A Rack of High Society

Yeah!

Thanks to you, the blog has reached the dizzy heights of a rack of high society ($10,000 in black $100 chips), or ten grand, or whatever. Hits to this site, actually.

Alas in over a decade of serious poker, I never actually heard the term "high society" till I saw the dreadfully titled but otherwise rather good film Rounders back in 1990-something. But it's nice to imagine poker has such a term and to see that odometer down there on the bottom right of the blog at such a high number is awesome.

Thank you for reading!

They Shoot Horses Don't They?

Saturday morning, and in search of a small (i.e lightweight) book to read on the train, I dug out my copy of Horace McCoy's classic, first published in 1936 in the midst of the great depression.

It's a curious minor work; part experimental fiction and part dime store trash. At 122 pages it's also short in way that most novels today (sadly) aren't.

It's a simple sad tale of two out of work actors, Michael who narrates the story, and Gloria a young woman he meets in Los Angles. Very short of money "the free food part of it sounds good"and tired of unemployment (in Gloria's case tired of life) they enter a dance marathon to be held "on the amusement pier at the beach in an enormous old building that had once been a public dance hall."

The rules are simple, couples enter the competition for free and dance until they drop. The last couple remaining gets to share $1000, which wasn't a huge amount of money even back then. To prevent the contest ending too early, there is a 10 minute rest break after every 1 hour and 50 minutes. It's the 10 minute breaks that ensure the contest lasts for weeks, and as the hours roll by, we learn how the serious competitors train themselves to sleep on their partner's shoulder, eat whilst on the toilet, and how zombie like swaying counts as "dancing." Gritty stuff eh? The whole set-up is horrible, accurate, and of course a wonderful analogy for the condition of the United States in the years after the Wall Street crash of 1929.

Adapted (considerably) by scriptwriters James Poe and Robert E Thompson, in 1969 it was turned into a brilliant film directed by 35 year old Sydney Pollack. Jane Fonda was nominated for the Oscar and should have won it for her portrayal of Gloria, a young woman suffering dreadful depression after an abusive childhood and equally abusive marriage.

The major difference between novel and film is the way the film introduces some vivid 'minor' characters such as Sailor and Alice, and has a major part for the M.C. "Rocky" brilliantly played by Gig Young who, along with Fonda, carries the film. The major omission compared to the book is the violence that frequently occurs both on the dancefloor and, surprisingly, in the audience itself - there is a vicious fight and a shooting that kills two people and results in the marathon dance contest being shut down by the authorities. In the film the contest is still going on when the end credits roll.

I rather enjoyed the way that nothing dates like slang and high fashion, so much so that without context some dialogue becomes impossible to understand in 2009. For instance:

"I don't think it's very nice of you to razz me," I said to Gloria. "I don't ever razz you."

Razz could mean hit or grope or irritate or criticise or even betray. In fact it means tease.

Some intelligent-foolish people truly believe that life was better in some ill defined period known as "the good old days."

Anyone who spends an hour or two reading "They Shoot Horses Don't They?" can only conclude the good old days were fucking horrible.

Great Week-End

The runners wait for the start of the Edinburgh Marathon - in suitably historic Eastern Mediterranean weather.

A great week-end but not this week-end, or even last week-end spent in the exotic heart of Birmingham, but the week-end before that...

Went up to Edinburgh to see D, and several mates from work who were all competing in the Edinburgh marathon.

My 100% sunny record of trips to Edinburgh continues, this was really hot and sunny - suitable for a wide range of activities except for running 26 miles and 385 yards. Not that that got in the way of my intrepid colleagues. Going from memory Paddy finished in 4 hours 20, Katie about an hour later, and Phil an hour or so after that. You really needed to have been in Edinburgh three weeks ago to appreciate what an achievement finishing the marathon was; it really was hot!


Left to Right; Paddy, Katy and Phil.

While my colleagues ran the marathon, D and myself did our usual "Scotland in 48 Hours" trick at a frenetic pace. In no particular order:


Royal Research Ship Discovery which took Captain Scott to the Antarctic on his first successful expedition.


A castle the name of which I've forgotten.


Her Britannic Majesty's Ship Unicorn

Unicorn looked utter shite from the outside (a hulk basically) but inside it's a very well preserved early 19th century sailing frigate. I wish I'd taken a picture of the shockingly cramped mess deck below the gun deck - D and myself are hardly the tallest guys you'll meet but even we had to stoop the whole time were down there. Really makes you appreciate why they needed things like press gangs in order to crew these ships.


Another different castle that I've also forgotten the name of...


The remains of the Antonine Wall which is some distance North of Hadrian's Wall.

On Sunday we walked about a mile to see the best preserved bit of the Antonine Wall, a more Northern version of Hadrian's wall. The walk, more of a stroll really, left us breathless and a thirsty. At that time my friends from work were about 1/3rd of the way through their marathon.


A rather nice piece of engineering to replace several locks.

And there you have it - cram more into 48 blissful hours - I challange you!

Pledge of Allegance

The excellent Johann Hari has come up with an alternative pledge of allegance to replace the dreadful durge we make immigrants recite at citizenship ceremonies across the land.

With a few trivial edits (e.g. remove references to the dreadful soaps East Enders and Coronation Street, add references to bacon sandwiches and HP sauce and the songs of Ray Davies) I'd be happy to recite it myself:

I pledge allegiance to the Queen Vic, not Queen Elizabeth. I pledge allegiance to Coronation Street, not Downing Street. I pledge allegiance to The Office, not the office of Prime Minister. I pledge allegiance to the Life of Brian, not the Life of Christ. I pledge allegiance to Marmite – and to people who can talk for hours about precisely why they hate Marmite.

I pledge allegiance to deep-fried Mars bars, cold doner kebabs, and girls who wear mini-skirts in sub-zero temperatures. I pledge allegiance to the NHS, the BBC, and M&S. I pledge allegiance to Shakespeare and to the belief that "there are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio".

I pledge allegiance to Radio 4 documentaries about the history of drinking water, told in six parts. I pledge allegiance to George Orwell, George Formby, George Eliot, and George Michael. I pledge allegiance to the Notting Hill Carnival, the Edinburgh Festival, and the people who – for no reason at all – wander around Glastonbury dressed as giant pigeons.

I pledge allegiance to our national dish, chicken tikka masala. I pledge allegiance to the people who sell candy floss on muddy beaches on muggy days. I pledge allegiance to fog and hail and rain, and to people who wear three layers of clothing and shed them and put them back on several times a day, each time declaring with an optimistic smile, "The weather's lovely today".

I pledge allegiance to the Beatles and the conviction that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. I pledge allegiance to queuing, and to the people who tut and cluck and scrunch their faces when anybody tries to push in. I pledge allegiance to William Wallace played by an Australian and Gandhi played by an Englishman.

I pledge allegiance to Fawlty Towers and faulty trains and that small, almost silent sigh that shudders across a carriage when the train stops for no reason in empty fields. I pledge allegiance to the wrong kind of snow.

I pledge allegiance to the fact that the London Olympics in 2012 will be messier and shabbier and far more prone to disruption by protesters than the Beijing Olympics.

I pledge allegiance to the boys who died in the mud at Normandy so I could be free. I pledge allegiance to the women who slept in the mud at Greenham Common so I would not burn. I pledge allegiance to Ateeque Sharifi, who came here as a refugee from Taliban Afghanistan, only to be blown up by Talibanists on the Circle Line. I pledge allegiance to everyone who drives an ambulance or teaches a child on this rainy island for paltry wages because they know it's the right thing to do.

I pledge allegiance to the people of Britain, not because they're the best in the world, but because they're mine."

Amen.

Can You Get Out, Please?

A very spooky thing just happened;

I was alone in the sitting room tapping away on the laptop, when behind me the door (which was ajar) opened and I became aware that someone was in the room.

So I turn around and peer into the twilight, expecting to see my neighbour Kimberly, or perhaps my landlord Nick, or maybe Kimberly's young daughter Kaylie. The back door is open, and we all get on well enough for any of them to come in through the kitchen and ask me for whatever; batteries perhaps, or maybe a screwdriver, or a torch or something. I'm notorious for getting engrossed in a book or a task and being completely unaware of a polite knock or a cough or whatever sign that people give to interrupt you.

But there was nobody there.

Just the door, wide open. Maybe it's shock or fear, but the temperature seemed to drop several degrees, and the hairs on my forearms came up in goose pimples.

So I say out loud "Can you get out, please?" and after a second or two, the door shuts firmly.

Oh.

***

Explanations:

It's gusty outside, and the doors that are ajar have been banging and swaying all day. But not that door, and I've been sat here several hours.

Then there's my own psychological state; I've been very stressed at work recently, and today I've been too lazy to bother eating very much so maybe I'm a bit low on blood sugar and running on reserve. If a hallucination is going to happen; now is as good a time as any this week-end.

I don't believe in ghosts, although I do believe that many of us have a few ESP moments in a lifetime. Interestingly there is no scientific technique to investigate things that occur that infrequently; the standard (entirely plausible) explanation is coincidence. Inevitable if you roll those dice enough times and I've played enough poker to know that randomness can often appear very non-random.

So... a particularly strong gust of wind causes an air-pressure imbalance that opens the door, admits a blast of cold air from outside, and then passes, causing an opposite pressure imbalance that closes the door.

None the less, it's 'textbook' paranormal; especially that sense you get when someone enters a room, and the sudden temperature drop. And I don't recall feeling the slightest breeze throughout the whole episode.

So maybe, just maybe... I've 'seen' a ghost.

Smug in the Sunshine

I got Panne out today and made some progress* on the never ending windscreen wiper problem.

Not that they were needed on such a gorgeous day. Despite the dust and cobwebs, Panne looks smug in the sunshine - perhaps from all the compliments she got from nice passers by.

* It seems burnt out wires aren't good at transmitting electricity

Mad Mel Again

Mel Philips fascinates me, as she almost always holds views completely the opposite of my own.

But when she writes things like:

...the settlements were always first and foremost a security measure, and the travel restrictions are there solely to prevent more Israelis being murdered...

I'm never sure if she's lying for Israel, or quite completely insane?

You can read her latest blog entry here.