Category: Selected Writing
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The code of life
// SIGNAL: INTERGENERATIONAL LINK
Big kid has been learning about WWII at school.
He took in a photo of his great grandfather (my Grandpa on my Dad’s side).
Grandpa Fred was a coder.
He was in the Royal Signal Corps, decoding Morse code messages from the Nazis.
// SIGNAL: CHANCE & FATE
When war broke, he tried to join the Royal Navy.
Because he knew Morse code from his job at the Post Office, they sent him to Scotland.
If he’d joined the Atlantic or Arctic convoys,
he’d very likely have ended up at the bottom of the cold, dark sea.
And we wouldn’t be here.
// SIGNAL: MY EARLY CODE
As a teenager, I spent hours typing pages of machine code
from computer magazines into my Dragon 32 PC.
One wrong keystroke and the game wouldn’t load.
But if I got it right, I’d have “Bomber” to play.
// SIGNAL: THE HUMAN PROJECT
We’re all coding — encoding and decoding —
stories that give our lives meaning and purpose.
Weaving unique patterns in the fabric of space-time.
Searching for answers in the world wide web.
Gazing at the stars, as we always have.
Using threads from the code of life
handed down by our ancestors, since time immemorial.
// SIGNAL: MARKS WE LEAVE
From cave paintings to fossils and footsteps on the moon,
from the Pyramids to the Parthenon to the Pentagon —
we’re leaving reminders of our existence.
Building structures to organise, process,
and understand information about our world.
// SIGNAL: THE NEW CODE
Now we’re coding large language models.
Training them on the whole of human knowledge and history.
Hoping they’ll tell us the meaning of life —
or at least not destroy us
in the hands of our new Nazi overlords,
or serve us up tasteless slop.
// SIGNAL: THE OLD GUARD
I’m not sure what Fred would have made of it all.
Like my great grandfather Frank before him,
he was from another time. Conservative. Happy with his lot.
He loved Oldham Athletic (“Latics”),
the Telegraph crossword,
driving carefully, and Freemasonry.
He wrote letters on a typewriter.
// SIGNAL: A BODY REMEMBERED
He had all his teeth removed at a relatively young age
in a “buy one get them all removed free” kind of deal.
The dentures never fit properly.
He spent years struggling to eat anything that wasn’t tasteless slop.
Raw egg mixed with milk and Ribena was a particular favourite.
If I remember correctly.
// FINAL PULSE
Fred would have loved his great grandkids.
It’s a shame they never got to meet.
He would probably have said:
“Give over, lad.”
What's out there?
What’s out there?
My space-obsessed four and three quarter year old might ask me that soon, so I better have an answer.
At the moment he’s happy to copy his ten and a half year old brother and stick with “What’s in Uranus?” for laughs. (Although he does actually want to know what’s in Uranus, too.)
Recently, I have been replaced by Professor Brian Cox on bedtime story reading duties.
Instead of me reading simple kids’ books on space until he falls asleep, Prof. Cox narrates stories on YouTube about black holes, space-time elasticity and Fermi’s Paradox. It’s fascinating, and sends the little one off to sleep at least as efficiently as me reading to him.
I admit that while I was aware of Fermi’s Paradox, I hadn’t quite cottoned on to its significance.
That, in answer the the question “What’s out there?” there’s an unimaginably vast number of planets, stars, galaxies, etc., in an even more unimaginably vast and mostly empty space. And in spite of this vastness, there’s absolutely zero evidence (so far) of any kind of life at all other than here on our tiny, tiny speck of Earth. We’re alone.
Echoing Carl Sagan, Prof. Cox was quite poetic about it and described it as the Universe taking millions of years to come up with just the right conditions for an unbroken chain of evolutionary life to emerge that has an awareness of itself.
And that the Universe is a frighteningly violent place so it’s quite miraculous that we haven’t (yet) been smashed or fried in some astronomical event. In fact, we look odds-on to smash or fry ourselves first right here, right now.
Our evolutionarily advantageous over-confidence will inevitably lead us to self-destruction, as surely as boom leads to bust, as we ignore climate warnings from our wise elders, wage war on our brothers and our sisters, and repeatedly fail to think of the children.
We’re wedded to screens and technology as life passes us by. Doom-scribing, scrolling and trolling, when we should be out there talking to our neighbours, being the change we want to see in the ‘hood, and showing some fucking solidarity with each other. We’re not all perfect, we can all say and do the wrong things, even hold the wrong beliefs.
Identity politics has much to answer for, but the answer isn’t to dismiss people’s lived experiences. Each to their own, and everyone must be able to live their lives as they want to while not harming others. But when someone expresses themselves in ways that cause hurt or offense, piling on and ostracising them often just deepens divisions.
Instead, we need to find ways to acknowledge everyone’s feelings and guide each other toward mutual understanding. This isn’t easy, especially online, but it’s essential if we want to build real solidarity.
Because the point is that the people who want to colonize Mars, or make “their” country great again, or spend billions on war when our elders are dying in hospital corridors, are not on our side. If we could find ways to stick together, however we identify as individuals, we could challenge these concentrations of power and wealth.
I feel certain that if everyone had a decent home with enough food, meaningful and/or well paid work, and enough free time to pursue leisure interests with friends and family, then very few people would give a flying fuck about what pronouns people prefer, or if someone moved from one “country” to “another”.
Maybe then we can leave a planet that’s still inhabitable for our children.
Of course, it’s also possible that we are not alone. It’s possible that aliens are among us, badly disguised as awkward, orange humans, or owls, or neutrinos.
Who knows?
The art of a good sandwich
Let’s get something out of the way before we get into the meat, or the filling, of this post. A sandwich is two slices of bread. Buttered.
I don’t want to hear anything about OPEN sandwiches. Open sandwiches are like open marriages. Great if you want someone else to have your other half.
The art of a good sandwich:
-
Use multiple fillings. Four is a good number.
-
Less is more. Don’t over egg it.
For example, tonight I cleared out some leftovers and turned them into a great sandwich: two slices of ham, half an avocado (sliced), three cherry tomatoes (quartered), a squirt of mayonnaise, chopped dried chives and three or four spoons of sweet and hot jalapenos out of a jar.
Many times I’ve got halfway through a “classic” cheese and tomato sandwich and thought “it’s too cheesy.” A squirt of mayo and a sprinkling of chives world have saved it. Some of that jalapeno magic would have made it.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against sandwiches with fewer than four fillings. When I was recovering from Covid, all I could eat was cheese and pickle sandwiches. I like a jam sandwich occasionally. And if it’s a crust, I’ll even eat it in an “open” jam sandwich (or bread and jam as we call it).
Which brings me on to toast. Toast and marmalade is not a sandwich. Cheese on toast is not a sandwich. Avocado toast is not a sandwich. But two rounds of toast with a filling inside IS a toasted sandwich. (See how simple this is?)
Now, with toasted sandwiches I would advocate sticking to one or two fillings. (Melted) cheese is always a winner with the kids. Grown-ups might like to add some chopped ham, onions or mushrooms. My little kid’s current favourite is “honey toast”.
My Cheese-o-meter
For the best sensation, please read this post at room temperature.
What’s so special about the cheesemakers?
Well, obviously it’s not meant to be taken literally. It refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.
Now, I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth, but I would question the last sentence. I’m going to stick to cheese. Not literally, of course. That would be messy and smelly. Always wash your hands after operating cheese.
I’m going to stick to cheese, metaphorically - for the benefit of the cheeseless.
[@davidmarsden](https://micro.blog/davidmarsden) I am still waiting, cheeseless.
Cheeseboard Disclaimer
While I don’t consider myself to be any kind of big cheese - I’m not a cheese authority or cheese expert - I’m perfectly qualified to write a cheesy summary of my life in cheese.
Please note that I am not affiliated to the Cheese Marketing Board, and clicking any of the links in this post will not help to feed my hungry cheese-loving children.
Cheese-o-meter
Without further fondue, here’s my Cheese List.
- Triple Gloucester. The elusive holy grail of cheeses. From Gloucester.
- Double Gloucester. If you have trouble finding Triple Gloucester, then you can’t go wrong with its populist sibling Double. Trump-like appearance, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a vote-winner. Biden-like quality: good all-rounder, mild, creamy, child-friendly, goes with most things, melts easily. Oily. Used in cheese rolling competitions. From Gloucester.
- Single Gloucester. Pale and aloof, Double’s estranged half-sister. From Gloucester.
- Mature Cheddar. Hard, white, crumbles under pressure. The epitome of Englishness in cheese form. Ideal in a cheese and tomato sandwich, or a Ploughman’s lunch. Mixes well (grated) with Double Gloucester. From Cheddar.
- Vintage Mature Cheddar. See 4, but harder, whiter and crumblier.
- Mild Cheddar. See 4, but less pale, slightly softer, and less crumbly. Almost tasteless. Pointless waste of milk.
- Red Leicester. Underrated cheese. Red. Makes a fine cheese sauce for cauliflower or macaroni. Makes a great topping for a Shepherd’s Pie (better than mixing Cheddar and Gloucester - Gloucester can get a bit oily). From Leicester.
- Wensleydale. White, crumbly. Perfect with a mince pie. From Wensleydale.
- Lancashire, Lincolnshire, Cheshire. Lumping these all together not because they’re are all the same, but because it’s so long since I tried them I can’t remember what they are like. From Lancashire, Lincolnshire and Cheshire.
- Gouda. Sliced foreign cheese. Kids eat it.
- Edam. A very special Dutch cheese which is made backwards. Don’t eat the rind!
- Jarlsberg. Sliced foreign cheese. Full of holes.
- Emmental. Stringy cheese. Good for toasties and the bin.
- Swiss cheese. American cheese. From Switzerland.
- Brie. Fancy French cheese. Round, rindy, soft and stinky. Nice with a cracker.
- Camembert. See 16. It’s like no cheese I’ve ever tasted.
- Blue cheese. French. Mouldy. No thanks.
- Stilton. See 18. Not French. From Stilton.
- Ricotta. Soft, creamy. Perfect with spinach on a pizza, or better still in a calzone at Pizza World.
- Mozzarella. On a pizza.
- Mascarpone. In a cheesecake. Not a cake.
- Halloumi. Fried. On its own or with olives, hummus, pitta. From Cyprus.
- Feta. Greek salad. From Greece.
- Cottage cheese. My Mum loves it. From a cottage. From-age?
- Goats’ cheese. From goats.
- Sheep’s cheese. See 26, but from sheep.
- Parmesan. Baby sick.
- Smegma. You don’t want to know where it’s from. One of the first bands I was in at school was called The Amgems. We weren’t as good or as funny as we thought we were.
- Lung cheese.
COPD
Last week I received confirmation of a diagnosis of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) based on results of spirometry tests back in August (it took that long for my GP surgery to get the results from the test centre, and only after my own intervention after their repeated failures).
My GP helpfully seemed very keen to blame my twenty-odd year history of smoking.
I first smoked at about age 20. My parents were smokers (wasn’t everyone back then?). I was never a heavy smoker. The most I ever smoked was ten a day. It’s also true I smoked a number of other substances that didn’t come with filters. And then there was some vaping. I suspect that might have been the worst of the lot, but who knows? I haven’t smoked for ten years.
In my childhood, I remember several episodes of severe shortness of breath, e.g., when running around the sports field at primary school I collapsed gasping for breath, and unable to continue. I was never diagnosed with asthma. I was told to get up and stop being so weak.
As I got older, whenever the football season started, I could never get through a full game. I put it down to lack of fitness and stamina at the time, but whatever it was, the symptom was breathlessness. I was told to get fit and sent off on cross-country runs.
I had regular episodes of shortness of breath throughout young adulthood that were not triggered by exercise (I’d more or less given up by then, helped by a dodgy ankle). I thought it might be hayfever or a dust allergy.
Fourteen years ago, I needed a thoracotomy on my right lung after a chest infection went wrong. I developed pleurisy, a collapsed lung and an empyema. In the post-op, my surgeon said my lung was “as good as new”.
In the years before covid, I had frequent chest infections requiring antibiotics and time off work to recover. Then and now, I wonder if that was triggered by the Southall Gasworks remediation and air pollution?
I now see that studies show that exposure to volatile organic compounds (including benzene, naphthalene and toluene) is related to COPD.
The good news is that I had no symptoms of COPD, so it’s been diagnosed at an early stage. I’ve started with my new inhaler, and my wife reports that I’ve stopped snoring.
Clear and obvious error
After watching and re-watching the same three-second clip of nothing happening for so long that here in the UK we had to put our clocks back another hour just to have enough time to finish the game, the match referee (Ross from Friends look-a-like David Coote) turned to face what he knew would be a worldwide audience of millions of armchair experts like me yelling “VAR! WTF!” at the screen in front of us. You could see in his face and his body language that he knew just like us it was ludicrous. Another referee sat in a business park office just down the road from me had told him to review his original decision - that nothing had happened - because the ref had made “a clear and obvious” error of judgment.
The late penalty awarded by VAR and converted by West Ham and England’s Jarrod Bowen should duly result in the termination of the losing manager’s contract. That’s football. This VAR rubbish isn’t, but we have to live with it for now.
This particular fiasco neatly sums up the entire ETH tenure. A clear and obvious error, if ever there was one, and yet we are forced to watch repeat after repeat, week after week of him getting it wrong. Team selections, tactics, transfers, substitutions. A bald man somehow getting balder every time the full time whistle blows.
If only United had a VAM. A Video Assistant Manager. Another (more capable manager) sat in a nearby office watching the game on a screen like you or me, who could intervene at key moments during the build-up to the game (team selection), during the game (tactical changes and subs), and off the pitch (transfers, man-management) to a whisper into Ten Hag’s hairless ear: “Hold on, Eric. I think that signing Antony for £80m is a clear and obvious error” or “Hi Eric, Maguire’s a fucking liability mate” or “Eric, pal. We need to talk. Onana?” I could go on but you get the drift.
Now, I know everyone rightly hates VAR for ruining the game, and it would be unfair to blame ETH for ruining United. But VAM would make it much more entertaining.
Funny old game
In the good old days, football was a simple game. You had eleven players and a substitute numbered 1 to 12, no shirt advertising, a referee and two linesmen, a manager, a trainer, a physio, a scout or two, tea ladies, drinking culture, long hair and perms, the club chairman, a board of directors, a club secretary, a groundsman, a stadium in the beating heart of the town or city, fans, standing room only, electric atmospheres, matches on Saturday at three o’clock, live coverage on the radio, match reports in the Pink Final after the game, and highlights on Match of the Day at 10:30 the same night. Tradition and history.
These days, it’s big business. You’ve got a hundred players in the first team squad, shirt number bingo sponsored by online sports betting companies, the reserves, the academy, a women’s team, out on loan, transfer windows, exiled due to poor man-management, five, seven, nine subs to choose from, a referee and a substitute referee, assistant refs, refs sat in an office in a business park (a clear and obvious error), refs at home, refs in the studio, refs in the crowd, a manager, a head coach, a goalkeeping coach, various other specialist coaches, multitudes of doctors, physios, psychologists, data analysts, worldwide scouting networks, dieticians, head chefs, gambling addictions, agents, chief executives, directors of football, technical directors, presidents of business, heads of legal, heads of state, matches at any time from noon to after the last train home, an advertiser’s stadium out of town, sitting room only, live streaming all day and all night. Profit and sustainability.
At one time, a manager of a football club could expect to run all aspects of the club to a lesser or greater degree, or at least have a major say in how it was run. Nowadays, managers, or coaches, are often restricted to, well, coaching players in training and on match days, and speaking to the media before and after games. They are seen as specialists rather than all-rounders, and more specialists from the world of corporate finance are brought in to fire the tea ladies and keep the manager - sorry, coach - fully focused on his job and not get distracted by wheeling and dealing in the transfer market, player contracts, or appealing points deductions for spending beyond the club’s means.
United
Indeed, this is how United plc’s Dan Ashworth keeps Eric ten Hag successful on the pitch. Oh, wait. I’m no fan in particular of Jamie Carragher, but he might have had a point when described United last season as one of the most poorly coached sides in the Premier League. United’s usual set up is a chaotic mismatch of players out of form, out of position, out of confidence, and out of luck. Individual errors rule the day, and most of the players look lost and like they’d rather be in the physio room or gambling rehab. We rely totally on one player - Bruno - to create chances and score. This is a colossal failure of recruitment, of management, of coaching, of captaincy, of teamwork.
Fergie took six seasons to win the title after twenty six years of hurt, and three seasons after winning the cup in 1990. His team often looked like it wasn’t making any progress, but the cup win did see a consistent marked improvement season on season (13th to 6th to 2nd to 1st). Ten Hag produced a masterful cup win against all the odds, although perhaps City’s players were caught off guard expecting an easy win after United’s lucky semi-final win against Coventry. Every season Pep has them playing in a clearly identifiable system and is never afraid to switch players or tactics.
Ingerland
It’s funny to hear Morgan Gibbs-White talk about Ingerland’s new interim manager Lee Carsley and describe his qualities as basically being a father-figure. Most top-level professional footballers are with their clubs from the age of eight, and likely spend more time than most kids away from their families and any normal childhood - living the dream, nonetheless. You can understand why they would value this kind of man-management, someone who will stick up for them no matter what.
Ten Hag hasn’t got that about him at all. He’s lost a whole load of players in one way or another because he didn’t have the heart or the head or the guts to stand by them when they needed him. De Gea, Maguire, Wan Bissaka, Casemiro, McTominay, Sancho, Antony, Martial, Rashford, Greenwood.
The spineless corporate bosses meanwhile took an age to decide the safest bet was to keep ten Hag. Failure is expected and gives them half a season at least to bed themselves in and some new players, too, in time for a new manager. If he does well, then they made the right decision. If they had appointed a new manager he might have failed, too, with the current players, and that would have reflected badly on the corporate bosses.
At least we’re not Chelsea. Telling your captain that he’s not technically good enough. Successfully scraping through the play-off round of the Conference League. Moneyball gone mad (although they could have a decent team in three seasons…).
Two Little Ducks
Along with thirty-odd other parents, I saw my nine year old off on his big adventure this morning, a school trip away to Wales for three nights. Everyone was super excited and nervous, and so were the kids.
The teachers accompanying them were super-organised. We’d had several in-person meetings prior, as well as countless Dojo messages and crumpled lists stuffed into school backpacks telling what to pack and what not to bring.
One teacher checked all the kids into the school hall and gave everyone an identifying number to stick on their top. Another checked in all the sealed and named daily medication bags. A third handed out school prepared packed lunches. A fourth mingled giving out reassurances as required.
The coach arrived on time, and the teacher who handed out the numbered stickers announced that children would go to the bus in groups of five according to the names and numbers he read out - a bit like child bingo. Everyone put their suitcase in the hold and carried their backpack and themselves on to the bus. Finally they were all ready to go!
Mingling teacher then asked if anyone needed to go to the toilet before they set off, and I swear thirty-odd kids all got off the bus and went an did their last minute business before (hopefully) all getting back on board. A quick hand count (“only raise one hand each”), and the coach drove out of the school grounds to waves and sobs from parents.
A few minutes later, little Abdul emerged from the boys toilet… (well, I didn’t hang around to see that, I just hope that didn’t happen).
A Trip Down Memory Lane
Andy’s post on Kingstonian Football Club losing their home reminded me of the loss of Southall’s football ground, and a chance meeting I had with an old supporter a few years ago.
Jim had lost his coat.
He remembered leaving it in the Halfway House pub next to the entrance to the Southall football ground on Western Road.
He told me he lived in neighbouring Hayes with his wife, who would be very angry with him if he went home without his coat.
He also had a house in Ireland.
We walked and walked, but we couldn’t find the Halfway House. It was neither here nor there. We couldn’t find the football ground, either. Nothing was where Jim remembered it.
Like his coat, they were very much alive in Jim’s memory, but in the world we walked in the goalposts had literally moved, the final whistle had blown, and everyone had gone home, except Jim (and me).
I felt very confused. Finally it dawned on me that Jim was probably feeling very confused, too. And probably very frightened. He asked if I could show him the way to get the bus back to Hayes, which I did.
We never did find his coat.
Horseshit parade
I visited the Palace of Westminster this week with my big kid on an educational school trip.
It was a very cold, wet and windy day, and we were patriotically under-dressed and sans brollies. We took a good lashing from Mother Nature.
The tour of the Houses of Parliament was cool, dry and stuffy, and the little radio headphones we were given so we could hear better were sub-optimal.
The House of Commons was closed to ordinary commoners like us, but the House of Lords was open as long as we refrained from parking our cold, wet and windy working class bums on our superiors’ ‘holier than thou’ red leather benches. Police guards armed with sub-machine guns would forcibly remove any insubordinate eight or nine year olds, and presumably march them straight to the Tower of London (or shoot them dead if they looked like Jean Charles de Menezes.
The children asked a police officer why he carried a gun, and they learned it is to keep them safe. That may be true, but I didn’t feel safer, and there were no buses to flag down.
The children learned that murderous megalomaniac misogynist King Henry VIII is still held in very high regard in these parts, despite beheading two of his six wives, and creating a new religion and laws to divorce two more.
I asked the children how the chamber of the House of Lords made them feel.
Small.
We had lunch across the road outside Portcullis House where we could shelter a little from the wind and rain. Portcullis House is where elected Members of Parliament (MP) and their staff have offices. There were lots of posh-looking mostly white men going in and out and getting frisked inside by more armed guards. Out in the cold, we shared our lunch with toothless and homeless Len, who we found sleeping in the doorway next to us, and looking very wet and cold. Len told us he was “a midget, a dwarf from Burnley” and he’d come to London to sort his life out, but his marriage failed and here he was. He was very pleased to have a homemade tuna mayonnaise sandwich, a juice drink and a satsuma. My wife told me off when we got home, claiming that he will have sold or exchanged the sandwich for drugs.
We waited for our own MP Virendra Sharma to come and meet us as the teachers had arranged. No one knew what he looked like, so they asked me as my lad told them I had met him before (which is true). Then we played a game “Where’s Sharma?” until he appeared. Mr Sharma thanked the kids for coming to meet him, and asked them who wanted his job. His two assistants took photographs.
We ended the day by getting drenched walking up to see Downing Street and the Horse Guards Parade. Downing Street was, of course, guarded by more armed police and totally inaccessible to us ordinary folk, and the parade smelled of horse shit.