It's traditional for the elderly to impart some of their experience, insight and wisdom. At the age of 36, this probably shows quite how far I have to go... :)
In the arts, it's much easier to be nasty than to be nice.
Just because I can write, it doesn't make me a writer.
There's usually time for another drink.
The only one of my top five movies I can name with unshakeable certainty is Mary Poppins. Does this mean it's my favourite film?
Exercise rarely feels as bad as you feared it would.
Maureen Lipman was wrong. Sometimes you should just shut up.
Pop is not just business, it's art.
It might have sounded profound, but you were probably just drunk at the time.
There's nothing quite like the stage.
Most people say they care about the environment far more than they're actually prepared to do enough about it. Me included.
Saying yes can be scary. I still haven't worked out how to get it right.
I far prefer female vocalists to male ones.
I'm a romantic at heart - which could be why I'm so reluctant to risk it.
It's difficult not to let people down. But try not to make a habit of it.
Smiles make you feel better, especially if they're your own.
You never truly know how loved you are. There's always that little bit more hiding down the back of the sofa.
Yellow cars are surprisingly few and far between. Appreciate them when you can. Sometimes they come with two legs rather than four wheels.
Stressful situations exist for sure, but how you react to them is up to you.
Life without the familiar can be more frightening than death.
What's the point of having money if you can't share it around? A lesson for individuals and governments alike.
If Jed Bartlett had really been President, we'd still be in this mess.
Fiction is more likely to make me cry than real life. Should this be cause for concern?
Politics is broken. But was it ever really working?
Whatever you think you know today, in five years you'll realise just how naive you were. This never changes.
I'm quite happy to be proved wrong.
20.5.08
16.1.08
Return of the Badger
I made no secret of the fact that Sam Allardyce's appointment didn't have me turning cartwheels. The style of play he encouraged in Bolton and his fondness for thuggish, borderline sociopaths (Mr El-Hadji Diouf to name but one) was not something I wished to see reproduced at my beloved St James' Park.
That said, I was willing to see what he could do at a club with greater resources than Wanderers; give him time to work. Which is more than the new owner was prepared to do.
So once again the Magpies foolishly found themselves without a manager just a matter of months into the season.
Hopes for some big international name were bandied about, along with just about anyone who's ever coached in the Premiership, as well as some who haven't. The arguments against Shearer taking over are well-worn. Let's just say I worship the man as a centre-forward, but we both know he's not ready for the job.
For a while it looked like we 'ad 'Arry Redknapp - a man I regard as the Deep Blue Sea to Big Sam's Devil, perfectly good at what he does, no disrespect, but more attuned to a club the size of Portsmouth - but I was able to breathe a sigh of relief when that turned out to be another crock of Red Top.
Which was exactly what the rumours of a Kevin Keegan Komeback smelt of - until, at just before five this afternoon, the club announced that was exactly what was happening.
I've no idea whether or not bringing back the guy who made us exciting nearly-men is a good idea (although it does save us from the prospect of hiring Mark Hughes or Steve Bruce, at least for the time being) and goodness knows I'll find plenty to say about it in weeks to come, especially now I have reliable internet access at home for the first time in months.
But for now, I'm speechless.
That said, I was willing to see what he could do at a club with greater resources than Wanderers; give him time to work. Which is more than the new owner was prepared to do.
So once again the Magpies foolishly found themselves without a manager just a matter of months into the season.
Hopes for some big international name were bandied about, along with just about anyone who's ever coached in the Premiership, as well as some who haven't. The arguments against Shearer taking over are well-worn. Let's just say I worship the man as a centre-forward, but we both know he's not ready for the job.
For a while it looked like we 'ad 'Arry Redknapp - a man I regard as the Deep Blue Sea to Big Sam's Devil, perfectly good at what he does, no disrespect, but more attuned to a club the size of Portsmouth - but I was able to breathe a sigh of relief when that turned out to be another crock of Red Top.
Which was exactly what the rumours of a Kevin Keegan Komeback smelt of - until, at just before five this afternoon, the club announced that was exactly what was happening.
I've no idea whether or not bringing back the guy who made us exciting nearly-men is a good idea (although it does save us from the prospect of hiring Mark Hughes or Steve Bruce, at least for the time being) and goodness knows I'll find plenty to say about it in weeks to come, especially now I have reliable internet access at home for the first time in months.
But for now, I'm speechless.
19.11.07
Shades of grey
It's a funny experience looking inside one's own head, especially knowing that not so long ago it looked considerably different. But there it was, on the registrar's computer screen, in all its greyscale glory.
He'd made a big show of asking me how I was doing, whether I was back at work, reviewing the notes, showing me the scans. So far, so predictable.
And then he dropped the bombshell.
"As you can see, it all looks really good," he said in his heavily Anglicised Arabic accent, beaming, and prodding at my brain. "So I think all I can say is get on with your life. I'll discharge you from the surgical clinic."
I hadn't really been expecting this today, so the news took a few moments to sink in.
"So I don't need to come back and see you at all?"
"No. No more appointments. Of course, you'll continue to see the neurologist, but apart from that..."
"No more scans?"
"Well, maybe one in a couple of years just to check, but we'll let Dr Farmer take care of that."
And that, rather anti-climactically, was that. Not even a chance to say goodbye to the woman who saved my life. While her number two, her Metatron, was delivering the good news, Joan was attending to people still in need. My gratitude would have to conveyed be in third person.
Of course it's not the absolute all clear, not as long as Queen Square has me on file, but when surgeons say there's nothing more they need to do, it's a pretty significant step in that direction.
Now for the hard part...
He'd made a big show of asking me how I was doing, whether I was back at work, reviewing the notes, showing me the scans. So far, so predictable.
And then he dropped the bombshell.
"As you can see, it all looks really good," he said in his heavily Anglicised Arabic accent, beaming, and prodding at my brain. "So I think all I can say is get on with your life. I'll discharge you from the surgical clinic."
I hadn't really been expecting this today, so the news took a few moments to sink in.
"So I don't need to come back and see you at all?"
"No. No more appointments. Of course, you'll continue to see the neurologist, but apart from that..."
"No more scans?"
"Well, maybe one in a couple of years just to check, but we'll let Dr Farmer take care of that."
And that, rather anti-climactically, was that. Not even a chance to say goodbye to the woman who saved my life. While her number two, her Metatron, was delivering the good news, Joan was attending to people still in need. My gratitude would have to conveyed be in third person.
Of course it's not the absolute all clear, not as long as Queen Square has me on file, but when surgeons say there's nothing more they need to do, it's a pretty significant step in that direction.
Now for the hard part...
3.8.07
Look at what you could have won...
The editorial staff here at nota benny would like to apologise for the prolonged period of silence. In the month since the last post the schedule's just been so hectic and full of exciting things to blog about that there hasn't been any time for the words to make the leap from brain to byte.
Consequently, dear reader, you've missed pregnant ruminations on such wide and varied topics as: the BBC's credibility problems (we're waiting for the other shoe to drop when people twig that star appeal and journalistic aptitude don't necessarily go hand in glove, that Brian Conley will never entertain you, not even in the middle of the afternoon, and that the Tardis isn't actually bigger on the inside than out. And that it smells of wee.); the theory that the UK's summer weather is just one big publicity stunt for the release of Evan Almighty; an appraisal of the tea and cake served at Buckingham Palace; and the delicate nature of complimenting a father on his teenage daughter without sounding like a potential sex offender.
Any or none of these subjects may crop up in the near future.
But coming soon, an investigation showing why if visiting the woods it's Swedes not bears of whom you need to be wary.
Consequently, dear reader, you've missed pregnant ruminations on such wide and varied topics as: the BBC's credibility problems (we're waiting for the other shoe to drop when people twig that star appeal and journalistic aptitude don't necessarily go hand in glove, that Brian Conley will never entertain you, not even in the middle of the afternoon, and that the Tardis isn't actually bigger on the inside than out. And that it smells of wee.); the theory that the UK's summer weather is just one big publicity stunt for the release of Evan Almighty; an appraisal of the tea and cake served at Buckingham Palace; and the delicate nature of complimenting a father on his teenage daughter without sounding like a potential sex offender.
Any or none of these subjects may crop up in the near future.
But coming soon, an investigation showing why if visiting the woods it's Swedes not bears of whom you need to be wary.
4.7.07
Free at last
Oh happy day. After 114 days in captivity, Alan Johnston has been freed, safe and seemingly well.
What made Alan's time as a hostage so perverse and unjust was that he had spent three years in Gaza putting the case of the Palestinian people, as much as any objective journalist can, telling stories that may otherwise be untold to a Western audience.
Whatever the Army of Islam's motive for this deplorable act, it was only ever going to work against the Palestinian cause. Yet that should not prevent them from being congratulated for letting the episode reach its only desirable conclusion.
The bile and invective I instinctively prepared at the time of the bogus announcement of Alan's death can thankfully remain unpublished. I'm glad I held my tongue at that time, in spite of a great anger. Whatever one's view of the desperate situation in the Middle East, one can't deny that progress will not be made as long as so many bitter words are spoken.
Hopefully Alan will now get time to readjust to life outside his Gaza cell and to spend time with his family, who must have had the worst four months imaginable. The mood among colleagues also seems to have instantly lightened, people relieved to have truly good news to report for once.
And then when he finally gets back to work, hopefully in some nice, quiet posting - Baghdad, perhaps, or maybe Beirut? - mine will be one of many pockets only too happy to shed a few pounds to buy him a drink.
What made Alan's time as a hostage so perverse and unjust was that he had spent three years in Gaza putting the case of the Palestinian people, as much as any objective journalist can, telling stories that may otherwise be untold to a Western audience.
Whatever the Army of Islam's motive for this deplorable act, it was only ever going to work against the Palestinian cause. Yet that should not prevent them from being congratulated for letting the episode reach its only desirable conclusion.
The bile and invective I instinctively prepared at the time of the bogus announcement of Alan's death can thankfully remain unpublished. I'm glad I held my tongue at that time, in spite of a great anger. Whatever one's view of the desperate situation in the Middle East, one can't deny that progress will not be made as long as so many bitter words are spoken.
Hopefully Alan will now get time to readjust to life outside his Gaza cell and to spend time with his family, who must have had the worst four months imaginable. The mood among colleagues also seems to have instantly lightened, people relieved to have truly good news to report for once.
And then when he finally gets back to work, hopefully in some nice, quiet posting - Baghdad, perhaps, or maybe Beirut? - mine will be one of many pockets only too happy to shed a few pounds to buy him a drink.
1.7.07
Mighty Mika
Just when I thought there was no one left to champion the cause of real journalism over celebrity tittle-tattle, along comes MSNBC's Mika Brzezinski.
Objecting to Paris Hilton's first interview following her release from jail being the designated lead story in her bulletin, she stages a very entertaining on-air coup. As befits the daughter of a former US National Security Adviser, Ms Brzezinski wants to lead on Iraq - but there's editorial pressure from above. The adamant anchor ends up destroying the paper copy of the script in a very public display of defiance.
You'd never see George Alagiah or Sian Williams having such a public editorial hissy fit - would that they should.
What's a little unsettling is how Mika's male colleagues react to her stance. First they say she's not a journalist any more as if a "real" journalist, rather than a presenter, would see the value in the Hollywood-based Hilton story over some crumby foreign thing. Then later, one says she's "such a journalist" as if that's something to be avoided in modern TV news. Cronkite and Dimbleby must be rolling in their graves.
Has Mika Brzezinski committed the journalistic faux pas of becoming the story? Arguably, yes.
And there is something in the Hilton story - preferential treatment for stars, say, maybe the overcrowding in LA's penal system, or even just as a matter of interest at the end of the summary - but I suspect Mika's reaction would not have been quite so intense had the item not been placed so high by her producer.
However, Brzezinski has struck a blow for sensible, adult news, for those of us who think that just because what's important in the world and what the masses want to hear about aren't necessarily the same thing, that doesn't mean we should let populism run the news agenda.
Objecting to Paris Hilton's first interview following her release from jail being the designated lead story in her bulletin, she stages a very entertaining on-air coup. As befits the daughter of a former US National Security Adviser, Ms Brzezinski wants to lead on Iraq - but there's editorial pressure from above. The adamant anchor ends up destroying the paper copy of the script in a very public display of defiance.
You'd never see George Alagiah or Sian Williams having such a public editorial hissy fit - would that they should.
What's a little unsettling is how Mika's male colleagues react to her stance. First they say she's not a journalist any more as if a "real" journalist, rather than a presenter, would see the value in the Hollywood-based Hilton story over some crumby foreign thing. Then later, one says she's "such a journalist" as if that's something to be avoided in modern TV news. Cronkite and Dimbleby must be rolling in their graves.
Has Mika Brzezinski committed the journalistic faux pas of becoming the story? Arguably, yes.
And there is something in the Hilton story - preferential treatment for stars, say, maybe the overcrowding in LA's penal system, or even just as a matter of interest at the end of the summary - but I suspect Mika's reaction would not have been quite so intense had the item not been placed so high by her producer.
However, Brzezinski has struck a blow for sensible, adult news, for those of us who think that just because what's important in the world and what the masses want to hear about aren't necessarily the same thing, that doesn't mean we should let populism run the news agenda.
27.6.07
Tube tales
The Victoria line, midnight. A train pulls out of Oxford Circus, heading north.
Eye contact.
"Aaron?"
"Sean. Shane! I had a moment remembering your name..."
"Dave."
"Sorry, I had you confused with somebody else there. How are you?"
Identity established, conversation ensues.
A stranger smiles, happy with his new story.
Eye contact.
"Aaron?"
"Sean. Shane! I had a moment remembering your name..."
"Dave."
"Sorry, I had you confused with somebody else there. How are you?"
Identity established, conversation ensues.
A stranger smiles, happy with his new story.
23.6.07
Treaty sweeties..?
One wants to be understanding but this picture (which led the BBC News website for most of Saturday) makes it look like there are closer ties between Spain and Germany than anyone thought. In the words of the dear, departed Jeff Murdock, there is "Definite N.A.T." going on between the German chancellor and the European Commission president.
I don't wish to start any rumours, but is this a case of Señor Barroso and Frau Merkel taking the phrase "European Union" a little too literally?
Clearly mischief is alive and well in the BBC interactive newsroom.
18.6.07
Baby shower
Welcome to the world Luca Sam Wilding, one week old today.
Dearest Luca,
I'd like to think that at some point in the distant future, should the technology still exist in this primitive form, you'll search for your name and find this message. If so, hello from 2007 and a few random thoughts brought about by your arrival in the world.
Firstly, know that your birth was one of the happiest days ever, not just for your mum and dad, but for all your uncles, aunties, grandparents, greats grandparents, great uncles, great aunties, and even some people you've probably never met.
You may have heard this previously, but while we were waiting for you there was some controversy about your name.
I realise you think of yourself as Luca, and indeed that's what your birth certificate says but as far as all your uncles are concerned, your true name is Thor. We almost had your daddy on board but, sensible man that he is, he gave into your mother.
Indomitable woman, that one. Little firecracker. Goes with the hair. Not fierce, as such, but definitely not one to be crossed. Remember that when you're weighing up just how much you can get away with.
In spite of the disagreement over your name, your folks are two of my favourite people in the world and you should listen to them because they are kind, clever, sensitive, wise and fun.
On your father's side, at least, you've become part of one of the most wonderful, loving, intelligent families in existence.
It was my honour and pleasure to grow up with Auntie Frances, Uncle Joseph and your father, and to have your grandmother as a second mummy, even though my own family was (and still is) perfectly wonderful and all I could hope for. You'll doubtless have heard stories by the time you read this - some of them, hopefully, about What the Dragon.
And your Uncle Hugh, well, he's a very dear friend, and I'm sure he'll teach you all the things your parents don't want you to know.
I'm afraid I don't know your mummy's family terribly well, but they helped make her who she is, and that should speak for itself.
I also think it's important for you to know just a few of the people with whom you share your birthday.
Ben Jonson
Julia Margaret Cameron
John Constable
Max Shreck
Jackie Stewart
Vince Lombardi
Jacques Cousteau
Hugh Laurie
and (my personal favourite) Gene Wilder
(Had you been born exactly one calendar month later, you would have shared your birthday with Suzanne Vega. If, by some small wonder, you've got any appreciation for the music of the 1980s, you may come to find this as funny and ironic as I - and presumably your parents - do).
Most of these names will probably mean nothing to you at first, but hopefully you'll want to find out. They're all important or significant in their own way. I could provide links to them all for you, but that would make it too easy. :)
Because if there's one thing I hope to teach you, it's this: keep asking questions, and only stop when you get an answer you understand and accept. Then find something else to ask about. It's the best way for you to learn and a good way of making other people respect you.
And before I sign off please join me in welcoming another little person to the world, a Swedish girl by the name of Astrid Barrett, born to some other friends of mine just a couple of weeks before you. Maybe the two of you will never meet, or maybe you'll fall in love. Please understand that I'm projecting a couple of decades into the future here, and her father won't appreciate me saying this, but I'm sure you could do much worse. :)
Finally, whatever life holds, Luca, please know that you are, always have been and always will be loved.
Forever,
Your Uncle Ben
Dearest Luca,
I'd like to think that at some point in the distant future, should the technology still exist in this primitive form, you'll search for your name and find this message. If so, hello from 2007 and a few random thoughts brought about by your arrival in the world.
Firstly, know that your birth was one of the happiest days ever, not just for your mum and dad, but for all your uncles, aunties, grandparents, greats grandparents, great uncles, great aunties, and even some people you've probably never met.
You may have heard this previously, but while we were waiting for you there was some controversy about your name.
I realise you think of yourself as Luca, and indeed that's what your birth certificate says but as far as all your uncles are concerned, your true name is Thor. We almost had your daddy on board but, sensible man that he is, he gave into your mother.
Indomitable woman, that one. Little firecracker. Goes with the hair. Not fierce, as such, but definitely not one to be crossed. Remember that when you're weighing up just how much you can get away with.
In spite of the disagreement over your name, your folks are two of my favourite people in the world and you should listen to them because they are kind, clever, sensitive, wise and fun.
On your father's side, at least, you've become part of one of the most wonderful, loving, intelligent families in existence.
It was my honour and pleasure to grow up with Auntie Frances, Uncle Joseph and your father, and to have your grandmother as a second mummy, even though my own family was (and still is) perfectly wonderful and all I could hope for. You'll doubtless have heard stories by the time you read this - some of them, hopefully, about What the Dragon.
And your Uncle Hugh, well, he's a very dear friend, and I'm sure he'll teach you all the things your parents don't want you to know.
I'm afraid I don't know your mummy's family terribly well, but they helped make her who she is, and that should speak for itself.
I also think it's important for you to know just a few of the people with whom you share your birthday.
Ben Jonson
Julia Margaret Cameron
John Constable
Max Shreck
Jackie Stewart
Vince Lombardi
Jacques Cousteau
Hugh Laurie
and (my personal favourite) Gene Wilder
(Had you been born exactly one calendar month later, you would have shared your birthday with Suzanne Vega. If, by some small wonder, you've got any appreciation for the music of the 1980s, you may come to find this as funny and ironic as I - and presumably your parents - do).
Most of these names will probably mean nothing to you at first, but hopefully you'll want to find out. They're all important or significant in their own way. I could provide links to them all for you, but that would make it too easy. :)
Because if there's one thing I hope to teach you, it's this: keep asking questions, and only stop when you get an answer you understand and accept. Then find something else to ask about. It's the best way for you to learn and a good way of making other people respect you.
And before I sign off please join me in welcoming another little person to the world, a Swedish girl by the name of Astrid Barrett, born to some other friends of mine just a couple of weeks before you. Maybe the two of you will never meet, or maybe you'll fall in love. Please understand that I'm projecting a couple of decades into the future here, and her father won't appreciate me saying this, but I'm sure you could do much worse. :)
Finally, whatever life holds, Luca, please know that you are, always have been and always will be loved.
Forever,
Your Uncle Ben
15.6.07
Not everything in black and white makes sense
It's all go at St James' Park at the moment. New manager, new owner, new players, and new controversy over old ones.
Taking these issues in no particular order:
Shady transfers
Although the club and its officials have been cleared of wrongdoing by Lord Stevens' inquiry into irregular transfers, almost a quarter of those 17 league-wide player transfers about which there's still some concern came into the club during the Souness era.
And knowing that, it really comes as no surprise that these include three of the worst footballers to have signed for Newcastle United in recent years, namely Jean Alain Boumsong, Amady Faye and Albert Luque. Whiter than white? I think not.
New manager
Also mentioned by the former chief of the Met was our new boss, "Big" Sam Allardyce. I wasn't a particularly big fan of his clod-hopping football at Bolton, unlike many I had no wish to see him take the England job last year (although now I'm wondering whether I'll wish he had) and didn't like his tendency to stick by one of the league's nastiest players, El-Hadji Diouf.
Speaking of which...
New arrival
After it having been threatened for six months, we've finally got Joey Barton. Oh happy day.
How do I love him? Let me count the ways.
* He ended last season out of favour at Manchester City after an alleged training ground assault on team-mate Ousmane Dabo.
* In 2004, Barton was fined a club record six weeks' wages after stubbing out a cigar in team-mate Jamie Tandy's eye during City's Christmas party.
* During City's pre-season tour of Thailand in 2005, Barton physically attacked a schoolboy Everton fan and had to be restrained.
* Not forgetting the fact that his brother's doing life for being a racist murderer.
It's just a shame that the similarly admirable Lee Bowyer left the club just 12 months ago.
Forgive me if these words disguise my true feelings about this fine, upstanding member of the community from good stock pulling on the shirt of the team that I love. Sarcasm is notoriously difficult to convey in text.
New owner
The only change I'm remotely happy about is Mike Ashley's arrival. Hopefully he'll finally oust Fat Freddy Shepherd and bring in a chairman who actually knows something about football and treating a club, its players and, most importantly, its fans with the respect they deserve.
I've said it every time we've had an alleged new dawn since Bobby was sacked, but it will take a lot to convince me that there are better times ahead.
Sam, Joey et al, it's time you proved me wrong.
Taking these issues in no particular order:
Shady transfers
Although the club and its officials have been cleared of wrongdoing by Lord Stevens' inquiry into irregular transfers, almost a quarter of those 17 league-wide player transfers about which there's still some concern came into the club during the Souness era.
And knowing that, it really comes as no surprise that these include three of the worst footballers to have signed for Newcastle United in recent years, namely Jean Alain Boumsong, Amady Faye and Albert Luque. Whiter than white? I think not.
New manager
Also mentioned by the former chief of the Met was our new boss, "Big" Sam Allardyce. I wasn't a particularly big fan of his clod-hopping football at Bolton, unlike many I had no wish to see him take the England job last year (although now I'm wondering whether I'll wish he had) and didn't like his tendency to stick by one of the league's nastiest players, El-Hadji Diouf.
Speaking of which...
New arrival
After it having been threatened for six months, we've finally got Joey Barton. Oh happy day.
How do I love him? Let me count the ways.
* He ended last season out of favour at Manchester City after an alleged training ground assault on team-mate Ousmane Dabo.
* In 2004, Barton was fined a club record six weeks' wages after stubbing out a cigar in team-mate Jamie Tandy's eye during City's Christmas party.
* During City's pre-season tour of Thailand in 2005, Barton physically attacked a schoolboy Everton fan and had to be restrained.
* Not forgetting the fact that his brother's doing life for being a racist murderer.
It's just a shame that the similarly admirable Lee Bowyer left the club just 12 months ago.
Forgive me if these words disguise my true feelings about this fine, upstanding member of the community from good stock pulling on the shirt of the team that I love. Sarcasm is notoriously difficult to convey in text.
New owner
The only change I'm remotely happy about is Mike Ashley's arrival. Hopefully he'll finally oust Fat Freddy Shepherd and bring in a chairman who actually knows something about football and treating a club, its players and, most importantly, its fans with the respect they deserve.
I've said it every time we've had an alleged new dawn since Bobby was sacked, but it will take a lot to convince me that there are better times ahead.
Sam, Joey et al, it's time you proved me wrong.
11.6.07
Thought for the day
How much faster would the flow of pedestrian traffic be along central London's thoroughfares if they were cleared of all the people handing out free crap like papers, flyers and phone cards? With all that free space, maybe people would be able to walk around all the slow tourists.
I'm just saying...
I'm just saying...
31.5.07
CDCWow!
This week's story about the guy from the US carrying a particularly nasty strain of tuberculosis has reminded me of an old bugbear of mine.
There have been regular updates given by the US Centers for Disease Control. As long as I've been visiting Atlanta I've been wanting to visit CDC and take the tour. Maybe you can blame a morbid curiosity in the all-conquering nature of bacteria and viruses, or possibly just a rose-tinted glamour resulting from having seen Outbreak one too many times.
There would be guided tours of galleries overlooking labs; a "Know your virus" interactive exhibit; a "Beat the Pathogen" game (which I'd have to give a little more thought to but would definitely involve dressing up in a biohazard suit); and a gift shop selling all sorts of stuff from disease-themed movies (Outbreak, 28 Days Later) and music (Anthrax, anyone?) to t-shirts saying "I went on the CDC tour and all I got was this lousy rhinovirus", "Herpes is for life, not just for Christmas", "TB or not TB? That is the question" and other such vaguely witty slogans.
But Jen swore that they didn't have a visitor's centre. Why, she asked, would they want to open that kind of thing up to the public? And anyway, what kind of sicko would actually want to go?
So for the past few years I've been banging on occasionally at anyone who'll listen about how the CDC's missing a trick.
Except it turns out they're not.
I know it won't live up to my expectations, but I'm all the happier just to know it exists.
There have been regular updates given by the US Centers for Disease Control. As long as I've been visiting Atlanta I've been wanting to visit CDC and take the tour. Maybe you can blame a morbid curiosity in the all-conquering nature of bacteria and viruses, or possibly just a rose-tinted glamour resulting from having seen Outbreak one too many times.
There would be guided tours of galleries overlooking labs; a "Know your virus" interactive exhibit; a "Beat the Pathogen" game (which I'd have to give a little more thought to but would definitely involve dressing up in a biohazard suit); and a gift shop selling all sorts of stuff from disease-themed movies (Outbreak, 28 Days Later) and music (Anthrax, anyone?) to t-shirts saying "I went on the CDC tour and all I got was this lousy rhinovirus", "Herpes is for life, not just for Christmas", "TB or not TB? That is the question" and other such vaguely witty slogans.
But Jen swore that they didn't have a visitor's centre. Why, she asked, would they want to open that kind of thing up to the public? And anyway, what kind of sicko would actually want to go?
So for the past few years I've been banging on occasionally at anyone who'll listen about how the CDC's missing a trick.
Except it turns out they're not.
I know it won't live up to my expectations, but I'm all the happier just to know it exists.
29.5.07
Panda pops
It's just after four in the morning. Technical difficulties at work mean I'm flicking through the channels in search of something to watch.
Did I really just see a bearded man in spectacles giving manual relief to a talking giant panda? Apparently, yes.
It's not a real panda, of course, but a person in a suit playing one. But I'm not sure that that isn't even more disturbing.
Now I know what they mean when they say it's always darkest before the dawn.
Did I really just see a bearded man in spectacles giving manual relief to a talking giant panda? Apparently, yes.
It's not a real panda, of course, but a person in a suit playing one. But I'm not sure that that isn't even more disturbing.
Now I know what they mean when they say it's always darkest before the dawn.
20.5.07
Turning Japanese
More on my swiftly developing career as the BBC News website's voice of east Asia. In much demand (or possibly just available) following the critically acclaimed performances of "Thai lorry driver" and the classic "Second Japanese panda fan", as well as a misguided turn as "Filipino karaoke enthusiast" I'm in danger of becoming typecast, having just completed the role of "Japanese paramedic". This is my second son of Nippon in a row. I suppose it's a problem all successful artistes face, yet there are so many more countries to which I have still to lend my voice.
This time the links should work.
Oh, and happy birthday Busta, Bronson and Cher...
This time the links should work.
Oh, and happy birthday Busta, Bronson and Cher...
17.5.07
Dysfunction keys
So I'm in the elevator at work, wearing this t-shirt with an Escape key on the front. It's an item of clothing which, like many in my wardrobe, often raises a smile or some similarly friendly response.The lift stops before my floor and a few other people get in, including one bloke I recognise as a techy type having seen him crawl around under various desks and shouting down phones over the course of several years. I don't think he recognises me. To say we know each other would be a lie.
But this doesn't stop him from bellowing, "Ah, does this one work?" and, quite uninvited, firmly plants his pudgy little finger on the button in the middle of my chest chest. "Oh no. We're still here. Just as useless as all the others," he grins.
No one's quite sure what to make of it. Embarrassed faces all round. Still, despite this unexpected incursion into my personal space, I attempt to make the best of an awkward situation.
But the witty comeback isn't there. In the short trip down another couple of floors I mutter something about buttons, hopelessness and escape. But the door opens at my floor, I walk out, turn round, flash a smile and say, "There's no escape."
And as the door slides closed, he looks at me like I'm the one who needs his head checked...
Happy Birthday Alan
66 days and still missing. Ten years and three days my senior. What a way to spend any day, let alone your birthday.
Please sign the petition, get the blog button, tell your friends, keep him in your thoughts.
Please sign the petition, get the blog button, tell your friends, keep him in your thoughts.
15.5.07
Am I a man or a mouse?
Surely one of the most exciting, magical and dramatic online quizzes I've ever seen, tied into the forthcoming His Dark materials movies.
I'm happy with a mouse, but is it accurate? Take a visit please and help me find my true daemon.
I'm happy with a mouse, but is it accurate? Take a visit please and help me find my true daemon.
10.5.07
Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out
Ding, dong, the witch is, well, if not exactly dead, then certainly ordering four dozen baps for the mourners and making sure his affairs are in order.
What once felt so fresh, shiny and new, now just leaves a taste so bitter that it pervades every cell of one's body.
I won't deny that the Blair government did much for the country's benefit, and I'd hate to think what the UK would be like now had the Tories stayed in power.
Yet, without retreading too much of the same old ground, the contemptuous way in which Blair and his minions treated the public in the lead-up to the illegal invasion of Iraq and the horrific debacle that followed sent his healthy balance of good will well into the red. No one's pretending that Saddam was a saint, but surely there must have been another way.
On a more personal level resentment over the royal shafting the government gave the BBC over the Kelly affair (something for which Auntie seemingly continues to pay, given that the compromising licence fee settlement awarded earlier this year looks set to cause yet more years of job cuts) still burns deeply within the hearts of many inside the Corporation. The country should hope that the malice of Blair and Campbell has not tarnished a global jewel beyond repair.
And for the people of Iraq, there is no end in sight for the tragic results of Blair's collusion in the crimes perpetrated against them. Tomorrow will bring more bombs, more murders, more misery.
I'll likely come back to this once things have sunk in and played out. Because while I'm glad to see the back of him, Tony Blair deserves a proper goodbye.
While once upon a time I'd have welcomed Gordon Brown taking power I have a horrible, nagging doubt that this may be false hope. The sense of renewal that accompanied Blair's election is not apparent today. Yet while I have no desire to see the nation seduced by David Cameron, Gordo has much work to do to prove that he and Blair are not, as George Galloway puts it, "two cheeks of the same backside".
And I can't shake the image of the closing shot of Flash Gordon: tyrant Ming the Merciless has been killed, the ring that holds his power has slipped from his finger, and a happy ending seems in store for all the peoples of both Earth and Mongo. But as the ring lies in the rubble of Ming's palace a hand comes from out of shot to claim it, and the sound of maniacal laughter rings afresh in our ears...
What once felt so fresh, shiny and new, now just leaves a taste so bitter that it pervades every cell of one's body.
I won't deny that the Blair government did much for the country's benefit, and I'd hate to think what the UK would be like now had the Tories stayed in power.
Yet, without retreading too much of the same old ground, the contemptuous way in which Blair and his minions treated the public in the lead-up to the illegal invasion of Iraq and the horrific debacle that followed sent his healthy balance of good will well into the red. No one's pretending that Saddam was a saint, but surely there must have been another way.
On a more personal level resentment over the royal shafting the government gave the BBC over the Kelly affair (something for which Auntie seemingly continues to pay, given that the compromising licence fee settlement awarded earlier this year looks set to cause yet more years of job cuts) still burns deeply within the hearts of many inside the Corporation. The country should hope that the malice of Blair and Campbell has not tarnished a global jewel beyond repair.
And for the people of Iraq, there is no end in sight for the tragic results of Blair's collusion in the crimes perpetrated against them. Tomorrow will bring more bombs, more murders, more misery.
I'll likely come back to this once things have sunk in and played out. Because while I'm glad to see the back of him, Tony Blair deserves a proper goodbye.
While once upon a time I'd have welcomed Gordon Brown taking power I have a horrible, nagging doubt that this may be false hope. The sense of renewal that accompanied Blair's election is not apparent today. Yet while I have no desire to see the nation seduced by David Cameron, Gordo has much work to do to prove that he and Blair are not, as George Galloway puts it, "two cheeks of the same backside".
And I can't shake the image of the closing shot of Flash Gordon: tyrant Ming the Merciless has been killed, the ring that holds his power has slipped from his finger, and a happy ending seems in store for all the peoples of both Earth and Mongo. But as the ring lies in the rubble of Ming's palace a hand comes from out of shot to claim it, and the sound of maniacal laughter rings afresh in our ears...
5.5.07
Who's the daddy?
Okay, so based on the evidence of these photographs alone I can just about figure how it found some similarity between me and Matt Perry and I take it as a compliment (although I forget - was this photo from his pre-narcotic dependency, self-satisfied, height of Friends' success phase, or his recovering addict, put on a bit of weight, pressure-of-being-in-world's-biggest-sitcom-all- gone later years?) and maybe Gandolfini (although Danny Fantastic's a better match for Big Tony).
But Ralph Lauren? Don Adams? Travolta? And Peter Sellers? Since when has wearing spectacles been a key indicator of a genetic match?
Either this face-recognition system still needs plenty of work or my mum's got some serious explaining to do.
27.4.07
Visions of loveliness, actions of cowardice
Every once in a while one meets a woman whose very ordinariness demands that she be elevated to the status of Godhead. Using words such as ordinary and unremarkable do her a disservice for she is witty, intelligent, feeling, mature, articulate, attractive and definitely sexy. Yet no one attribute stands out. Ergo ordinary, normal, but in the very best way.
Sure, there are better-looking women, ones with more challenging minds, even some with whom one has a deeper natural connection.
But with these deified girls everything just comes together in the right proportions. Perfectly imperfect - or is that imperfectly perfect?
What's more, the goddess seems unaware of her divine glory and ability to knock your average Joe dead in the water.
It's perhaps this last attribute that puts her beyond the reach of mortals.
The end result is that to harbour serious romantic aspirations around these women is tantamount to blasphemy. They are to be cherished and (if this doesn't sound a little too much like a stalker with serious psychological problems) their purity is to be preserved at all times (regardless of boyfriends, who have obviously attained that position by proving their worth).
(These girls are, of course, completely different from those one meets who are so unattainably gorgeous as to not even be fanciable - any effort to do so would just result in infatuation and heartache. With these few, the psyche seems to save time and anguish by automatically opting out of the competition.)
So it is with J.
I first met her several years ago when working in Manchester. Among certain of my colleagues at the time, she was quite the subject of idolatry. J was a radio reporter, me - one of the few people working on this new-fangled interwebsite thingy. Consequently we didn't have much reason for our paths to cross. Nevertheless we managed to strike up an enjoyable, relaxed, if politely restrained, relationship.
On my last day before heading south, she gave me a signed photo of Mikey Graham, the pudgy one from Boyzone who never really got over the band's break-up and had to cancel his solo tour due to lack of interest. Despite my predilection for pop I don't like Boyzone, never have, yet I've had that photo pinned to my corkboard for the last six years, an icon to keep my faith strong.
Our paths crossed occasionally over the next few years and in between times I'd see or hear her on some channel or other.
I'd not seen J in more than a year. But knocking off shift late last night, walking through the corridors of Television Centre, I found myself following a woman. Somehow I knew it was her. These instincts are usually way off the mark, resulting in awkward moments with shocked strangers. Yet this time I was right.
She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, if a little surprised, and as I'd not seen her since BC, I had to drop the brain bomb on her.
But as soon as I'd mentioned this, without any time for explanation, my driver turned up saying, "Ben Fell? Ben Fell? Which is it, you or her?".
For just a moment I felt like grabbing him by his lapels, pinning him against the wall and, with our faces just microns apart, yelling at the top of my not inconsiderable voice, "Ben Fell? Does this vision of loveliness look like Ben Fell? You're not even worthy to hold eye contact with her, let alone know her real name. Prostate yourself before her and beg forgiveness."
It passed as quickly as it came (which is just as well as a) it would have been more than a little embarrassing and b) the man in question turned out to be a very nice chap) and we parted with a promise to get in touch soon.
I still don't fancy allow myself to fancy her. I'm still in awe.
I know it's absurd, that she's just a human being with the same doubts and insecurities as anyone worth their salt, and that this whole post probably says many bad things about my attitude to relationships. In affairs of the heart, I'm a coward.
Am I wrong? Is every woman a goddess in her own way? Probably so. And there are many out there, just waiting to be worshipped in a less mentally retarded way.
But putting J and her like on this pedestal makes life easier, a way to stay sane.
Can anyone honestly say they've never done the same?
Sure, there are better-looking women, ones with more challenging minds, even some with whom one has a deeper natural connection.
But with these deified girls everything just comes together in the right proportions. Perfectly imperfect - or is that imperfectly perfect?
What's more, the goddess seems unaware of her divine glory and ability to knock your average Joe dead in the water.
It's perhaps this last attribute that puts her beyond the reach of mortals.
The end result is that to harbour serious romantic aspirations around these women is tantamount to blasphemy. They are to be cherished and (if this doesn't sound a little too much like a stalker with serious psychological problems) their purity is to be preserved at all times (regardless of boyfriends, who have obviously attained that position by proving their worth).
(These girls are, of course, completely different from those one meets who are so unattainably gorgeous as to not even be fanciable - any effort to do so would just result in infatuation and heartache. With these few, the psyche seems to save time and anguish by automatically opting out of the competition.)
So it is with J.
I first met her several years ago when working in Manchester. Among certain of my colleagues at the time, she was quite the subject of idolatry. J was a radio reporter, me - one of the few people working on this new-fangled interwebsite thingy. Consequently we didn't have much reason for our paths to cross. Nevertheless we managed to strike up an enjoyable, relaxed, if politely restrained, relationship.
On my last day before heading south, she gave me a signed photo of Mikey Graham, the pudgy one from Boyzone who never really got over the band's break-up and had to cancel his solo tour due to lack of interest. Despite my predilection for pop I don't like Boyzone, never have, yet I've had that photo pinned to my corkboard for the last six years, an icon to keep my faith strong.
Our paths crossed occasionally over the next few years and in between times I'd see or hear her on some channel or other.
I'd not seen J in more than a year. But knocking off shift late last night, walking through the corridors of Television Centre, I found myself following a woman. Somehow I knew it was her. These instincts are usually way off the mark, resulting in awkward moments with shocked strangers. Yet this time I was right.
She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, if a little surprised, and as I'd not seen her since BC, I had to drop the brain bomb on her.
But as soon as I'd mentioned this, without any time for explanation, my driver turned up saying, "Ben Fell? Ben Fell? Which is it, you or her?".
For just a moment I felt like grabbing him by his lapels, pinning him against the wall and, with our faces just microns apart, yelling at the top of my not inconsiderable voice, "Ben Fell? Does this vision of loveliness look like Ben Fell? You're not even worthy to hold eye contact with her, let alone know her real name. Prostate yourself before her and beg forgiveness."
It passed as quickly as it came (which is just as well as a) it would have been more than a little embarrassing and b) the man in question turned out to be a very nice chap) and we parted with a promise to get in touch soon.
I still don't fancy allow myself to fancy her. I'm still in awe.
I know it's absurd, that she's just a human being with the same doubts and insecurities as anyone worth their salt, and that this whole post probably says many bad things about my attitude to relationships. In affairs of the heart, I'm a coward.
Am I wrong? Is every woman a goddess in her own way? Probably so. And there are many out there, just waiting to be worshipped in a less mentally retarded way.
But putting J and her like on this pedestal makes life easier, a way to stay sane.
Can anyone honestly say they've never done the same?
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