Robbery, Assault and Battery

Now, some of you may recognise that as the title of a track by Genesis, taken from the post-Gabriel era album A Trick of the Tail. Not one of their better songs, but the album happens to be the first album I ever bought, so I hold it in some esteem. Anyway, fear not. This isn’t heading towards some ramblings about the brilliance of prog rock, although maybe that’s something for me to consider at a later date (don’t say you haven’t been warned). No, this is about Tuesday 2nd January 2024.

The day began like any other, pretty much. My body took several minutes to come to life; my brain took several more; my heart just wasn’t in it. Still, it was the second day of the new year, and I suddenly felt compelled to get off my arse and make the most of it. Since I’d spent the previous afternoon in the garage, tinkering and fettling – bikes need attention, and I don’t neglect my bikes – I knew I should get to tidying up the garage . Bikes needed re-hanging on the walls and tools needed replacing in the toolbox; bits of old cables and cable housings needed binning, along with strips of old insulating tape following some handlebar tape re-wrapping. Plan formed in my brain, confirming that, once I’d finished, I could get out for a spin on one of said bikes. One of these, waiting to be put away:

Here’s where it began to take a turn; a sinister turn, if you will. Well, not that sinister at all, actually. Just a turn to upset my plans. How? The bloody car wouldn’t start. You see, to allow me the space and freedom to sort out the garage, that garage needed to be devoid of precisely one car. Dead battery said “No!” I said, “Oh, crap!”

Here, I should interject with an admission. I think I have only myself to blame. Some weeks ago, I opened the bonnet and spotted this:

Was that corrosion? Certainly a deposit of something not good for a battery? Dr Goooooogle soon advised me that it could be an indicator of imminent failure. I soon advised Dr Gooooooogle that a quick clean up and a liberal application of Vaseline would cure this disease. At best, I delayed it for about a month. Guilty as charged, m’lud.

Solution? Slap on the charger to (hopefully) give it enough oomph to get the motor started, phone Mrs T, arrange for replacement battery, dust off the credit card. That’ll do it. Except, during that the process of reconnecting the ailing battery to check that it was sufficiently powerful to start the old flat-four, I managed to drop the 10mm socket into the engine bay. I heard it land on what sounded like plastic. No problem, there’s a plastic splash tray under the engine bay, so I’ll find the socket in no time. Ha! 15 minutes later and the bastard socket was nowhere to be seen. I had 20 minutes to get the car to the garage to have the battery fitted, so off I set, convinced that young Master 10mm would either fall out, never to be seen again, or lodge himself somewhere nasty, either to rattle the sanity from my very being, or to henceforth break some pump or pulley or switch or thingummy. I told you, my glass is always half empty.

Fast-forward an hour or so. Can’t stop fretting about that socket, so I take the car into the adjacent car park where I can lift the front end, thanks to some handily placed kerbstones, and thereby have better access to the splash tray. I had to remove it, to satisfy myself that that shiny lump of metal was no longer hiding; hiding and waiting to wreak some kind of psychotic revenge. No problem. The tray is held on with eleven plastic clips, which are easily prised out with a flat-head screwdriver, and four bolts. Erm, yes problem. They are bolts, two of which are recessed so I will need a socket. A 10mm socket. Actually, no. A 12mm socket, but guess what…

Yup, my basic set has an 11 and a 13, but…

FFS!

Thankfully, being a relatively resourceful kinda guy (ha!), I managed to cobble together the means to undo the bolts by careful application of, not one, but two adjustable spanners. Thus, tray removed. No socket lodged on the tray. All ledges and whatnot near the battery checked as best I could, either with fingers or bad eyes or phone camera. Nowt. Fair enough. It was probably being abused on the asphalt, somewhere between home and the car dealer.

Of course it bloody wasn’t. Just as I knelt to begin replacing the splash tray, a glint of sunshine reflecting off something shiny caught my eye. The bastard, bastard socket was just there, tucked in behind part of the front bumper trim, and I managed to remove it within seconds by simply pulling the (plastic) bumper slightly to one side. F.F.S! 

So there you have it. 

Robbery – NT$5,600 from my credit card. 

Assault – my sanity took a beating. 

Battery.

Oh, and I stand by what I’ve been saying for years. Batteries will always let you down. Phone, laptop, Garmin, watch, singing Christmas hat, you name it. It happened in my Mondeo on New Years day back in the UK when Mrs T was 8 months pregnant. Sudden failure; no warning. I’m sorry, but I won’t be buying an electric car any time soon. So there.

NOTE:
This is a taste of what’s in my new blog, here:
https://thesixtysecond.wordpress.com

It’s been a while

In case you happen to be following my scribblings, I just decided to work on some new material.

You can find it here: https://thesixtysecond.wordpress.com/2023/12/30/just-a-minute/

The return

fiftyyearsandcounting

It’s 2020, so I started again.

Go from here:

Twainty20

Enjoy.

View original post

The return

It’s 2020, so I started again.

Go from here:

Twainty20

Enjoy.

I forget

I forget what I’ve forgotten.

Seriously.

I just realised that I must have forgotten so much stuff in the last fifty-odd years, I simply can’t remember what I’ve forgotten.  Well, yeah.  Obviously.  The point is, I can usually remember that I’ve read a book or seen a fillum, but I know that I cannot remember the plot or the story or the characters or the ending or the star or the author or the director.  In this case, I can remember that I’ve forgotten, if you see what I mean.  However, just this morning, I realised that I am forgetting what I’ve forgotten.  My computer reminded me that two years ago I posted a comment about a Radiohead video.  Essentially, the comment stated that I had never seen the video before, albeit that it was made for one of my favourite songs by the band.  I watched the video again this morning and found that it was not familiar in any way.  Strange, because I think I would describe it as particularly memorable.  I now know that I watched it two years ago, because my PC just told me, but if you had asked me yesterday whether I had seen the video before, I would have denied all knowledge.

This bothers me, but it also reassures me.

I have been telling myself to pick up the writing once more, not least because I want my children to be able to find out about what used to make me tick (and laugh, groan, cry, shout, smile, and all the rest of it), and… oh, crap!  I got distracted by a baby.  I cannot remember what I was about to write.

On that note, I’ll bid farewell, but will be back shortly.  Unless… well, you can guess the rest.

Oh!  That video?  Yes.  This one.

 

Postscript

No posts for a while as I’ve been pre-occupied, but now Le Tour is well and truly over again for another year, I shall endeavour to scribble more frequently.  Before I shift to another topic, I wanted to add a simple postscript to the last entry.  I had one (fairly) detailed response, and this whole cheating conundrum has been playing on my mind ever since.

Look at it this way.  Today, and for countless years previously, pretty much any story about Le Tour de France in particular, and professional cycling in general, is prefaced with something or other about doping, (and now it’s Jiffy bags).  Something or other about actual, perceived or suspected doping.  Fair enough.  Pro cyclists only have themselves to blame.  Why, oh why didn’t Team Sky simply come clean on the Jiffy bag?  It stinks.  However, my issue – and my point – is not centred on this.  The response to which I refer above, effectively continued the ‘all cyclists cheat’ mantra, thereby bolstering all the associated negative undertones, while simultaneously condoning the fact that ‘all footballers cheat’ and confirming that nobody really cares.  This is the crux of my bemusement over our double standards.  Imagine if every story about X football team were prefaced with a reminder that they only won the FA Cup in 20XX because their striker Y feigned injury in the penalty area in the 94th minute.  Perhaps they’d also managed to have their opponents’ top defender sent off following a bit of devious play-acting in the 13th minute (evidence of which was there for all to see on the video replay).  This kind of stuff is routine.  This is cheating.  We are collectively fine with that.  Indeed, we applaud it.  It’s bloody weird.  Well, I think it’s bloody weird.

Anyway, for a fascinating insight into the world of doping in the pro peloton, this is well worth a listen.  It adds some wonderful, thought-provoking context, the like of which I’ve not heard before.

https://audioboom.com/posts/6098488-kilometre-0-ten-years-after

 

Cheat!

“To act dishonestly or unfairly to gain an advantage.”

Guess what.  Yeah, the Tour is about to begin.  (Actually, I got sidetracked.  It began yesterday.)  Not just any old Tour, The Tour.  That’s the next three weeks taken care of for me.  But, as sure as eggs is eggs, that also means there will be stories and talk of cheating.  More specifically, drugs.  Riders cheating by using banned substances.  Indeed, just a couple of days ago, news came of a rider testing positive for using EPO.  EPO, for Christ’s sake!  It’s as if we’ve slipped through a time tunnel.  Surely, nobody’s using EPO these days?  Let’s wait for the B sample.

Just to be clear, before I head off on this gentle ramble, I do not condone cheating in any way.  In cricketing terms, I was always proud to be a ‘walker’.  If I ever nicked the ball to the keeper, I knew I’d nicked the ball to the keeper, so I was out.  I walked.  If I had stood my ground and waited for the umpire to make a bad decision, and then I gone on to score a ton, I would never have been comfortable with that.  I was brought up to play hard, but play fair.

Pro cycling is still synonymous with drug cheats.  That’s a given.  My beef is that cycling is always, always, held up as the pre-eminent sport of the professional cheat.  My view is this is as unfair as it is mystifying.  I’m going to question this position by specific reference to football.  Yes, I know that there is history in athletics, in rugby, in tennis and pretty much every other sport, but I have a particular problem with the way we look at cheating.  Football, I think, is the best means of illustrating my case.

Take two specific footballing staples.  Diving in the penalty box and/or feigning injury.  There are countless examples of this kind of thing, but I’ve chosen a particular favourite:

Here’s the point.  Call it what you like, but this is blatant cheating.  Footballers are exceptionally skilled at “act[ing] dishonestly or unfairly to gain an advantage”, but football is never held up as a hotbed of cheating.  It’s often witnessed by thousands of spectators who have just paid the best part of a day’s wages to go and watch these preening prima donnas, but that’s okay, it’s all part of the game.  It’s often televised and seen by millions across the globe, often repeated ad infinitum in super slow-motion, but it’s okay, the referees will ensure fair play.  Still there’s no outrage, but put these blokes in lycra and stick ’em on a bike and they’d be pilloried until the cows come home.  How is it that cheating is okay if it’s there for all to see, but it’s not okay if it’s done in the privacy of a hotel room?  Footballers can influence the outcome of their matches by contriving to have a key member of the opposition booked and/or sent off, or by ‘going to ground’ in the penalty area.  Such influence could result in reaching a cup final, or a place in Europe next season, or promotion to the next league.  These are all very real possible outcomes.  They cheat because there is money at stake.  Often big money.

Cycling is essentially free to watch.  Go stand at the side of the road and watch a bunch of skinny fellas flash past in an instant, or watch it on ITV4.  It costs me nothing to watch cycling.  Why would I want to pay forty quid or more to go and watch ninety minutes of institutionalised cheating at any Premier League match?  Football is our (Britain’s) national sport, I think, so, it is reasonable to conclude that we are happy to turn a blind eye to cheating, week in and week out.  We are happy to pay to watch overpaid clowns cheating before our very eyes.  I simply don’t understand why there are different levels of cheating in the collective sports fans’ mindset.

I could go on about how the likes of Rooney or Beckham are, or have been, paid millions to play ninety, perhaps one hundred and eighty minutes of football in a week.  There are undoubtedly some well paid cyclists in the pro peloton, but your average Joe Domestique will be on a pretty modest wage by footballing standards.  The only common factor is that they are just doing what they do to make a living.  This brings me to the next issue.

I think it was Jacques Anquetil, a five-time winner of Le Tour, who spoke about cyclists making a living and maximising their earnings.  Compare this to, say, a city trader or a teacher.  A teacher is having a bad day and takes a few pills to relieve a headache.  There is no problem with that, surely?  The city trader is having an exceptional day and has made millions for his firm, who will undoubtedly give him a hefty bonus.  Some of that bonus will be spent on some more ‘chemical assistance’.  How else do you think said trader was so sharp in his dealings?  Even more of that bonus will go towards a night out watching the latest Hollywood Blockbuster, then the current chart-topper’s gig at Wembley Stadium before a more sedate trip to the National Gallery to catch the hit touring exhibition.  Robert Downey Jr, Keith Richards, Henri de Toulouse Lautrec.  They all have a history of drug abuse.  Nobody seems too bothered.  Arguably, their drug use improved their art, their creativity, their ability to get through a performance.  Whatever.  Artificial enhancement to boost their earning potential.

It’s all a bit mad.  We are bizarrely inconsistent in the way we perceive this particular human weakness.

Who fancies a song about cycling?  Yes, please.

 

 

The Internet

Or is it the World Wide Web?  I’ve no idea.

Either way, it’s great.  Isn’t it?

Now, I should declare (rather proudly, like the grumpy old man you know and love) that I do not have a smartphone, but I can now listen to BBC radio wherever I happen to be in the world, provided I lug my laptop (or borrow an iPad) and can find a wi-fi connection.  This, for me, is undoubtedly the single most important thing about the Internet.  Let’s call it that.  The Internet.  No, I mean the World Wide Web.  Somebody, help me out here.

Without it (the WWW, not the BBC), I’d not be able to communicate with you all.  I suppose I could get a job as a journalist, or a writer, or a columnist.  You know, someone who is (hopefully) paid to write; someone who has to get past an editor, (perhaps); someone who has to display a modicum of expertise, with the requisite background reading and/or research.

Hang on.  I just sat down to write something.  Without the comfort of a specific theme or project (https://fiftytwoyears52weeks.wordpress.com/about/) I realised that I had no idea where to go with this.  What you just read is what popped into my mind after I remembered this line:  “[It is] better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt.”  According to Gooooogle (thanks again, Interweb), this aphorism is usually attributed to Lincoln (Abraham, not City) or Twain (Mark, not Never the … Shall Meet).  Who cares?  It is probably at its most pertinent right now.  Opinions are like arseholes, as that other saying goes.  Everyone’s got one.  The point is, my suspicions have been confirmed.  We are all pretty stupid, and FaceTwitInstaBlogs rather prove the point when they allow us to speak/remove doubt.  Ooooh!  That just reminded me of another favourite, courtesy of George Carlin.

Can you tell, I’m winging it, now?  There is no plan, no theme, no agenda, no purpose, other than the need to scribble some thoughts for my offspring to read in 2037.

Okay, I give in.  I’m reluctant to go there, but these are difficult times.  Worrying times.  Astonishing times.  Let’s jump on the Trumpwagon.  I admit, I knew almost nothing about Trump until a few months ago.  Now, thanks to the wonders of the Webternet, or more specifically Twitter, I can be pretty confident that he is a buffoon.  I’m not sure I have heard him described as such, but I rather like the term.  “A ridiculous but amusing person; a clown.”  I’ve heard comedians and satirist complaining that their job is now much more difficult, because Trump comedy or satire simply writes itself.  Amusing?  No, not really, although the whole Mexico/wall/pay issue has made me laugh more than once.  Genuinely, I couldn’t give a toss about the orange one, but I am terrified by the thought that so many people actually buy into the ravings and ramblings of this clown.  In the same way, I am dismayed that so many Brit’s will happily venture forth to their local newsagent and walk out with a copy of their preferred offering from the vile gutter press.  I cannot even bring myself to name the rags in question.  Whatever.  For me, the PotUSA is not the problem.  Foolishly, I tip-toed into a Facebook debate, soon after the Election, and although I remember little of the detail, I do recall that one (of countless) apologists was ecstatic to declare that x million Americans voted for Trump.  Indeed.  If Wikipedia is to be believed, y million Germans voted for that monster with the dodgy ‘tache in the 1930s, and we all know how that worked out, eh?  Where are we heading?  Step back, for a moment.  Over eight years ago, our American cousins elected Obama.  Even more amazing (to naive little old me) was that they re-elected him four years later.  Absolutely remarkable.  In my life I’ve witnessed the Berlin Wall coming down, the collapse of the Soviet Union, peace in Northern Ireland, Pompey in the FA Cup Final, the British Labour Party having a Socialist leader, Brit’s winning the Tour de France, but ‘mericans electing a black fella?  Twice!  Wow!  Surely, we had entered a new era.

Surely the Trump era is simply a blip, right?  I’d say God help us, but therein lies the problem.  Too many Gods.  Too many beliefs.  Too many faiths.  I’ve always taken what I shall term the analysts’ view… too many people duped into thinking their’s is the One True God.  Ergo they must all be wrong.  Never mind “prayers for [insert name of latest location of terrorist atrocity here]”, just get on and be decent human beings.  Prayers to some mythical being, you know, a being which is slightly at odds with my mythical being, your mythical being or their mythical being, are surely futile.

I need to conclude with a tune.  Just a song I’d like my children to enjoy.  One day.

It’s all about the Tone

This Tone?

Don’t be ridiculous.  A slice of late 8os hip-hop (or is it rap?) has no place here, although I admit it retains a certain je ne sais quoi.

No, I’m referring to the much-maligned tones in the Chinese language.  I say maligned.  I mean misunderstood, or misheard, or mispronounced.  It’s a minefield out there.

Anyway, I’m guessing that pretty much any foreigner who has studied Chinese lately will be familiar with this irritating little ditty.

Essentially, this revolves around the common problem of sleep and dumplings.

Sleep. 睡覺 (shuìjiào)

Dumplings. 水餃 (shuǐjiǎo)
[edit: the accents should be over the i and the a – can’t figure out how to get it to display it like that…?!]

I (now) understand the difference (4th tone and 3rd tone, respectively), but can I hear the difference?  Can I fu…

…nnily enough, no.  (Okay, I won’t use that again.)

On a more serious note, tone is rather important in English.  It can be very difficult to pick up on the intended tone of a Tweet or other written communication, and this is undoubtedly the root cause of much misunderstanding.  Sarcasm, among many other elements of language, has a heavy reliance on tone.  I’m looking forward to the day I am proficient enough in Chinese to *cough* compliment some of the more idiotic clowns in cars and on scooters.  “Hey! Nice use of the indicator, Coco!”

Back to sleep and dumplings.  I think this is why I feel more comfortable focusing my efforts on learning to read and write.

I think (我覺得, wǒ juédé) 睡覺 and 水餃 have nothing in common, so I needn’t fret too much about misreading and misunderstanding.
[Edit: as above, accent displaying in an odd way – should be over the o]

Oh crap!  The red characters, 我覺得 and 睡覺 are written exactly the same way and have completely different sounds, tones and meanings.

Yeah!  Thanks a lot ancient Chinese scholars, or whoever it was who came up with this.  Learning Chinese is going to be so easy.

 

 

I Don’t Remember…

I don’t recall. I got no memory of anything at all.

This bloke (albeit with his band) kicked off my blog (https://fiftyyearsandcounting.wordpress.com/2012/06/11/hello-world/), way back in 2012, and he was there at the launch of my year-long music project in 2014, so I suppose it’s fitting to have him here again.

I think I prefer the version from the album, so let’s have that as well.

The point is, my memory is failing.  Not quite to the level in Mr Gabriel’s little ditty, but it is failing.  Probably not to a level which should cause me or my doctor any particular concern, but it is failing.  The repetition is deliberate.  Once or twice… not a chance, but if I write it a third time, the chances of me remembering something increase exponentially.

Unless it’s Chinese, more of which in a moment.

Anyway, I was sat on the train the other day when it struck me that it was 105 years since my gran was born.  I wrote about her at the outset of this blog, but I found myself thinking about how little I know about her life.  Indeed, that led me to reflect on what little I know about my family.  Ancestors, parents, siblings, in-laws, aunts, uncles and cousins.  I hardly know anything, and even the things I do know are as nothing compared to what I have already forgotten about my own life.  Thus, as my 55th birthday approaches I’ve realised that I should do some more writing, if only to remind me what I was doing and thinking when/if I reach the next big one five years from now.

Actually, I rather hope that it will be something my children will find.  Yes, my children.  Plural.  In truth, I never imagined I’d ever have a son.  I certainly never imagined I’d have a daughter.  All things being equal, I am expecting to meet my baby daughter towards the end of September.  This delights and terrifies me in equal measure.

Did I mention that I am nearly 55?  George Clooney or Paul Weller I ain’t, but I’m going to be a daddy again at 55.  Frankly, I can’t really remember much of the last 6 years, simply doing my best to raise a boy in this crazy world, so I will try to retain a little more this time around.  Perhaps regular writing will help.  I never managed to sustain the urge to keep a diary, but periodic entries here seem like a good idea.  If I start to slip, please give me a nudge.

I forget.  I think I may have mentioned Chinese?

I’ve lived in Taiwan for more than 4 years.  I have managed to get by.  Sort of.  However, last year, I succumbed and enrolled on a beginners’ Chinese class.  Christmas Day, 2015, I was actually in class.  10am until midday, on Christmas Day.  Boy, was I motivated, eh?

Perhaps I’ll come back to that later, but for now let me conclude with the key theme.  Memory.  I really enjoy trying to learn Chinese.  Not so much the speaking of Chinese, if I’m honest, but I am determined to learn to read and write (and I do try to listen when I hear people talking, unless they’re speaking Taiwanese, in which case I’m screwed).  Herein lies the problem.  The only way to learn is to memorise the words.  That may sound a little obvious, but for a man of my age who struggles to remember what happened yesterday, this is a real issue.  Allow me to try to illustrate the reality of the problem.

TAA 193P

WJT 29M

141 DBK

Some of my dad’s cars, the registration numbers of which I still remember, among others.  Yes, he really did buy a beige Austin Allegro Estate.  To be fair, my big sister did her level best to write it off, but we still had to be carted around in that thing.  TAA 193P.  How could I forget?

I remember my National Insurance number, even though I need it no more than once every 12 months, thanks to the support of HMRC.  Conversely, I cannot remember the number of my best mate’s house, even though he’s lived there for donkey’s years and I have visited countless times.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.  Chinese.  This is my wife’s name (well, the abbreviated name we use) and the Pinyin spelling: 明 (Ming, meaning bright).  As you may notice, it is a combination of 日 and 月.  The Pinyin for 日 is ri and for 月 is yue.  There is nothing to link the pronunciation, although the combination of the sun and the moon would be bright, so there is a little help there.  Meanwhile, the road on which we live includes the word for sea 海 (Hai), which bears a remarkable similarity to the word for each/every 每 (Mei), differing only in the absence of three strokes on the left hand side.  However, there is absolutely no connection between the two in terms of sound or meaning.  There is no phonetic alphabet to help buffoons like me.  I note that this character 言 (yan?) appears at the beginning of many words (not to mention elsewhere in many characters), but do they all begin with the same sound?  Do they fu… nnily enough, no. Yes, I know English is a daft language (and I’d hate to have to learn it now), but I shed a tear as I tear up my recipes for mince pies and reminders to buy beef mince, when I live in a country that doesn’t have live cricket on the telly.  Trust me, however.  I am struggling to learn a new vocabulary.  Some words I have now written down well in excess of one hundred times.  Seriously.  Here are just a couple of pages of hundreds like this, and I still cannot recall either the sound or the meaning or the tone (did I mention tones?) of many of them.  Genuinely.  I cannot remember the bloody things.

I have realised that there is an opportunity here.  If I could simply devise a foolproof system to allow people to easily memorise all 600 billion Chinese characters, I’d be set for life.

Just for the record, I have had a few minor successes.  Here’s an example.  This word 常 (chang, 2nd tone) means often.  In this character I see David Bowie’s face.  He had a song, Changes.  I’ve heard it very often.  Simple, innit?

This is going to take some time, methinks.

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