The Uncertainty Principle

Every rave is so predictable / and I don't mean the tunes we listen to / word gets out of what I did and what I didn't do / so here's what is and what isn't true

While m'colleague TUPNews is drifting off to an exotic slide show in the function rooms of lavish hotels, I'm shivering in cold halls, huddling round an OHP for warmth, getting my knowledge on.

There's a lot to learn. Evidently. I am pretty much on lockdown for the rest of the week, getting through as many presentations as I can eat.

I am not a natural doodler. When I get an idea that I want to capture, I scribble it down in the margin, and mark it for my attention with an emphatic rectangular boarder. In my mind, I would return to all of these later, and with a glass of brandy in one hand and rueful smile on my face I would plot out a million dollar business plan. If I am feeling risque, these lumpish boxes of text are accessorised with arrows, question marks or asterisks. Though this is only when I feel the need to pretend to myself that these thoughts are somehow part of a greater whole, something substantial. They are not.

These bits of self-regarding margin banter always remind me of that ancient papyrus note discovered by Egyptian archaeology. You know the one? It's always used as an example of brevity. It reads:

Neat and apposite, clear and simple. I'd be delighted if that was my own little footnote in history.

Sadly, the longer the day, the less work related and the more discursive my peripheral jottings become. The margin becomes a holding bay for the flotsam.

"We Bless the notes in margins", sings Darren Hayman in Hefner's 'China Crisis',"... in the books from the libraries / they tell us what to feel / when to love and how to heal". My notebook bloody doesn't. My margin notes say:

What was it like to ride a penny farthing?

(Not much additional explanation required here)

no cream cracker adverts on TV?

(They go brilliantly with cheese and cost just 20p in the Supermarket. Buy.Buy. Buy.)

And:

The housing market = a tiresome oaf.

Yes, I hate the housing market. Somewhat unoriginally, this is because I can't imagine being able to afford a house before I am 40. More importantly though, I hate the way that just because our economy rests on home ownership, we all have to go on about them and their sodding 'market'. Do I care if the fundamentals are sound? Ha! I don't even know what the 'fundamentals' are!

Here, we make the classic mistake of confusing what is important with what is interesting. Since when did high house prices become an indicator of anything good? I understand that given that so many people own them, it is good that they increase rather than decrease in value, but unless you want to move from Fulham to South Yorkshire, you're never going to realise that value. Okay, Okay. I am overstating my case.

But high house prices are always included in the basket of indicators for an area with a high quality of life. When, in practice, it means for the money of a two bed house in Yorkshire, you can squeeze into a bedsit in Camberwell.

Note to self: buy a notebook.

A girl with a trick and a man with a calling / Trying to make a living out of your downfalling

Tony Blair's Speech to Labour Party Conference,2002

Tony Blair's closest Cabinet ally admitted yesterday that David Cameron's new-style Tories pose a serious threat to Labour as the two main parties compete for the centre ground of British politics. [my emphasis]

Toby Helm, Daily Telegraph, 4 January 2006

He speaks and now it is so; our political culture is changed. All hail Tony Blair. The most successful post-war British Prime Minister?

You'd better have some fun before it moves along / and she's already looking for another fool like me

Christ! You would not believe how difficult it is to adopt a pig in this country.

I got a good present haul this year, and was only ill once during this year's festive season, bettering last year's feeble performance.

Nevertheless, I felt unable to ask for one of the bigger gifts I was after. This is entirely due to the parlous state of pig adoption in Blair's Britain.

Me: I love the pig. It is a relatively recent thing. I had always thought them as a bit cutesy before, the word pig conjured up an image of suspiciously pink piglets dashing about getting into A.A. Milne inspired scrapes. You know the sort of thing.

All that changed in 2004. During a weekend walking trip in the Forest of Dean (yes!) The girlfriend and I passed a small paddock with a majestic Wessex Saddleback, chomping contentedly in the corner. What a superb beast it was! mottled in colour, gargantuan in size and imperial and outlook with its underbelly scraping the grass and its ears flopped forwards over its eyes. I stood and gazed, transfixed. It was foggy and getting dark early and girlfriend tugged my arm to continue the stroll. As we proceeded down the footpath, the Wessex saddleback strafed on the other side of the fence, tracking my progress. Hitherto I have not been much of an 'animal' person, but I am not afraid to say I felt I connected with that pig. not in the biblical sense.)

So naturally, after getting a pig shaped pencil case for my birthday in August, I looked into trying to adopt a pig for Christmas. I didn't want some wide-eyed pastel pink thing. I wanted either a Kune-Kune, or failing that, a Gloucester Old Spot.

It is not that the costs of pig adoption are astronomic, they seem not unreasonable. It is that the fringe benefits are so remarkably scant.

Look here, I am a child of Thatcher; a hungry consumer with greed in my eyes. I expect a bit from my, or family member's, pound.

Let me tell you what I want. I would like to select a piglet from a choice of several. I would like the opportunity to name him / her. (I will naturally choose a Teutonic name, possibly from Prussian royalty, as historical German names suit the august majesty of pigs).

I would expect regular newsletters written in the first person, describing his/ her progress, preferably with a muddy trotter print at the bottom of each. I would also expect first refusal on any rib, belly or bacon cuts when that day finally comes.

Naturally, a certificate, frequent photos and full access rights during school and bank holidays would be non-negotiable.

What can you get? Very little it turns out.

Staunton Country Park in Hampshire offers merely: a certificate with a picture of the new adoptee, an 'animal fact sheet', a ticket to Staunton and a vague promise that your name will be featured on an adopters 'thank you' board outside their Visitor Centre.

Cotswold Wildlife Park are even more generic. Get this. Not only do you have to specify a 'second choice species', in case - I don't know - maybe they have a surfeit of Ocelots one week, you don't even get to meet your adoptee,

Come on guys, where is the love?