Dog Police!

So another trip to the coast on the whim of a locally declared holiday.

Great day. Sun, sea, paddles and a picnic taken in the shadow of the old coastguard cottages.
A bimble down to the beach and we were all in a stupor of pleasure at the newly arrived summer.

Dog Woman approaches the beach. Sign says this stretch of beach is family friendly and the National Distrust politely and inoffensively requests that you do not take your dogs on it.
Dog Woman ignores sign. A muffled, collective, gasp of outrage and incredulity from those families assembled on the beach. Of course no one does anything! I raise myself from under my hat and pound after Dog Woman. If she had been a 300lb Biker with a Rottweiler I might not have done so. I hesitantly and politely cleared my throat and said firmly, 10 times, excuse me. Dog Woman looked at me eventually as if I was something delivered to the bottom of her shoe by said dog and proclaimed she was hard of hearing. I then pointed out the sign and alerted her to its contents. There was an explosive and abusive comment about the National Distrust. She also added that she could not see and had great difficulty with reading. At this point I had made my point and returned to the fold feeling like a Bateman Cartoon: the man who challenged Dog Woman.

There then ensued a period where she darted about the beach seeking support for her and condemnation for me. Everyone true to form mumbled and hummed. Her dog, a real comic of a mini poodle, had the last laugh. It went up to the post on which the notice was firmly planted and crapped at its base! This caused huge hilarity in our camp. Madam, your dog is a surrealist critic!

Obviously my assertiveness and apparel suggested I was Ranger Bob for the National Distrust.
She accosted me and asked for my name, rank and number, as well as what authority I had to challenge her. I replied that I was for my sins a member. Surely she could see the brown shirt and the insignia of the Dog Police on my hat!

We later saw her on the beach at a point above the Dog Patrol, transgressing Dog Ordinances with abandon.

Cups of tea and ice cream along the coast led to decision to enjoy an alfresco supper of fish and chips by the Harbour. Our little circle of 3 generations were tucking in. Who should appear in a car, apparently untroubled by failing sight, Dog Woman.

She was about to make herself at home, plonking down in one of our chairs and no doubt harranguing us about this that and the next damn thing. Too much; maybe it was chance, maybe she was a sad, batty old dear who loved her little poodle more than anything in the world. Some very firm, assertive, but civil words were said to encourage her to take herself off. She did.

You couldn't make it up!

Wildwood

A weekend of visits, family, friends and over indulgence.

I am sufficiently moved by the experience to declare a public holiday tomorrow. Get in quick you might enjoy it. So the link to walnut trees, see below, it kept me alive through the planning business!

My joy for the past few weeks has been a book by Roger Deakin published posthumously. I really enjoyed ‘Waterlog’ and decided to order ‘Wildwood’ from the Suffolk County Library Stakhanovites.

Page ix of the introduction states –

“It is through tress that we see and hear the wind……”

“…and the falling raindrops ripple out into every tree ring.”

Know a practitioner, learning by doing, someone who can set knowledge in language which captures the imagination.

The first section of the book gives a very strong sense of place, Suffolk. This is Deakin’s place of work, love and life. The naming of parts has never interested me. What we may forget, and others not know, is that there is such a joy to understanding, at whatever level. The skills of the hunter gatherer applied to knowledge bear fruit only after they have been assembled like an unruly flock of wild animals. Field trips to the New Forest with an inspired teacher probably lit the fires laid by Deakin’s home, family and its history. After this we pass through bluebell woods for a picnic and sleep under a rookery where, in the late watches of the night, he claims that the fledglings can be heard in the nests. There follows a minor discourse on the vocalisations of these birds. His conclusion is that for all the understated faint praise in literature for the sound of rooks the nearest approximation in human terms he can think of is ….

“If you found yourself across the fields from a Somerset pub, late at night, at cider pressing time you might hear something like a rookery.”

And so it goes. Cobbett is there of course, and easy references to Hughes and other native species. The Observer review by Tim Adams claims that his travels afield in Australia and Kyrgyzstan are less sure footed and result in less close observation than the native jaunts. I would defy anyone to read the idyll of Deakin’s perambulations in the walnut forests of Kyrgyzstan and not believe they had been granted a vision, in detail, of paradise. His view of the black hand gang is not without its appreciation of the fragility of eco systems and the difficulties they face.

So home to Suffolk which, strangely enough, is where we find ourselves. I do not feel I have to know trees as individuals, or to hug them, they will get along just fine without me. However, I have been inspired by this book. It’s a great pity he never got round to seeing the forests of Cedrus Libani. He might have thought they would be worth a word or two.

Walnut trees

One of the reasons for not posting recently has been my incidental attendance at a planning appeal in connection with a property in our village.

Two whole days were spent in buttock numbing exposure to the secretos pequenos de mi pueblo.

So if the Red Tops get hold of it here it is:- Incest, animal husbandry, crime, the history of crime, the Krays, arson(failed) and arsing about, aggregate rendering, tax exiles, companies in the Isle of Man.... I could go on but I lost the will to do so several hours ago.

It's not a joke. The people who have suffered long and hard have done so with dignity.
The shower of neerdobadlys have made their lives a hell. I was spotted as a fresh face to harass.
"Who is that fat bearded bastard. Is he a new councillor?"
How dare they assume I'm a representative of local democracy!

"Is he with them?"
I'm not proud I'll sit with anyone!

And menacingly,
"I never forget a face!"

The councillors and long suffering villagers were solicitous.
Would I like to walk out of the building with them?
Would I like a lift to the car with them?
All really appreciated, but having lived in the East End of London for a while it seems a bit excessive. There was one individual I would not like to meet on a dark night. But being a good boy and not going out on dark nights I don't think I would have to worry too much.

One of the good things about being a dead man walking is that you can offer the open hand!
After that anyone can take their chance.

Why walnut trees?
Just you wait you have treat in-store!

Glossary of Financial Terms.

I was writing about Community Land Trusts
in an email to a colleague recently and the ravages of age, alcohol, and stubby arthritic fingers produced the word LOANDOWNERS instead of LANDOWNERS.

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.

I knew immediately that whatever terms were used in the official terminology of our portfolio of loans, PAR would always be LOANDOWNERS; amen!

The Game Theory

So our Vic went off on one in the local parish magazine. It might not be obvious from these scratchings but I have no allegiance to any religion or other irrational leanings.

The local parish is a civil construct and it promotes a rag which finds itself delivered into the 300+ homes in the locality. Sadly, or otherwise, the Vic of the established kirk feels the need to deliver his thoughts to the parish (- Parish?) through the rag. The Baptists appear to have abandoned the scene some time ago and the Methodists congregate in the next village.

The Vic, who styles himself as Team Rector, appears

"No too fond of the mongs." as our friends from Leith would say.

That is my opinion of his view of a TV programme about Game Theory and Nash the mathematician.

Nash may have had many problems - these did not, as far as I am aware, affect the quality and value of his work or the fact that however flawed, he shared a common humanity.

If I were paranoid I might think that Rowan has sent out a pastoral letter to suggest that the CoE attack scientists, mathematicians and rationalists to get some purchase against the likes of "Serious Dawkins" and take the heat off the Monty Python flavoured debate about sexuality. That would be absurd, obviously!

I found his article citing "The Game Theory" as much use as mine might be about "The Religion" or "The Christianity".

One approach in "Game Theory" has always struck me as having something for us all to consider in our lives. This is the "Tit For Tat" strategy in the "prisoners' dilemma". As the name suggests, it is a reactive strategy but only after the first move or gesture, which is always the equivalent of the open hand (of peace or co-operation?)

This is not a strategy to win, wipe the board clean, or even take the moral or spiritual high ground and look down, witheringly, on the lesser mortals, infidels or "mongs" below.

It is a way for individuals, groups, and populations to live in equilibrium with each other. I suppose the"Big Yin" would have it as "do as you would be done by" with the rider that if you are done get your retaliation in first!

It avoids the tragedy of the commons in civil society and offers a way to contain and neutralise those that would oppress us. It does not require us to postulate a "relationship with a supreme being" to justify our actions or give value and respect to humanity. It may all seem like enlightened self interest to you Vic. Life, for me anyway, is too short to worry about irrational beliefs.

SubPrime Warriors 2!

So! There they were; the rats arse end of the 21 century, the centre of the North Sea Wash

Three figures shambled across the flatlands. Their progress produced a ripple in the surface water which spread like a visual cliché from a hundred years ago. A short figure, the centrepiece of the triptych, protected by the mass of a body covered in rags on each side. She was driving the retable forward with language which would curdle larva. They moved toward The Settlement. The left hand side of the three-legged race, head erect, straight back, shambled with whatever dignity he could muster. The right hand creature, The Profit, stretched and strained as if it was possessed by a daemon eating through internal organs. The rolling, hate filled eyes and halo of grey hair lent this figure an Old Testament quality.

It just needed a winged chariot to swoop down and take the wretched trio to the bosom of some compassionate creator. No such luck. The Settlement sent a hydrogen powered flat boat to warn them off.

Dave sat at the front of the flat boat nursing a piece of metal which could reduce human beings, or similar, to a charred mass in less than five seconds. It gave his declamatory speech some weight.

“We don’t want no religion or god botherers in The Settlement.”

“Hain’t got no use forem since we burnt the last lot.”

“Whatever you sellin we hain’t got no use for it, less it smoke, weed or snort.”

The Profit kicked off on one, in a high pitched scream. A string of names and blasphemies issued from his lips. Dave pulled the piece of metal up and pointed it in the direction of the unholy trinity. He was trying to catch the torrent of hate,

“A Dam Smith…..Ric…o, Hume the Baileyvas… matchsticks, badge oflamont…. Shit the Cargo Friedman, God Damn Hungarians…Hyek still and Hyek swell the mighty greenback whale…….”

His partner began to intone a sombre, ethereal and mystical melody. Like Hildegard a millennium before him, the words and the music calmed. Dave’s troubled mind and itchy finger lost their purpose , he strained again to catch the wonderful sound.

“Rochdale, Owen, Kier, and Clem bless the Vig for all of them.”

“Grameen Yunus Brac and Illitch make our tools convivial not rich”

Dave was having difficulty putting his mind to the job of wasting these specimens.

A small figure crossed the space between the group and the flat boat in a trice and Dave’s heart stopped at the point when her knife entered his left ventricle. It was a signature move and she had perfected it.

The Profit cried – Eloi Eloi Lama Sabacthani as he often did. It didn’t mean shit but somehow it fitted the sense of the apocalyptic.

Life. The Universe and err!

Last year after moving into our new house I wasted valuable time reading about life and the universe. Phwat, I hear you say. Your problem! I look forward to the discovery or not of the Higgs Boson with some interest and understanding!

One book, Quantum Evolution by Johnjoe McFadden, contained something which did shock me to my little cotton socks.

I am a great believer in evolution. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are problems and more to be discovered and developed. Given the choice between a man with a grey beard sat on a cloud sorting it all out by intelligent design and the developmental imperative of natural selection, mutation and the tricky stuff that we know as DNA, I see the guy on the cloud as a time waster. What’s he doing there anyway?

An interesting aside, I recently found myself arguing against intelligent design across a conference dinner table. After the usual pleasantries to extricate us all from what was becoming a drink fuelled grudge match, I moved on and later complained to a colleague about fucking christians and their lack of rationality. I was castigated for my assumption that I had been debating with a christian, oops!

To return to the plot!
I was disturbed, pleasantly, to learn from the book that the emergence of life, as we know it Jim, is not as I had assumed. Roughly this was that if you get the primordial soup, methane etc., etc, and whack a great charge of lightning through it you get the precursor chemicals of life. Oh no. If you do this in the lab you get a tarry mass. No life, no precursor chemicals, no RNA, DNA, amoebas, or other wiggly things. In fact, if you want to go into detail, the chemical pathway from the most advantageous primordial soup (for life that is) to the most basic set of precursor chemicals for the most elementary forms of life (yes, even more primitive than G Bush Esq.) you require a significant number of catalysed reactions, none of which seem to cascade in the way that they need to in order to deliver - de daan! Life! In fact, if you do the old probability business, you have more chance that Hilary Clinton will be found pleasuring Gordon Brown with a feather duster in a broom cupboard in Downing St… …14 billion, billion, billion billion to 1 or more or thereabouts. Hmmm….

Confessing this discovery on a train journey I was disturbed by the enquiry as to whether I believed in little green men. I do not! I may have seen them in the Eagle but I do not believe in them.

So a conundrum!
A recent article in the New Scientist (04 July 2007 NewScientist.com news service Peter Aldhous) has given me a further excuse to stick my nose in books and articles pondering the mysteries of life, the universe and why I will not be able to do any light dusting for some time to come!

AC/DC Meeting in a Public Convenience on Hampstead Heath

I have no wish to steal the thunder of a former Director of Communications in Downing Street but let me relate the following tale which includes art, sex, drugs and past employees of the state about to publish their memoirs!

I have for some time been visiting a place on the heath in Hampstead and experiencing a considerable amount of pleasure!In passing, I refer to her as my fancy woman but in truth I do not know her name. I have confessed this attachment to Lady BP and a number of others.

Absolution has been given.

Whenever I am in the Great Wen and I have the time I visit Hampstead Heath and gaze on the face of my beloved! The girl with a guitar.

(By the way the picture behind the girl is a copy of a contemporary landscape!)

Once, on a Thursday, I was locked in contemplation of the sublime composition of feminine beauty, light and the eternal when the drugs kicked in. It is annoying that some of the drugs which, demonstrably, keep me alive also require me to pee more than normal in the morning. The said day was one such.

With fear and trepidation I approached the toilets at Kenwood House. Being a poor lad from the provinces I was not convince I would emerge from such a site of cottage industry with my virtue intact or even my trousers!

On inspection it was clear, empty and available. Relieved, partially, I swiftly went about my business. At the point which I am informed is described as mid stream, there was an explosion. The door to the facility flew open and a with a roar and a spraying of uncertain bodily fluids a man in tee shirt and shorts (!) burst into the toilets. This is it, I thought, bummer. Should I enunciate the feeble words…

“Sir.I do not share your sexual preference but I will die for your right to exercise it!”

and prepare to die.

To my relief the figure crashed into the nearest cubicle wrenched a handful of toilet tissue from the wall and wiped a cascade of snot from his nose.

He looked round the facilities saw and discounted my somewhat tense backed figure at the stall and cleared his throat and nose of fluids and went on his merry way. I suspect, though I have no evidence for such, that this was the Thursday morning run intended to keep the former Director of Communications in Downing Street from thinking about the cabinet meeting and all the fun things that he could be getting up to and of course the bottle!

Subprime Warriors

FT ( June 30,2007)

There were several articles identifying a nice little earner, a wheeze, that appears to have started to decompose at the heart of the beast!

You may not be familiar with the term subprime. Think high interest lending, think doorstep lending, no put that baseball bat away, it is all perfectly legal, just a little usurious, allegedly. Subprime in the US includes a lot of iffy mortgages, or ‘overvalued junk debt’ as some commentators would have it.

What do you do if you are a poor struggling banker with voracious and unrelenting shareholders to feed and a high junk habit of dodgy debt to support?

Well the first thing you can do is turn to the Subprime Warriors. These guys will take your debt which is, let’s say, less than colourful, and wave their ‘high tech wands’ over it. Suddenly, something which looks as bankable as a three legged dog at The Stow becomes collateralised debt obligations, CDOs (never mind the quality, feel the width, it sparkles, it gleams) and you can sell it on like hot cakes because it is repackaged with bonds and all manner of beautiful things; sliced diced and presented with a variety of risk attached!
Sell me another, Tory!

It has not been a quiet week in Moneytown.
US regulators issued guidance for the moneymen to

“lay off de liddle guys with de bad debts, ok!”

or words to that effect.
Pangs of conscience for homes lost, lives ruined?
Vulture Capitalists going vegetarian, vegan even?
Not quite Chancellor Copper!

Investor jitters about a credit crunch, the Old Lady herself warning of the vulnerability of the global financial system point to the possibility of more than a slight ‘market correction‘. Eyes have rolled, heads even, hands have been wrung, warning bells have been rung, prodigal chickens have been seen roosting, sacrificial calves have not been fattened, deals have faltered……

Yeah, yeah… split caps; Enron; Blah Blah Blah; BCCI; Blackwheneveritwas; the end of capitalism as we know it, Jim?
Possibly not but consider this.
Our man Lex at the FT points out that while the usual suspects may claim ‘nothing major has gone wrong’ he estimates that losses from CDOs and junk loans for leverage buy-outs could break the $100bn barrier.
Is this good, bad or indifferent and change?
Not good!
US banks, as quoted in Lex’s column, are estimated to have $850bn capital.
(That’s one matchstick for every $100bn and split the last one in half. No, it doesn’t matter if it is the half with the red bit on.)

But the banks won’t take the hit alone. This will be spread across alternative vehicles where liquidity and capacity needs are not currently known or clearly understood. Good for the banks but probably not very good for us then, a rotting pile of paper and a bad smell coming from god knows where. I bet those poor struggling bankers feel a bit more comfortable now though.

Spot the new kids on the block with the big bonuses and the shiny, shiny cars.

Subprime Warriors!

Me, I’m here in the kennels at The Stow; looking after this three legged mutt that has such a sweet face.

The Long Snout

Had this idea about the long snout and used it in an email to a colleague. That’s cute I thought. Wow is it original?

As Ogden Nash might have said.

It’s always tempting to impute
Unlikely parentage to 'cute'

Found through the remorseless Google that I was out by about 18 months.

Along with reference to various animals possessed of enormous hooters there, at pride of place, was the The Long Snout from O’Reilly himself, identifying the proud father:-

Chris Anderson famously named the long tail-- the idea that in the internet era, success belongs to companies that can address the end of the demand curve that is populated by millions of low-volume products, rather than a small number of high-volume products. Last year, noodling on the long tail concept, Rael Dornfest somewhat waggishly pointed out that there's an analogous phenomenon on the front end of product creation, which he called "the long snout."

Interesting word that, noodling!

Alas
In the age of instant communication
he who hesitates
is a man with a great future
behind him!

Not so much bleeding edge, more….. Now where did I put my glasses.