a perfectly clear and logical conclusion based on hard experience.

But having said that, there is an inevitable difference between living somewhere, and being a tourist there. My parents LOVE Covent Garden, and no trip to London is complete without visiting there. So what I’m going to have to do is try and suspend, for a few days, the cynical mindset of the resident Londoner, and try to see the place with fresh eyes. This is NOT going to be easy…

What would be nice, and what London really lacks, is some central high point for a visitor to climb, from which they could look out and say, “Ah, so THIS is London”. Paris has the Eiffel Tower, New York the Empire State, but London has “closed due to terrorist activity”. The Post Office Tower, Canary Wharf, the Nat West Tower, all of them closed to the general public. I guess Tower Bridge is going to have to do…

Otherwise, I think I’m just gonna roll with the flow. From the wide, open spaces of Phoenix, to the crowded, dirty teeming metropolis of London is a far enough step as it is. Knowing how I felt in Las Vegas (not so much culture shock as lack-of-culture shock, even compared to Leicester Square), I fear I might have to spend most of the time trying to coax Chris out of the hotel bedroom with Absolut vodka and junk food: “C’mon, Chris, it’s okay, the buildings aren’t REALLY going to collapse and crush you”… I’ll let you know how it goes. [Next week’s edition may be slightly delayed by a couple of days, depending on how long it takes me to recover!]

Am I the only one feeling slightly uneasy about the Iraqi situation at the moment? For it seems that everybody loves a war — at least as long as you win. Readers may recall a certain General Galtieri, who started one, hoping to divert attention from problems at home, but unfortunately forgot that it really helps if your army consists of more than frightened schoolkids. As a result, he got kicked out, and we got five more years of the original Mad Cow. Thanks a bunch, General!

But there are uneasy parallels between then and now. Clinton has certainly got a keen interest in diverting attention from domestic (in both senses) difficulties, though I hope he holds on, if for no other reason than this: I DO NOT WANT TIPPER GORE AS FIRST LADY. This is the women whose campaign against ‘obscene’ song lyrics allegedly began after she caught her daughter “doing things” while listening to a Prince song. True or not, that it’s *plausible* means I will be quite happy for Bungalow Bill to carry on, even if he builds his presidency on the corpses of dead Iraqis. Hey, what’s a few more?

Back here, we have Tony Blair, gagging to show us just how good he can be at foreign affairs. After all, it’s been a long time since Labour had the chance to run a war, and they’ve got a lot to prove. Do they still have the knack of carpet-bombing civilians, after the best part of two decades in opposition? I mean, what we seem to have is a power-hungry despot intent on careering towards war, purely for his own personal gain. And never mind Blair, I’ve heard one or two bad things about Saddam as well. Yep, cheap shot, I know. But it seems that our PM has been taking lessons from the Margaret Thatcher school of diplomacy. I expect eventually a stoic defence of us nuking Iraq, on the grounds that it was sailing towards our ships and posed a definite threat to them.

Perhaps it’s all just pre-millenial tension, a build-up for the Nostradamus-flagged apocalypse to come. And if you saw ‘Louis Theroux’s Weird Weekend’ last night, you will know there are quite a few people out there convinced we aren’t a million miles away from the Big One. I didn’t think it was all supposed to be until NEXT year, but hey, Mr.N. was writing centuries ago, and what’s the odd year between friends: who cares whether it’s 1998 or 1999? Which is another Prince reference, I suppose, putting us over our weekly quota. I’d better quit, and go get the beers in, before Ragnarok hits