Sunday Night at the Palladium Tetrafluoride Factory

The Fourteenth of April Two Thousand and Thirteen. Sunday.

Palladium Tetrafluoride (PdF4) is is a strong oxidising agent and undergoes rapid hydrolysis in moist air and is only mentioned here in order to shoehorn in a very weak pun. Although, it was interesting to note that palladium - the metal - has its own currency code (under the ISO 4217 standard that labels pounds as GBP, euros as EUR and American dollars as USD one troy ounce of palladium is represented by XPD) and that one of the chemists associated with its discovery - Richard Chenevix - was awarded the Copley Medal. I mention this because at this moment I'm listening to Gary Copley on Radio York (big bands, vocals and jazz. Not normally my thing, but doing it quite nicely at the mo). Here's Gary rocking a tank top:

Ha-ha, they've reversed that photo! His buttons do up on the wrong side, like he's wearing a blouse! Still, that tank top is fierce. Man, I wish our tank tops at work were like that. Instead they look like this:

Brrr! (Incidentally, have you ever wondered why they're called 'tank tops'? I did until I Wikied it two minutes ago. Here's why. Remember: knowledge is a bell you can't unring.

Anyway, that's not the same Gary Copley as the Dublin artist who paints pieces like this:

All of which is my way of saying that things have been pretty much the same all the time I've not been blogging. Everything bumps into everything else. The sails of the Blut Vin Windmill rotate back to their origin as they must.

I've just bought the 3rd season of my Nineteenth Telly Recommendation, Community, which they didn't have on Region 2 so I have gone and forked out for a Region 1 disc. Before watching Manchester City reach the FA Cup final I spent my Sunday watching three episodes of it including the sublime Remedial Chaos Theory which follows the characters through seven different timelines. Clever and funny.

I also watched three episodes of my Twentieth Telly Recommendation, The Mimic. It's being repeated on More 4 from next Sunday (as well as the whole series being on 4od) and I think it's worth a watch. The trailers all show Terry Mynott as the main character, Martin, doing his impressions and I thought "oh, this is all a bit obvious". But then a clip featured this exchange as Martin discusses the merits of a DVD with his friend, Jean:

‘Nah it’s got subtitles. I hate that.’
‘Subtleties Jean; it’s got subtleties.’
‘I don’t like those either.’.

That made me smile and I thought I'd try it after all. I was rewarded with a sweet and melancholy short series (it's only five episodes - give it a go) that mixes a deliberately aimless charm with some very good character work and performances.

That'll do for now. Excuse me while I get some toast before bed.

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What the Head Said

The Twentieth of February Two Thousand and Thirteen. Wednesday.

I can't remember when I first heard the voice. It sounded like Adele on a loop - you know, that enticing but slightly irritating pub singer enunciation - echoing inside my head. I was sure it was someone speaking or singing but any words were indistinct. At first I thought it was some sort of fluid in me eardrum deal. But there comes a moment when any person is confronted with the impossible that they have to put aside their protestations and just accept that something is real.

Yeah, try and explain that with your precious science, Professor Brian Cox.

It was then that I conducted a series of triangulation tests in order to determine the exact location of the voice's source. By standing with a bucket on my head in Heaton Park and on top of the Trafford Centre I was able to calculate from where these mysterious words were emanating.

Imagine my surprise to discover it was from an active volcano halfway between Manchester and Liverpool!

Mount St Helens, which last erupted in 1980, is situated just off the M62 (Junc. 7). Bizarrely, during that eruption an enormous statue of a head emerged from the Earth's crust. My in-depth research revealed that it was this mystery head that was responsible for the voices that were haunting me. So on Monday I went to visit it to see what it was on about.

I gingerly tip-toed my way through the ash and pumice and obsidian and whatever else it is that comes from volcanos (volcanoes? vol-canoes? What? Canoes?) And there I confronted this monstrous boat race and raised my fist, challenging it to speak again.

Only now it remained silent. "What would you have me do, o head?" I implored once more.

Again, silence.

I remained there for about another hour and a half (that's how long the podcast about narrow boats I was listening to lasted). And still, all I got was this:

Well, that was enough for me. I don't like being jerked around, even if it is by a giant head on top of a volcano. I poured the last of my luke warm tea out of my tartan thermos and set about heading home.

And that is when the monolith spoke. I don't know how many people heard its words - to me it seemed as if the sounds were still coming from inside my head. Maybe its message was for me and me alone. At any rate I feel a desperate need to share those words with you now.

As I stood there, teetering at the crater's edge, the head finally passed what it had been trying to say to me all this time:

"Near a tree, by a river, there's a hole in the ground where an old man of Aran goes around and around..."

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No Psychopaths

The Ninth of December Two Thousand and Twelve. Sunday.

Has this ever happened to you?

I was in York today, looking in shops for stuff that I can give to people to appease the gods of Midwinter. Of course a side effect of that is that I see lots of nice things that I want for myself. The shops had almost shut before I remembered that one of the reasons I wanted to go all the way to York was to have a look at the Cath Kidston shop they have there. Yes, I know it might be considered a bit effeminate, but I'm all about the challenging of the gender stereotypes, me, as you know. It's just when I thought I'd enjoy a case for me iPhone -

I saw the price tag (£25!) and thought better of it. They are nice though, so if anybody does want to buy me one consider this an opportunity to do so.

It's nice to have a day out, isn't it? Yes, I was supposed to be shopping. But surely there was room for me to have a look at class A4 locomotive Dwight D Eisenhower while it was on holiday in England for a couple of years? (He (she?) lives at the National Railroad Museum in Green Bay, Wisconsin, but is over here temporarily for next year's celebration of the 75th anniversary of Mallard's steam speed record. The six remaining A4s will be brought together).

Was a bit tricky to see him (her?) while he (are ships with male names still female too? Not sure of the convention here, although I know that naval vessels and locomotives don't bother with 'the' in front of names, i.e., it's just Flying Scotsman, not The Flying Scotsman, just as you don't say The Ark Royal, you only say Ark Royal) was at the back of the workshop but still a thrill to see this engine some fifty or so years after the last time it was in York.

I did a bit of exploring too. I've always wondered about the the streets that border the railway line from Scarborough on the approach into York station, especially as I could see they were named Scarborough Terrace and Filey Terrace so I had a bit of a mooch around there, finally discovering the whereabouts of York City FC's ground. All very good.

But it was at the end of the day that a dilemma of sorts unfolded. After making my relevant purchases (and yes, I did buy myself a comic or two) I pondered the possibility of going to the cinema to see Seven Psychopaths. I had greatly enjoyed writer-director Martin McDonagh's In Bruges (to the point of making it my Tenth Film Recommendation (slight warning, it's a bit gruesome, that link)) and so was looking forward to his next 'joint'. But it would mean getting back to Scarborough a bit later in the evening than I really wanted too, so I thought I'd check the review on the Mayo and Kermode Film Podcast thingy from Radio 5 Live. I stuck it on my headphones, but it was a fairly long programme so I had some lemon cheesecake to put me on before I went to the loo at the City Screen cinema fully intending to see the film as I had not heard anything contrariwise to that notion up until that point.

With only two minute to go until the advertised start time of the film, as I sat there on the throne in contemplation, Mark Kermode finally got round to giving a somewhat lukewarm review. And in that moment I decided I'd go home instead and watch it at some later time and spend my evening writing about it instead.

In fact I watched two episodes of The Killing III and had some Frosty French Fancies so it all worked out well in the end anyway.

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Ticket to Nowhed

The Second of December Two Thousand and Twelve. Monday.

What sort of title is that? Surely you mean 'Nowhere'?

Sometimes there are forces at work that are beyond our comprehension. Things that undeniably occur but can in no way be explained.

Until now...

Tell me this: if it costs £18.60 peak and £17.10 off-peak for a single ticket from Scarborough to York -

- then why does it only cost £15.80 for a Scarborough to Howden ticket that takes you through York?

I've wondered that meself. And when I looked into it more closely, I found there was a very simple explanation.

Howden is a hotbed of UFO activity!

These peculiar fare anomalies have existed ever since a jet was shot down by a UFO over Howden in 1997 (no, really. The Truth is Out There.) I knew there would be a rational explanation for it all.

And now there are various warehouses dotted about the country that contain remnants of crashed UFOs. Here is a picture of the almost mythical Area 17, sometimes known as Space Sector 17.

So is it any coincidence that the word 'Howden' is almost an anagram of the word 'Nowhere'?

Reader, I'll let you decide...


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You Smell of Blue

The Twenty-Ninth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Thursday.

People often ask me, 'Vin, how do you smell so lovely?'*

It's simple really. Let me take you on a short journey into the world of the gender politics of toiletries.

Being a man I always make sure I wash with blue soap.

If I ever decide to have a shower, I keep all my masculinity locked in with the fresh scent of blue shower gel.

And when my beard gets the better of me, I attack it with blue shaving foam.

But here's the trick.To ensure that I smell as fresh as a woman I cast aside convention and use pink deodorant!

(Hey everyone. Real Vin here. Obviously I'm making a pin-sharp satirical point here about the marketing of cheap cosmetics to pound shop hounds like me. But I'd hate for any of you to think I really use pink deodorant. No, I use sensible, unambiguous, gender-neutral red deodorant, me).

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*86% of nearly 122 men asked.

Out of Synch

The Twenty-Eighth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Wednesday.

Time travel is complete and utter bunkum.

No, really it is. Don't even try it. I did and something like this happened:

There is no way you can get it to work in the real world and I should know. I've attempted many different experiments with little effect (there was that one occasion I jumped back five seconds, but that only happened once and let's face it, what good is five seconds to anyone?)

No, time travel is a narrative device and nothing more. You stick a pin in a moment, usually with words, but it can be pictures or film or any other recorded medium. And then you stick another pin in a bit later but you say that that pin is from before the first pin. And depending on how well you've thought about those pins it either all adds up, goes round in circles, doesn't quite add up but you get away with it because it's very satisfying or doesn't add up at all and you cry foul even though even the most thoroughly considered time travel narrative doesn't really make sense.

Do you know, this won't help but it's been ages since I've done a graph so let me chuck this one in for no particular reason:

The nearest thing there is to time travel is synchronicity - when meaningful things seem to happen at the same time. This collision of the timelines of two or more objects following their normal path through spacetime is an entirely linear phenomenon but the effect of one timeline changing another ("Aunt Margaret! What are you doing here at this entirely unexpected hour? You're supposed to be in Australia") is a form of 'changing history'. Probably.

I went to see Looper again tonight, and for all its time travel nonsense it is actually very good and as a result qualifies as my Ninth Film Recommendation. As an exercise in world building it's brilliant - the detail of the future world the story takes place in is outstanding. The performances and the direction are fantastic too, but all the time travel stuff in it is completely bobbins. Mind you, I was experiencing my own time travel problems because I was attempting to listen to the Theatrical Commentary Track from director Rian Johnson that I had downloaded to my iPod Shuffle. The idea was to listen to the commentary while in the cinema. To synch it up Johnson suggested starting the track as the TriStar logo appeared. But there was no TriStar logo! I don't know if there was one on the American release, but I was lagging a short way behind from the start. With a careful bit of fast forwarding and then pausing I eventually got it to keep pace with the film, but it went a bit out again when the reels were changed at one point. I got most of it, though and synched up in plenty of time for the climax. Which I won't reveal here now, but in an act of paradoxical time travelling I will reveal it in exactly one year's time. I hope that's enough of a spoiler warning.

In fact, here's a little bit of time travelling for anyone who is kind enough to read this particular blogdule. I will attempt to rewrite the next sentence every day for as long as I can remember.

Exactly forty-four years ago to the day, in order to memorialise the brave deeds of that mysterious group, a statue of the Termagants, cast in the peculiar metal retrieved from the wreckage of their spaceship, was erected in Nova Square.

I accidentally deleted the wrong bit of this. It originally said something about how to time travel you must make sure you have had plenty of riboflavin.

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A Nice Cup of Tea

The Twenty-Seventh of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.
 
I have come back to tea. I’m trying to remember why exactly I left, but the memories (as always) are a little bit fuzzy.


I know some of the contributing factors. Tea and cereal are about the only things I use milk for, and breakfast is usually me chomping down a bagel as I rush out the door on my way to work, so I’m lucky to get through half a pint of milk before it goes off. Annndd, I like black coffee so it becomes easier just to go with that and not bother getting any milk


I do enjoy a bit of the old rooibos (and, as the synchronicities that afflict this blog continue to unfold I have just been brought a mug of redbush tea even as we speak. Spooky, huh?). That's pleasant enough to drink without milk too. In fact, now that I think about it I do remember one of the reasons I cut back on my tea consumption. After about your fifth cup - and believe me at work, sometimes it gets as far as that fifth cup - it does tend to churn your tum up quite a bit. But then again, the same can be said about coffee. And sometimes, redbush just doesn't have the 'kick' that's necessary to get you through the day.

So I'm back on the tea. Not that I was completely off it. Sometimes a mug would turn up with the occasional cooked breakfast and it would be impolite to turn one down when offered at a friend's house.  When I was in charge of my own beverages I wouldn't bother though. Until one day, the oppressive weight of cultural expectation became too much and I gave in to the lure of Rosie Lee.

I think my recent reintroduction to The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy was my gateway drug to the East India company's famous export (not opium - the other one. No, not indigo or saltpetre either. The other other one. Oh, for Glob's sake, the blogdule's about tea, it's tea, isn't it?). Douglas Adams liked his tea, didn't he? (I'm thinking here of the "one lump or two" joke in the unfinished Doctor Who story Shada, among others). Certainly the part of him that was a bit Arthur Dent did. In fact, up until not getting very far with a physics degree I thought Brownian motion was so called because the tea in which the Guide suggested you dangle the atomic vector plotters of a Bambleweeny 57 sub-meson brain to generate finite amounts of improbability was brown.

I find it staggering now to think that when I first drank tea as a child I actually took sugar. That that was eventually phased out is the one claim to maturity I can make about my self. I know some people enjoy very strong tea (in my family, if you are served with what was clearly the dregs of the kettle resulting in a less than full mug of v strong tea you are obliged to admonish the charperson as follows: "what's that? Half a cup of mud!") but I prefer it 'as it comes' - that is to say, of medium strength. And, as the American Pop Cultural Attaché well knows, I am a mugman rather than a teacup person.

I am lucky enough to live just around the corner from Scarborough's charming Francis tea rooms. There they serve loose tea - pots, strainer and all - which is all very good on occasion but I firmly believe that teabag technology has advanced to such a point nowadays that the small amount of extra quality this affords is barely measurable. I do have one of those metal tea ball infuser things that I used with some caramel red bush I once bought (it's a bit too sweet, though. I'm weighing up whether to get some plain rooibos and mix it to make a less sickly blend) but for the most part it's bags in this house.

And some nice biscuits, preferably garibaldis.

Of course, the definitive work on tea is the essay A Nice Cup of Tea by George Orwell. I think if you follow the instructions contained therein you can't go wrong.

Right, kettle's on.

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