Now You See Me...

Scientists reckon that they have made a significant step forwards in making an invisibility cloak.

My first thought was that these scientists must have really cool job descriptions, which presumably would make them seem less boring at parties, and maybe even give them a chance of getting off with someone. "What do you do?", "I'm working on an invisibility cloak", or "I'm building a teleport". Except I bet they're so geeky that they say something like "I'm conducting research into the feasibility of utilising nanowire technology to synthesize materials with a negative refractive index over a subset of electromagnetic waves, including visible light.", and then go on to say more things like this for hours before they notice that the gorgeous blonde has long since done her own disappearing act.

I envy them. The best I've been able to come up with, "I'm a C programmer. Perhaps you'd like to malloc some space in your diary for a union of aligned structs?" doesn't work as a chat-up-line. Probably.

Anyway, at some point in the future we'll be able to buy clothes that make us invisible, and they'll want someone to help market their product, so I've come up with some selling points:

• No More Ironing! People have been conned with "wash and wear" clothes in the past, and some still advocate not ironing shirts and drip-drying them. And then wondering why the carpet or the bottom of the wardrobe have gone mouldy. But with invisible clothes you really won't have to bother.

• They'll Never Go Out of Fashion! No need to worry about colours, patterns, whether the cut is on the bias, or whatever. Invisible is the new black. Or should that be "The new black is Invisible"?
  

• No More Diets! Since no-one can see you, why bother? This will really piss off the dieting industry, which will go bankrupt overnight, meaning that they will be forced to live in poverty on bread and water. This is what's known as divine justice.

• Bad Hair Day? You Need Our Invisible Hat!

• No More Ugly People! Julia Roberts will receive a complimentary Invisibility Mask.
  

The Invisible Blogger

Hopefully with all this preparation I'll be well placed to get a high-paid job as a consultant to what will be a multi-billion Pound industry. This will solve all my party problems, as the answer to "What do you do?" will be "I make shit loads of money and my Bentley's waiting outside. Shall we get the chauffeur to take us to your place or mine?". Game Over.

On the other hand, maybe I could make more money working for the Anti-Invisibility Lobby, which will be well-funded by the fashion industry, the dieting con-artists, hair stylists, cosmetic surgeons, paparazzi (and in the US the NRA). So, I've also come up with reasons against it:

• Accidents: Imagine the carnage on the roads when drivers can't see pedestrians. And people will keep walking into one another.

• Evil: Murderers, thieves and terrorists will be able to commit their gruesome crimes unwitnessed. Assuming they can find their victims, that is.

• Extinction: Millennia of human attraction and reproduction will disappear, since people won't be able to see prospective mates.

• Misery: Practical jokers will love it.

• A Waste of Money: No-one actually needs this. Murders, thieves, terrorists and Julia Roberts can all do just as well with current balaclava technology. Or a brown paper bag with eye-holes.
  

I suspect that by the time this material comes out, no-one will want it. Because people will all be sitting isolated in their homes at their computers, and no-one will go out. Online shopping, gaming, chatting and blogging will see to that. And online we're all invisible, apart from flattering pictures allegedly of ourselves. In fact, we're doing this already.

Which I suppose means that this isn't going to be the thing that makes me millions. Oh well, another bright idea that's disappeared...

Ink Blot

Jean Knee mentioned the famous ink blot test, where you're supposed to say what the ink blots look like. So just for her, I've found one in the shape of a cock.

Wordy Wednesday

The Slippery Slope

No, this isn't a slipper mountain, though I'd be surprised if the European Union doesn't have one somewhere. To this end, I checked Wiki, and was rather disappointed not to find a list of the world's major slipper exporters. In fact, the page is rather short and contains a paragraph entitled "Use by the Pope". Shock, Horror, he wears slippers! And red ones, at that!

Red Slippers

I wonder who found out this amazing fact? Did it make front page news in the tabloids? Did a breathless reporter phone their paper? "Hold the front page! I've got an exclusive on the Pope... Yeah, you know, the Catholic guy... P-o-p-e... No he's not a Rap artist... One of his housekeepers has been dishing the dirt... Can you wire me 10,000 Euros ASAP, please... 15,000 if you want her to pose topless..."

Anyway, it's occurred to me that I might be on the slippery slope to becoming a total recluse if I don't get out more, so I'm planning to go to the pub on a more regular basis, like I used to before I got a computer and came across you lot. I've never been very sociable anyway - in social situations, approaching someone I don't know and talking to them is almost as scary as lying in a bathtub full of live spiders.

I went last week for the first time in months, and people seemed pleased to see me. Not a lot changes, but someone else had died. So another motivation for going more often is to have a chance to talk to the regulars before they snuff it. Or before I do, I suppose. Life - that's another slippery slope...

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More Slippery Stuff

With all this talk of tabloids, I thought I'd have a look at the Sun's website to see what their news headlines are. Since I'm not allowed to read British papers or news, I've not seen the Sun for years. However, 2 seconds on their site was enough to find a story about some celebrity who has had a boob job.

The "Shock Horror" element of it is that she apparently forgot to buy bigger tops, so her newly enhanced assets are in danger of slipping out. Of course, in reality, there's no way she was going to spend good money getting her breasts enlarged, only to keep them hidden. And the whole story is really there so that the "readers" can pretend to be reading the article rather than drooling over the picture. Before you ask, Dan, here's a link. It's better than Spongebob, though not by much.

I wonder if the Sun have any jobs going? It seems like easy work...

H Σταχτοπούτα redux

Long-time sufferers, er, I mean, readers, will no doubt remember my post in January about τη Σταχτοπούτα, or Cinderella.

I've just finished watching a Greek TV series called something like "If Only You Knew". It's about two policemen who are watching the office of a big-time criminal from a flat across the road. Which would be very boring, except for the fact that the in-laws of one of the policemen, Tasos, live two floors beneath this office, and that the father-in-law is insane (he thinks Greece is still run by a military dictatorship), and Tasos' wife is sort of not having an affair with the criminal, who can't get it up, and has got some viagra, except he dropped it and the insane father-in-law took it and spent a happy but unexpected afternoon pleasing the mother-in-law. Oh and did I mention that the criminal's brain-dead footballer son is engaged to the gorgeous sister-in-law (Katerina), with whom the other policeman falls in love with, except that he's pretending to be a doctor treating the FIL, but... ?
The plot is slightly complicated. I've not mentioned Tasos' nymphomaniac neighbour who pretends to be his wife at a dinner party that should have been hosted by his chain-smoking, constantly swearing origami-obsessed boss, except his wife has chucked him out...

All this and more in only 26 episodes. Your average soap opera would take years to cover this amount of material. What's great for me is that I now know the Greek for "Fuck", "Shit", "Wanker", etc. It's very educational.

Anyway, in one episode, the footballer son of the master criminal was sitting in the hospital chatting to Antoni's ex-girlfriend Natasa, and they got talking about Cinderella.

The wonderful mezzo soprano
Conchita Supervia, who played
La Cenerentola in the 1920s

He said that he'd always had a problem with this particular fairytale. At midnight, all the magic stuff changes back to normal - the chariot becomes a pumpkin, the footmen become mice, etc, etc.

So...

Why don't the glass slippers change back???

This observation makes Natasa think that the thick footballer is really a genius, which in turn means that he won't be spending the night alone, which in turn means that he doesn't end up marrying Katerina, and...

Sorry, I got carried away there. Back to Cinderella. What's really puzzling me, is not so much the fact that the fairytale has a plot hole big enough to drive a JCB through, but...

How come none of the pedantic children we tell this story to have noticed???

Cross My Palm With Silver

Whilst perusing today's "Simerini" paper, I happened to look at the horoscopes. Now, I know that I shouldn't doubt the soothsaying abilities of Maria Eleutheriou without waiting to see what the rest of the day brings, but I suspect that her prediction for Aquarius that "Love gives another dimension to your day" is unlikely to be very accurate, especially as I'm not planning to go anywhere.

However, Scorpios should perhaps heed the paper's warning not to fall into temptation (which Ms Eleutheriou tells us will be difficult to resist) and endanger a stable relationship, especially if they've recently been showered with "gifts" by a tall, older man. (okay, she didn't actually mention that last bit).

Anyway, I think I can do much better, so here is my prediction. This is provided as a service to my readers, and there's no charge, but you are welcome to send me money, preferably in the form of precious metals, given the state of the economy. I'm not going to abuse my supernatural powers and frighten you with what'll happen if you don't.

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My Prediction and Advice for This Weekend

General:

Things will not go entirely to plan this weekend. There will be problems involving people close to you. Try to face these with your usual good humour, imagination and violence.

Financial:

Beware of people trying to swindle you - in particular, I see an email which you should avoid answering. You will wish that you had more money, but do not let this tempt you into doing anything drastic, such as robbing a bank. If you do, you will find that they don't have any either.

Love:

Although I know exactly how your love life will pan out this weekend, I can assure you that telling you would not help matters. All I'm able to say is that murder is not the answer. Not this weekend, anyway.

Lottery:

Don't bother - even if you buy a ticket, you won't win the jackpot. However, if you insist on ignoring this advice, I can reveal that the number 1 will be of significance.

Lucky Colour: Brownish blue with just a hint of fluorescent pink.

Today's Fortune Cookie (courtesy of my computer): "Life is to you a dashing and bold adventure."

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There you go. You won't even need to get a Chinese meal this weekend.

Wordy Wednesday: The Motion Picture

I'm going to write about my day. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I didn't get abducted by aliens or a group of desperate nymphomaniacs, nor did I get blown to Oz by a hurricane, (or by a group of desperate nymphomaniacs, for that matter).

This is might be a problem, because when I come to sell the film rights of my autobiography, the Hollywood producers might want a bit more than "Wednesday: Went to work (avoiding the dog muck on the path). Wrote some rubbish in my blog". Nevertheless, I've adapted my experiences for the Big Screen.

I haven't yet decided what type of film I want them to make, so I've prepared some alternatives, all of which begin with my walk to work through the park.

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CSI: UK

Quick-cut shots of: Yellow tape, the body, squad cars. BOV walking towards the scene, taking off his sunglasses

BOV: Okay, Doc, what we got?

Doc: Male, mid-30s, no ID, though his cell phone was found smashed 2 metres away.

BOV (bending over the corpse): Hmmmm. Definitely some high velocity spatter.

Doc: Yes, probably from sea gulls, or pigeons, judging by the texture and taste. I've sent samples to the lab.

BOV: And the cause of death?

Doc: Well, from the positioning, and the injuries sustained to his knees and elbows, I'd say that the victim was doing star jumps when he slipped on a dog turd and sustained a fatal blow to the head.

BOV: I see. Get that shit analysed, then we'll put out an APB on the dog. Cleaning up this town's going to be harder that I thought...

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Le Parc

Long, lingering shots of a sunny, Autumnal day in the park. Children are playing, lovers are laughing and occasionally punching one another. Brian Le Breton has paused to watch them, eventually sitting on a bench, a smile here, a frown there showing his reactions to all that is going on. The reactions of a detached observer, not part of this melee.

[Half an hour later]

BLB sees a woman walking purposefully along the path. He stops being detached and starts looking interested. Their eyes meet, he looks meaningfully. She frowns and averts her eyes. He sticks his leg out. She trips and lands spreadeagled on the path.

BLB (picking up her handbag): Excusez moi, Madame.

Woman (starts to get up and takes her handbag): Merci, Monsieur.

BLB (shaking his head despairingly and pointing at piles of shit on the path by way of explanation): La Merde de chien. (he motions for her to sit down).

BLB pulls out a half-eaten sandwich from his rucksack, tearing it in two, and gallantly offering her the bit without the teeth marks. She takes it, still shaking from her ordeal.

Over the shared sandwich, washed down by a flask of Chateau Pisse des Chats 1992 (which she finds in her handbag whilst looking for her lipstick), they discuss philosophy and life. She explains that to be eternal, love must be abstract and unfulfilled. BLB argues (without success) that eternity wouldn't begrudge them a quick fifteen minutes of fulfilment.

[two and a half hours later]

They get up from the park bench and walk away in opposite directions.

FIN

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The Day After

BOV, hung over from a night at the pub, stumbles through the park on his way to work, when all of a sudden there is a blinding flash.

Long shot of mushroom cloud, and Britain being devastated by a nuclear explosion.

Everything is covered with white dust. All is silent. Camera pans across a scene of destruction. Cars on the road are stationary.

BOV crawls out from behind a large fallen tree. He dusts himself down: I knew I shouldn't have stopped for that Chinese on the way home last night...

Michael Caine (off camera): You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!

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Based on a True Story (some details may have been altered slightly for cinematic purposes). And yes, these events happened on Tuesday, not Wednesday, but it's not called Wordy Tuesday, is it?

It's the Thought That Counts

I knew it was someone's birthday today, but it took me a while to remember the details. This is because your memory starts to go when you reach your 30s

A big birthday - a real achievement. I did some checking, and found that it is indeed someone's birthday.

George Carey, former Archbishop of Canterbury.


No that can't be right. I'm sure that the person I was thinking of doesn't walk round dressed like that.

Anyway, it's not your birthday, everyday, so I thought I'd better get you a present.

I wondered about a bouquet of flowers, but I didn't know where to send them. And dead vegetable matter wasn't really what I was looking for.


What about some live animals? thirty sheep? This seemed like a good idea until I realised that I don't know anything about sheep, so I'd probably be sold some dud ones.


No-one ever complains about something nice to eat, so in the end I decided to settle for a cake.


It took me a while to find one, though, because I had one difficult requirement.

Apart from not eating it before I got it home, that is.

Something that ordinary cakes just couldn't do.

Not at your age, anyway.

It had to be big enough to fit all your candles on.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TRACY!