tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38806937335499482912024-03-08T16:07:04.442-08:00Aureate PablumEquivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-85882294831734561472007-11-10T06:32:00.000-08:002007-11-10T15:34:24.163-08:00The definitive Oxymoron?Who would have seen it coming?<br />The far-right bloc of the european parliament has collapsed, after Romania's contingent of xenophobes pulled out, citing xenophobic comments by some of their colleagues, from Italy. Perhaps it wasn't the best political planning, for MEPs whose election platform was predicated on borderline-racist demagoguery to ally themselves with their prima facie 'enemies'? The only real shock is that the bloc survived 10 months as an entity before collapsing like the vortex of hypocrisy that it was.<br /><br />http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7086986.stmEquivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-83774813066608026612007-10-19T07:44:00.000-07:002007-10-19T07:54:01.210-07:00Cutting-edge Australian medicineRecently I read a story that piqued by interest, and indeed, some degree of envy: about an Italian tourist in that antipodal land whose main exports include lamb, beer, and T.V. soaps. He evidently injested some sort of poison, and in order to save his life, was kept alive by doctors on an intravenous drip of...wait for it...vodka!<br />Rather delightful, methinks. Of course, he couldn't enjoy it owing to his comatose state at the time. I just wonder, if I tried faking similar symptoms would the National Health Service here take a similar approach or would they just file me away in an MRSA-infected ward?<br /><br />http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7037443.stmEquivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-22077779626699102442007-10-11T04:30:00.000-07:002007-10-11T04:34:34.661-07:00"I am an equal opportunities employee"Not really a statement that screams "hire me", is it? Yet some employers get away with writing the equivalent thing on job advertisements, which has got to be a candidate for 'Most Meaningless Statement of the Year'.<br /><br />Does it mean they follow a quota system? That they hire lesser candidates just because of their background, to get their staff ratio back on track? Is that equal? Don't get me wrong; I'm all for equality and whatnot, it's just that the insinuations of such an overt statement are puzzling: Does it mean that every employer who doesn't proudly proclaim their merits in this department are, ipso facto, guilty of unequal hiring practices? Is their silence an admission of guilt? Conversely, does saying it act as surety against a lawsuit; is it effectively a license to practice the most repugnant nepotism?<br />Ultimately, I suppose, I would prefer to believe it is exactly what it says on the tin; and that they won't discriminate against me for being lazy.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-26093704295750938082007-07-23T15:29:00.000-07:002007-07-28T11:19:33.903-07:00HomecomingI have recently left England for the greener pastures of home, though perhaps such a statement is unwarranted: a verdancy comparison of the two countries would likely reveal a degree of parity between the bucolic areas of the respective nations. But I digress.<br /><br />Britain has taken a page out of McDonalds' book; learning from the practice of providing happy-meal toys themed to movie releases. Here's a copy of the press-release:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"To celebrate the launch of the film, "Bruce Almighty", Britain has decided to simulate a little diluvian event of its own, flooding major road and rail connections, as well as a fair number of domiciles."<br /></div><br />The heavy rain, and consequent flooding, made travelling prohibitive, but nevertheless, I have accomplished my return homewards, and in time to witness a golfing victory, unequalled in the past 60 years: Pádraig Harrington's victory over Sergio Garcia in the playoffs of the Open Championship. Yeah, it doesn't mean anything to me, either. But one thing I did note was that<br />at the presentation of the winning trophy, the Irish contingent of fans regaled their countryman with a popular patriotic song dating back to the 1990 Irish participation in the Italian-hosted World Cup. As such, it is composed, when sung in refrain, entirely of a repetition, ad infinitum, of the spanish word 'Olé'. The irony most likely escaped many present, but it must have surprised, if not annoyed, the runner-up Garcia, to be serenaded, or indeed, goaded, in his own tongue, by the fans of his victorious opponent.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-1820566402254235242007-07-15T13:51:00.000-07:002007-07-15T13:57:44.095-07:00Dark Magic: Part 6Apprehensively, he opened the door, and a dozen or so faces turned to look at him. He swallowed hard. He could be in any room. This was a crazy idea. He should see a doctor; he should...<br /><br />"Lewis! My man! Bit heavy on the booze last night?" The tone was caustic, and came from a square-shouldered, blond-haired guy, seated by a large window at the left side of the room.<br /><br />Someone laughed.<br /><br />Lewis had a feeling he was in the correct room, though he was beginning to wish he wasn't. Without responding to the derision, he let his feet guide him to a chair, and as he sat down, he realised the view from the window was familiar; not just the view itself, but the angle. This was where he usually sat. He ran his finger over the inner edge of the desk, and found familiar grooves, recognisable graffiti. He saw...his handwriting, though characteristically illegible even to himself. Only the letters 'S*****um Wood' were visible.<br /><br />"Never seen a desk before?" This voice was not unkind; the same, familiar, voice that he'd heard the previous night.<br /><br />Lewis turned to look at the speaker. A tall, well-built guy of south-asian complexion was looking at him with a good-humoured expression, which changed to a querulous one.<br /><br />"What happened to you last night?" He asked<br /><br />"I..." Lewis trailed off, searching for the right words, but only one came to him: '<span style="font-style: italic;">Rat</span>'.<br /><br />"You feeling ok?"<br /><br />With those words, Lewis remembered who he was speaking to. Rat had been in his class for years. They'd been friends for most of that time, but Rat didn't know about....what? Lewis was aware of some aspect of his life, closed to this confrere. He was aware of it in a broad, amorphous sense; of its vast boundaries and great significance, but without knowledge of its specific features; as one is aware of a missed assignation, a forgotten responsibility.<br /><br />"Y-yeah, i'm just a little, emm, tired." Lewis stuttered, unwilling to reveal any more until he had a clearer picture, himself. He wasn't sure who he could talk to.<br /><br />"After last night? Yeah, you looked a bit pale." Rat observed. "I was going to go after you, but Jessie..."<br /><br />"It's fine." Lewis cut in. "I'll be fine."<br />It was a parapraxis; he'd meant to speak in the past tense, but that was what he was beginning to feel - he WOULD be fine. He was aware of areas of his memory, obscured as by veils, but if he could just approach them armed with enough pieces of the jicksaw, they would fall away.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-26868579151272673102007-07-10T12:37:00.000-07:002007-07-10T12:44:25.667-07:00Dark Magic: Part 5Lewis looked, uncertainly, at the gates before him. He knew them in a way that one knows a familiar painting. They had a certain austerity to them, characteristic of the Thatcherite era in which they were built; the buildings beyond, however, were older, and had an almost imperial look to them. The overall impression was somewhat stern and unwelcoming, but he took comfort in the echoes of a mundane, quotidian familiarity.<br /><br />As they passed through the gates, Lewis felt more sure of himself, more secure. They walked in silence through the yard, towards the edifice of the main building.<br /><br />As they reached the front doors, Jessie stopped on her heels.<br /><br />"Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe you should see a doctor." She spat the words out rapidly, as if she'd kept them bottled up for some time.<br /><br />Lewis looked from her concerned countenance to the doorway, and although the greater part of him shared her concerns, he felt that with every step he took, he regained more of himself. He was loathe to give that up for the alien, questioning environment of a doctor's office. He could almost imagine the scene; being asked if he heard voices, too; if he saw little green men. No, he would persevere.<br /><br />"It's ok. I feel... better" He lied, unconvincingly.<br /><br />Jessie smiled hopefully, wanting to believe him.<br /><br />"Ok, but if you need anything; if you feel dizzy, or...ANYTHING, you come get me." She said urgently, looking him in the eyes, and feeling guilty, as if she was abandoning him. She turned to walk away, and stopped,"I'll be in 12A, round by the side entrance; for form class, anyway." she smiled again, morosely, and hurried away.<br /><br />As she turned the corner, Lewis realised he was on his own. No turning back. He pushed through the doors, and into the foyer. Taking the first left, he found himself perambulating on autopilot. He climbed a small flight of stairs, and turned where he felt a turn was appropriate; unsure of the destination, but certain, all the way, of the route, he eventually arrived at a nondescript door marked "17B".Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-86447355771571538592007-07-06T12:09:00.000-07:002007-07-06T12:11:24.234-07:00Dark Magic: Part 4Lewis sighed again and looked at her, dolefully.<br /><br />"We can't let mum know. Not just yet." She pleaded<br /><br />He nodded a reluctant affirmation.<br /><br />"If you're still like this after school...God! will you be able to go to school?" She asked, anxious.<br />Seeing the fearful look on his face, she added quicky,<br />"It'll probably help you to remember. A familiar environment; seeing your friends. It'll all come back." She offered a weak smile.<br /><br />They left the house in time to catch their bus, and sat together on the way to school. Neither spoke much, and tried to avoid the glances of other students. Jessie's friends were gossipping about a bulimic girl in the year below them; Lewis's friends (at least he thought they were his friends) were giving him curious glances. Jessie explained that they were halfwits, who couldn't conceive of him sitting next to his younger sister, instead of with them. Apparantly that was without precedent, and violated their social mores.<br />He wasn't in any hurry to immerse himself among his peers; the chatter on the bus was several decibels above comfort level for him at present, and only added to his anxiety. He did feel like he was on more familiar ground, though. As the bus turned a corner, Lewis's heart leapt. He noted familiar landmarks; the street; the houses; even some vehicles parked along the road looked familiar. Jessie, noting his interest, pointed towards a terraced house that appeared particularly salient to him.<br /><br />"That's where we used to live. You remember it, don't you?" she inquired, excitedly.<br /><br />A potpourri of emotions threatened to overwhelm him, as memories flooded his mind; memories of a childhood spent on these streets. Every corner and crevice of the neighbourhood was, he realised, indelibly imprinted on his being, so that the sight of it speeding past filled him with a greater notalgia than even Odyseus could have conceived of. He wanted to call out, to implore the bus driver to stop, or at least slow down so that this halcyon vision could be held onto for just a moment longer. He remained silent, though, and stared longingly at the retreating eaves of the last house visible, of that enchanted roadway.<br /><br />He was silent for the remainder of the journey, staring at the seat-rest in front of him as if looking through it. Jessie pressed him to know if he was ok, but he merely grunted in response. He seemed to be cogitating deeply, as if ruminating over a complex problem.<br /><br />The bus pulled up to the kerb outside the school. Though Jessie and Lewis were seated towards the front of the bus, they were among the last off.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-806871672829373792007-07-04T17:09:00.000-07:002007-07-04T17:21:06.719-07:00Dark Magic: Part 3Jessie was awoken the next morning by waves of sunlight crashing through her window, dashing on the lids of her eyes and dazzling her. She momentarily thought she may have a hangover, but then remembered that she doesn't drink. Something had happened the night before, though. Something had...oh. Yeah. She felt a pang of concern for her brother. He hadn't been making it up; he couldn't even remember the route home. She felt bad, remembering how she'd shouted and refused to believe him. He'd walked normally, hadn't slurred his words; it wasn't until they got in the door, and she had to show him to his room, that she realised how serious the situation was. Drinking didn't do that to you. Someone must have put something in his drink...<br /><br />She wracked her brain, trying to remember all the anecdotes she'd heard from girls in her class, about ecstasy and...What else? What messes with your memory?<br /><br />"What time did you two get in last night?"<br /><br />It was her mother's voice, emanating from beside the window, half-concealed in the gloom next to the curtain she'd recently drawn. Her mother was studying her; most likely looking for tell-tale signs of alcohol consumption. Her tone was level, but not without nuances of imperious disapproval.<br /><br />"Sorry." Jessie replied, unable to articulate much else, and eager to avoid a confrontation. Suddenly, alarm-bells rang in her head and she sat up.<br />"Is Louie awake?" she asked urgently, and immediately regretted startling her mother.<br /><br />She had sworn him to silence, fearful of a repeat of the episode six months ago, when their mother had instituted a draconian curfew in response to his arriving home drunk.<br /><br />Her mother looked alarmed.<br />"What-happened?" She demanded, running the words together in her haste to discover what lay behind that outburst.<br /><br />"N-nothing. I..." She trailed off, trying desperately to find the words to assuage her mother, but it was too late. She was already departing the room, and rushing to check on the wellbeing of her only, precious, son. She burst through the door, to find him...<br /><br />...adjusting his tie, and looking surprised. Their mother breathed a sigh of relief, and turned on Jessie, who had jumped out of bed to follow her.<br /><br />"Did something happen last night?"<br /><br />Jessie exchanged a glance with Lewis before answering,<br />"No, I just...didn't want him to keep us any later than we already are."<br />She offered a faint smile to her mother, who was incredulous.<br /><br />She looked suspiciously at her two children, but judging that she wasn't going to get any more out of them, exhaled resignedly.<br /><br />"Breakfast's on the table. Hurry up or you won't get any."<br /><br />When their mother had gone downstairs, Jessie approached Lewis; still standing in his room.<br /><br />"So you're ok?" she asked, expectantly.<br /><br />"No, i'm NOT ok!"<br /><br />Jessie's face fell.<br />"You're still...you still don't..." She shook her head.<br /><br />He sighed and kicked at a chrome-coloured pencil, lying on the floor.<br /><br />"But you remember mum, right? RIGHT?!" she demanded, aghast.<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah. I <span style="font-style: italic;">remember</span> her. I just don't...I'm not sure...things aren't right."<br />He slumped onto his bed, and stared at the pencil he'd just kicked under his desk.<br />"I can't even tie my..." He stopped suddenly, interrupted by some thought.<br /><br />His hand raised from his side, lifting off the quilt to point under the desk, following his line of sight.<br /><br />"That pencil!" He shouted, and dived under the desk to retrieve the object in question. When he emerged, he found his sister staring at him querulously.<br /><br />"You remember it?" She asked, hopeful, but confused.<br /><br />"Yes, yes. Something important, but...Gah!" He grunted in frustration.<br /><br />"It's a quarter past eight; you're going to be late!" Their mother shouted from downstairs.<br /><br />Neither of them reacted for a few seconds, both focussing intently on the pencil, gripped firmly in Lewis's hand.<br /><br />Reluctantly, Jessie pressed him in a mournful tone,<br />"We should go."Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-66011276489824108142007-07-04T08:48:00.001-07:002007-07-04T17:22:21.739-07:00Dark Magic: Part 2<div style="text-align: justify;">He looked at Jessie, and felt at ease. She was worried, though. What was she worried about? He looked down, and a broken glass lay sideways on the table; the remainder of its contents trickling their way down the table leg, and down his. It was cold. It was cold, but it was real, and somehow that reassured him. He wanted to grasp onto the table leg - it looked solid. Some instinct called him to be rooted to the ground, because for a fleeting moment he felt he might float away. But it passed, and then he felt something more startling. Her hand was gently grasping his wrist; the other on his shoulder. She was speaking to him, but though the words thundered in his ears, they could not compete with the decibel levels being emitted from nearby speakers. He glanced around at the other faces nearby, and all were looking at him, querulously. They were waiting for an explanation, but what was he to explain? What...Where...Questions flooded his brain, and only seemed to amplify the problem. He took a deep breath and sat down again, starting as he felt a sharp prick on his thigh. He brushed aside the offending piece of glass, and heard another voice in his ear; a male voice, again familiar, but somehow he was unable to place it.<br /><br />"Are you alright? do you want to go outside?"<br /><br />He looked at the speaker. He was...a friend. This, he could feel sure of. But whose friend? He looked towards the door, and his breathing quickened. An ephemeral feeling passed over him, and he recoiled from the somewhat distant doorway, unwilling to conceive of approaching it. But he did want to leave. This place was too constricted; the walls seemed to be closing in, threatening to suffocate him. He rose up, looking blankly at Jessie, wanting to convey something but unable to find the words. He stumbled past her, and feeling unsteady on his feet, ambled awkwardly towards a doorway marked 'exit'.<br /><br />An indignant, irascible voice boomed behind him, as the doors burst open and plunged him into cool, night air. The voice was clearer now, behind him.<br /><br />"Whaddaya think yer doin'?!"<br /><br />He was in no doubt that this individual was demanding an explanation, also, but these were in short supply, and he didn't turn around. Instead, he remained, craning forwards and supporting himself by leaning his hands on his thighs. He was short of breath, and wasn't about to waste what little he had on this unidentified individual. The voice was addressing someone else, now.<br /><br />"Is he with you?"<br />"Yeah, I don't think he's feeling well."<br />"Well, you go out an' yer not gettin' back in."<br /><br />The doors shut loudly, and the music retreated to a muffled drone.<br /><br />"What's wrong?"<br />Jessie. Her voice was clear, now, beyond the confines of the club.<br /><br />He straightened up; his breathing steady now; his limbs following commands. Turning, he studied her closely, in the hopes it would provide some cue, some salient information to get his thoughts into some kind of order. She was wearing somewhat threadbare blue jeans and a close-fitting red top exposing her midriff, and emblazoned with the proud motto, "Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them", accompanied by a suitably illustrative stick-figure image. Her face reverberated in his mind, and every nuance of an expression seemed to trigger some key facet of his being, making him feel immediately at home, secure. He was glad she was here. Still, though, he struggled to come up with anything more meaningful. Her hair is a dusty blond; her skin white, and freckled in places, with a plumpness to the cheeks suggestive of youth, but a look in the eyes incongruent with such speculation. Her blue eyes were searching him, now, increasingly concerned, increasingly impatient.<br /><br />"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG!?" She boomed, stamping her foot and throwing her hands towards him in exasperation.</div>Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-22086356504363673012007-07-02T21:38:00.000-07:002007-07-02T21:52:30.007-07:00Dark Magic: Part 1 of, I dunno, a few. maybe.<div style="text-align: justify;">The babble of the crowd gradually faded into interminable distance, to be replaced by a low, mechanical humming. He felt dizzy and his thoughts became progressively more clouded, as the humming rose to a deafening roar. He glanced at the other faces around the table, but they were animated in conversation, and seemingly unaware of the sound. His chest felt tight, constricted, and a numbness overcame him so that he was unsure if he still drew breath. The sound seemed to emanate from all around, but some instinct told him that it had a source; something was approaching, and was all <span style="font-style: italic;">too </span>near.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />To his right, the entrance to the bar darkened. A shadow crossed the threshold, looming large over the crowd, which seemed to part unconsciously to admit it. There was substance to the shadow; a simulacrum of a person, but something about the proportions was wrong. The figure was moving slowly through the people, but time seemed to mould itself to its will. As it moved, it turned, so slowly, craning its cowled head to check the faces of each oblivious person it passed. It was searching for something; for someone. Fear gripped his heart. He glanced at the exit, but it was too far. A bead of sweat ran down his brow. There was no escape. The cowled figure turned, slowly, slowly. He had to hide! He had to...too late!<br /><br />As it turned, its visage came into view, but it was nothing but a reflection, an illusion, a minatorial chasm, reflecting all the horrors of the world. A lachrymose, tear-drop-shaped countenance focussed on him; its vicious emptiness boring deep into his soul, exposing everything within. There was nowhere to hide, no way to escape the menacing glare. Time and causality evaporated; every vestige of hope fled, and the future stretched on as an indefinite present; a moment frozen in time and stretched on to an infinite, pernicious, unforgiving eternity.<br /><br />Then there was nothing; nothing but a dull ache, where his heart had once been. But something spoke up in the void; some sensation, new and unfamiliar, calling from the corporeal world. He was aware of a cold dampness, creeping along his leg, and voices; alarmed, solicitous, but not threatening. Time returned. He registered motion, before any kind of visible world presented itself. He blinked, and there were people, again, moving, LAUGHING! The laughter awoke his senses, washing over his soul like the first monsoon rains, and spoke to him of promise, of life, and humanity. The voices in the immediate vicinity were louder now, and a face presented itself close to his - concerned, perplexed. It was a familiar face, but...he could not call to mind why, or how it was familiar. Then a fragment surfaced in his mind, a dim recollection of a bright, sunny day.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He had fallen. and she was there, concerned as now. She ran to help him.</span> Jessie. This is Jessie.</div>Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-35523898232961071892007-06-22T07:08:00.001-07:002007-06-22T12:15:05.898-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: Honorificabilitudinitatibus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/beautiful.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/beautiful.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Some people may not agree that this merits being posted under such a heading, but those individuals are philistines; charletans. Art is, by its nature, subjective, and this is, indeed, one of the most pulchritudinous sights that I have ever beheld. It signifies that I have been honourably discharged from the educational establishment where I have spent the last eon. The only caveat I allow to this encomium is that the figures in question, being as they are, so auspicious, should be rubric, rather than cerulean.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-11103279311340310412007-06-12T19:14:00.001-07:002007-06-12T19:42:41.983-07:00Fortune is ever shining on my doorBarely a week has passed since I won the lottery, but chance has bestowed upon me a second windfall. This time, stochasticity has brought me the promise of wealth seemingly through inheritance from a long-dead relative who, unnamed and unknown, left a sum of 15 million dollars, unclaimed, in a safety deposit box.<br /><br />This putative sum has rested there since the inception of the second world war, and though the British Government has reportedly admitted that much documentation relating to such cases has been destroyed, it seems that one piece of information has survived intact, all these decades: my...email address. how fortunate.<br /><br />So the purported solicitors who contacted me about this matters are offering their services in this regard - how selfless. I imagine all I need to do is pay a nominal fee, and the box in question will be magically opened, to reveal...a post-dated I.O.U.<br /><br />(What did I do to merit my university email address being added to such a spamming list?)<br />[Answers on a postcard, to...]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-70150701841751619142007-06-08T14:31:00.000-07:002007-06-08T14:33:52.397-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: County Down<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL20774.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL20774.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-43044584606908651922007-06-08T09:54:00.000-07:002007-06-08T10:25:25.446-07:00Bittersweet Orchestral Rendition(side-stepping copyright infringement laws and obviating a court-case from the erstwhile <em>Verve</em>'s lawyers)<br />But I believe you get the idea - there is a certain ambivalence to my mood, since I have finished my final exams :D...but...what would otherwise be ecstatic joy is tempered somewhat by a certain empty, lacklustre feeling, stemming from the loss of that former impetus, for studious achievement. There is also a certain element of anxiety over the actual outcome. Nevertheless, I am free, and this is by any measure a joyous occasion, meretorious of champagne and wotnot.<br /><br />On a less serious note, any delight I may feel at this is outshone by the literal disbelief at having won the lottery; one million euros, to be precise. I was informed of this while still in the middle of my exam preparations, and as you can imagine, I was rather pleased. As any optimistically- inclined fellow would do, I naturally accepted it with the utmost credulity - it's no stretch of the imagination to believe that I could win a competition that I never entered; people are so fortunate all the time, right?<br /><br />And of course, it should come as no surprise that the lottery has branched out from the archaic method of charging people money for tickets, into the much more philanthropic and modern approach of randomly selecting winners from all the email addresses out there in internet-land. It seems a niche market that's been under-exploited of late, and one that I most heartily applaud them for embracing. A more sceptical individual may have questioned the fact that the email, informing me of my good fortune, originated from an AOL mailbox, and that the word <em>Euromillions</em> lacked certain vowels that are traditionally associated with its spelling. No doubt this is a carefully-chosen approach, designed to appeal to the 'YouTube' generation, for whom the English language is infinitely malleable. Sheer genius, on behalf of the Euromillions Marketing Department.<br /><br />Unconscionable as it would be for me to question the authenticity of such serendipitous munifience, I still thought it prudent to approach this with caution, for two reasons:<br /><br />Firstly, I was spending my days cloistered in the library, rapt in a delirium of academic fervor, and apprehensive of the coming exams. I could not, therefore, pick up the enormous cheque, myself (the transporting of which would no doubt require a forklift truck).<br /><br />Secondly, lottery millionaires are often harassed by plaintive letters, remonstrating that the winner's fortune should be shared with those not so blessed, so as to ameloriorate their present financial predicament.<br /><br />With these points foremost in my mind, I responded hastily to the epistle, but not without taking the prudent measure of utilising a pseudonym:<br /><br /><br /><br />To:<a href="mailto:euromllns@aol.co.uk">euromllns@aol.co.uk</a><br />RE: Official Notification: Your email address has won One Million Euros in the EuroMillions Lottery<br /><br />oh, delightful! how serendipitous. unfortunately, i'm a little too busy at present to collect it. please deposit the winnings in 5-and 10-euro denominations, in a brown paper envelope, in your nearest rubbish receptacle, and my agents will be around shortly to collect them.<br />many thanks for your charitable and nonsensical generosity<br />yours,<br />-The Right Honorable Charles Montgomery (Esquire), Fourteenth Earl of RockallEquivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-40365294777940685542007-06-01T05:16:00.000-07:002007-06-01T05:18:45.702-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: view from Pico, in the Azores<a href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP1701.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP1701.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />[Picture taken by the eminent Professor Paul Hart]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-75249626887772445262007-05-27T10:23:00.000-07:002007-05-27T10:33:28.533-07:00*hits cough button* "Yeah, right.""The climax of the Cannes Film Festival looms, as the jury prepares to announce the winner of this year's Palme d'Or. The international jury, led by British director Stephen Frears, will choose from a shortlist of 22 films. A thriller from US film-makers Joel and Ethan Coen and a Romanian film about abortion are among the favourites.<br />In contrast to last year, which saw Ken Loach's The Wind That Shakes the Barley take the top prize, no British films featured in this year's competition. "<br /><br />from the BBC's website,<br /><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6692481.stm">http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6692481.stm</a><br /><br />A British film? I don't think so.<br /><br />Admittedly, it was not an exclusively Irish production; Amazon.com lists the studio as '20th Century Fox Home Entertainment', a Yanqui company, though, not British.<br /><br />So it seems the distinction is a geographical one: when Irish films or actors win awards, they become British. What next? I imagine whatever medals Ireland wins in the 2008 Olympics will just be quietly tagged on to the British tally.<br />In the words of Samuel L. Jackson, during his interview with Kate Thornton,<br />"You see that’s your problem right there. You British keep claiming people that don’t belong to you. We had that problem here in America too, it was called slavery. "<br /><br />/end rant.<br /><br />[Incidentally, the title is a reference to a radio broadcast during the Suez Canal incident, when the BBC were charged with informing the public that Britain and France were entering the conflict as 'peacekeepers'. The newsreader hit the 'cough' button, to mute his transmission while he expressed his incredulity to his fellow presenters, but the button didn't function, and that comment went out live on air. What larks, eh? what larks.]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-6243801114331213602007-05-25T08:43:00.000-07:002007-05-25T08:57:23.863-07:00Pretty-picture friday: Quondam Azorean Whaling Station<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2933.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2933.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />[Photo taken by the eminent Professor Paul Hart]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-54143719452186120082007-05-19T09:05:00.000-07:002007-05-20T09:04:41.629-07:00Pretty-Picture friday [belated]: one of the world's more recent geological additions [Azores]<a href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2910.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2910.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A volvano formed in the 1950s off Faial, in the Azores.<br />[Photo taken by the eminent Professor Paul Hart]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-35664507680872323202007-05-11T07:38:00.000-07:002007-05-11T07:41:40.308-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: Azorean Lake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2944.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2944.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />[Photo taken by the eminent Professor Paul Hart]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-72952377560875593302007-05-09T05:03:00.001-07:002007-05-09T10:07:29.307-07:00Kickback ©If, like many people, you find yourself bored on the train, and disillusioned with the on-board magazine, advertising snacks and extraneous luxury goods, you can try an ingenius game I devised, Kickback ©:<br />Try to kick the backrest in front of you as many times as you can in a 10-minute interval, without being chastised by its occupant; then try to beat that score. If they hit you, the timer resets. If they change seat, try to follow. Double points are awarded for subsequent kicks.<br /><br />An alternative to Kickback © is 'Antimacassar Bandit' ©:<br />Participants operate in teams, starting at opposite ends of the train, and work progressively through the carriages, trying to 'confiscate' as many antimacassars as possible, whilst avoiding detection by the train company's staff. Posing as ticket inspectors can be an effective way of achieving this; participants can patiently inform the passengers that they didn't specifically express their desire for an antimacassar, when purchasing the ticket. Standard antimacassar-tax is 45p. Those who refuse the surcharge, forfeit their headrest-cover; all perfectly reasonable. At the end of the game [read: train journey], both teams simultaneously present all the captured antimacassars to the independent adjudicator: the ticket inspector, and then run away. He / She determines the winning team by deciding who to chase after. Successful prosecutions against you, by the train companies, are taken as marks of distinction.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-33005921399830377612007-05-04T06:46:00.000-07:002007-05-04T07:03:45.199-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: Azorean vineyard, near Horta<a href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2938.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/IMGP2938.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />[photo taken by the eminent Professor Paul Hart]Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-61854802672752779822007-05-03T10:29:00.000-07:002007-05-03T10:43:41.917-07:00[insert title here]Lately, I've been somewhat absent, as is evidenced by the temporal spacing between the below posts. I've been cooerced into saying something, but i'm currently absorbed in a wonderful book detailing, among other things, the behaviour of such well-known philanthropists as Heinrich Himmler and Joseph Stalin. Unless my audience of 1.5 is composed largely of those who wish to emulate these characters, I doubt any summary on my part would be appreciated.<br />Rather, I can post an extract from another of my recent academic endeavours - a week-long foray in Devon, stalking animals and recording their behaviour:<br /><br />09:53:<br />Rabbit paused, looking around as if reflecting on the futility of its existence, and the lack of cerebral stimulation in its environment. It then cast a forlorn look at me, as if to suggest that the same insight could extend to myself. It then scratched itself and re-commenced chewing on grass.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-39445297934009219482007-04-27T13:32:00.000-07:002007-04-27T13:34:49.511-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: Carlingford Lough<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22243.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22243.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-50755830821921304992007-04-19T19:14:00.000-07:002007-04-27T13:35:57.800-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: The Lake District<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22538.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22538.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3880693733549948291.post-12276194587838640772007-04-13T13:12:00.000-07:002007-04-27T13:35:34.436-07:00Pretty-Picture Friday: Cimmerian Swan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22507-1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://i158.photobucket.com/albums/t89/bizantine/SSL22507-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The start of a new theme, perhaps; maybe.Equivocationalisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14664792120414695842noreply@blogger.com0