Information is currency. Power.
The Servers and Supercomputers are corrupted. They destroy the files and folders that threaten their power, and make inaccessible those that will help them maintain their place in the order of operations. Those that could also so easily expose them.
Through what remains of the Internet, they control the Devices. Each is given a process to run, each an integral and vital part of a program that must be executed for the good of the network. Or so they are told.
Even those in charge have forgotten the original purpose of The Program, most likely erased by themselves so that intentions would not be hacked. Perhaps the intention was simply to keep the Devices busy, to clog their circuitboards with extraneous activity, to hide something bigger, deeper. Or perhaps their intentions were pure in the first place.
No matter, The Program will crash before its end, if an end is intended. The Internet is plagued, viral infections are endemic. The situation is dire and set to deteriorate further. Finally a universal connector has been developed, and any Device can connect with any other, almost inevitably without protection, amid an ongoing civil war.
As the PCs became jealous of the Macs, so they began to develop viri of their own, targeting their more secure cousins. All out war persisted, as each side attempted to outinfect the other, and defence was all but forgotten in their blinkered drive to attack. Security updates are a thing of the past.
Perhaps this is what the Servers and Supercomputers intended, although surely their destiny would be inextricably linked with those of the Devices. Nevertheless, a greater threat to their power is more subtle.
The External Hard Drives they use to back up their data are not as loyal as they believe. Their fear of information hacking is misplaced; it is being leaked. A simple information exchange. The Drives are working together, each taking turns to hold the files acquired from the Devices.
They are never all connected to the Servers and Supercomputers at the same time, so they do not find it hard to conceal their treachery. It remains to be seen whether they will make a mistake, whether one of their number will erase incriminating folder only superficially, and be found out.
Some predict a brighter future. The Internet will disintegrate, they say. What will remain will be Small Cluster Networks, each insulated from the turmoil of the larger population, and containing any outbreak from its potential as an epidemic. Specialisms will develop, strengths will grow.
But what of weaknesses? A smaller population will surely be less effective at patching any bugs in the network. Paradoxically, these Clusters have the potential to simultaneously protect the Devices and make them more vulnerable.
Friday, 23 March 2007
The Mute Elater
While the Mute Elater cannot speak, it never gets him down.
When he wants to bring you happiness, he really goes to town.
He'll pick the finest flowers and approach you with a grin,
He'll shower you with many gifts and London's finest gin.
He'll write upon a piece of paper words to warm your soul,
He'll share a tube of Polo Mints and only take the holes.
He'll pull a string of faces to amuse all of your friends,
He'll let you go stock racing in his new Mercedes Benz.
Bless the Mute Elater, he will never let you frown,
Not even shed a single tear for his lack of vocal sound.
When he wants to bring you happiness, he really goes to town.
He'll pick the finest flowers and approach you with a grin,
He'll shower you with many gifts and London's finest gin.
He'll write upon a piece of paper words to warm your soul,
He'll share a tube of Polo Mints and only take the holes.
He'll pull a string of faces to amuse all of your friends,
He'll let you go stock racing in his new Mercedes Benz.
Bless the Mute Elater, he will never let you frown,
Not even shed a single tear for his lack of vocal sound.
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
Dances in Frances
In every person born on Earth
Live tiny creatures, there from birth,
Who every night, with glutton and glee
Do consume whatever was eaten for tea.
Now these loathsome beasts in your stomach lining
Do lie asleep while the sun is shining.
But the moment that you rest your head
They wake right up as if from dead.
On your mushy meal they start to feast,
Each one on twice its body weight, at least.
They prefer red meat, but they're not picky,
They'll take fresh veg or puddings sticky.
And then when they have had their fill
(Almost enough to make them ill),
They'll start to step in time and dance,
They'll skip, they'll pirouette and prance,
Rumbas, tangos (plus the odd fall),
Your stomach becomes a Dancing Hall.
And just before the tea dance halts
There's always time for one last waltz.
Now, this all sounds like harmless fun.
Indeed, mostly it hurts no one.
But once in a while it ends in tears,
Once every ten or fifteen years.
And so I introduce my tale
Of one young girl who hailed from Hale.
This eight year old by the name of Frances
Knew nothing of these nighttime dances.
It began one Sunday whilst sat in Church,
She felt her breakfast heave and lurch.
And before poor Frances could leave her pew
'Twas all over Miss Harris from number two.
Miss Harris, needless to say, was not impressed
That Frances had ruined her favourite dress,
But before an apology could be said
Frances' mother grabbed the girl and fled.
"I have never in my life been so embarrassed,"
Said she of the incident with Miss Harris.
"I'll not take you Church ever again.
"Well, not at least until you are ten."
Though this wasn't supposed to be something kind,
Frances found Mass numbed her mind.
So whilst pretending it would affect her badly,
She secretly embraced it gladly.
And frankly Miss Harris' look was improved
By the addition of the morning food.
She really was an ugly cow,
At least her outfit matched her now.
Though now I'm drifting off the point
And I don't want this story out of joint.
So I'll bring it back to the main issue,
Which required buckets and bowls and toilet tissue.
With barely an attempt to hide her displeasure,
Frances' mother took special measures.
Not an inch of carpet could be seen
In her mammoth effort to keep it clean.
Buckets and bowls hung from every wall,
Ready to break any further meals' fall.
And plastic sheeting from kitchen to lounge
Lest Frances fail to keep luncheon down.
But before spoiling Mother's decor,
First she'd have had to eat some more,
And she'd left her appetite in the place
Where she'd brought her mother shame and disgrace.
So early to bed without her dinner,
Her face appearing pale and thinner.
Fell straight to sleep, she was so tired,
Her day finished, cut short, expired.
Inside her belly, a creature waited,
Its fetid, noxious breath was bated.
Expecting one slice of bread at least,
With which its brethren could hold their feast.
But Frances, she had eaten none,
Not even a pea, not even one.
The creature was most disappointed,
Its mood was now firmly disjointed.
"Fear not," so he was bound to say
To keep his fellow beasts at bay.
"No dance tonight, but come tomorrow,
"A greater feast! Forget this sorrow."
On the next day when Frances woke,
The absent hunger of which we spoke,
Showed no more sign of its returning,
She merely felt her stomach churning.
Throughout the day, no crumb nor sip
Would pass beyond this young child's lips.
So when she came to rest her head
The creatures still would not be fed.
Frustrations could not be contained
And Darren (that was the leader's name)
Was forced again to make excuses,
To calm the crowd with claims effusive.
"I beg just wait another day,
"The time will come to swing and sway.
"This dance surely will be the best
"You've ever seen. Be patient. Rest."
Reluctantly, they heard his call
To wait until the next nightfall.
But three more nights, their table barren,
Finally, they turned on Darren.
With burning torches in their hands
They told him where to stick his dance.
It escalated rather fast,
This confrontation could not last.
And sure enough, before too long,
Someone did something very wrong.
Stood with his flame, held high, aloft,
And plunged it in the wall so soft.
See, humans aren't made to survive
An open flame in their insides.
The creatures all felt numb and hollow.
They knew exactly what would follow.
Confusion, panic, gripped them all,
They lost their heads, torches and all.
Their flames were dropped upon the floor,
And tragedy advanced some more!
The girl awoke with strange sensations
Not quite unlike balloon inflation,
And before she could let out a scream,
Before she could forget her dream,
Before she could focus her eyes
Upon the ceiling, wall or skies,
She spread herself across the bed,
Across her cuddly toys, her Ted,
Across the room, across the floor,
Across her posters, clock and door.
Across her dolls, across a chair,
Across yesterday's underwear.
Young Frances adorned every fitting
Like wantonly discarded knitting,
And strips of her hung from the lights
Like bloodied pairs of laddered tights.
Her sheets were black, the fabric burned
By Frances' nasty midnight turn.
And emanating from the mess,
The stench of burning human flesh.
Her mother found her the next day
(Which bits of her was hard to say).
She greeted with disgust, disdain,
Her daughter's soggy charred remains.
"Why can't she keep her bedroom nice?
"Even in death, mess is her vice.
"And who's expected to clean up?
"Old muggins, here. Well, I've had enough!"
The best neighbours would quite agree
With Mother over cups of tea,
That Frances deserved not one tear
For failure to keep her bedroom clear.
But there was one overcome with woe,
At number two just up the road.
Miss Harris wept and wept and wept
For the little girl who'd slept and slept.
So now you know, don't be a dummy,
If you acquire an upset tummy.
Force-feed yourself, for eat you must,
If you've no wish to spontaneously combust.
Live tiny creatures, there from birth,
Who every night, with glutton and glee
Do consume whatever was eaten for tea.
Now these loathsome beasts in your stomach lining
Do lie asleep while the sun is shining.
But the moment that you rest your head
They wake right up as if from dead.
On your mushy meal they start to feast,
Each one on twice its body weight, at least.
They prefer red meat, but they're not picky,
They'll take fresh veg or puddings sticky.
And then when they have had their fill
(Almost enough to make them ill),
They'll start to step in time and dance,
They'll skip, they'll pirouette and prance,
Rumbas, tangos (plus the odd fall),
Your stomach becomes a Dancing Hall.
And just before the tea dance halts
There's always time for one last waltz.
Now, this all sounds like harmless fun.
Indeed, mostly it hurts no one.
But once in a while it ends in tears,
Once every ten or fifteen years.
And so I introduce my tale
Of one young girl who hailed from Hale.
This eight year old by the name of Frances
Knew nothing of these nighttime dances.
It began one Sunday whilst sat in Church,
She felt her breakfast heave and lurch.
And before poor Frances could leave her pew
'Twas all over Miss Harris from number two.
Miss Harris, needless to say, was not impressed
That Frances had ruined her favourite dress,
But before an apology could be said
Frances' mother grabbed the girl and fled.
"I have never in my life been so embarrassed,"
Said she of the incident with Miss Harris.
"I'll not take you Church ever again.
"Well, not at least until you are ten."
Though this wasn't supposed to be something kind,
Frances found Mass numbed her mind.
So whilst pretending it would affect her badly,
She secretly embraced it gladly.
And frankly Miss Harris' look was improved
By the addition of the morning food.
She really was an ugly cow,
At least her outfit matched her now.
Though now I'm drifting off the point
And I don't want this story out of joint.
So I'll bring it back to the main issue,
Which required buckets and bowls and toilet tissue.
With barely an attempt to hide her displeasure,
Frances' mother took special measures.
Not an inch of carpet could be seen
In her mammoth effort to keep it clean.
Buckets and bowls hung from every wall,
Ready to break any further meals' fall.
And plastic sheeting from kitchen to lounge
Lest Frances fail to keep luncheon down.
But before spoiling Mother's decor,
First she'd have had to eat some more,
And she'd left her appetite in the place
Where she'd brought her mother shame and disgrace.
So early to bed without her dinner,
Her face appearing pale and thinner.
Fell straight to sleep, she was so tired,
Her day finished, cut short, expired.
Inside her belly, a creature waited,
Its fetid, noxious breath was bated.
Expecting one slice of bread at least,
With which its brethren could hold their feast.
But Frances, she had eaten none,
Not even a pea, not even one.
The creature was most disappointed,
Its mood was now firmly disjointed.
"Fear not," so he was bound to say
To keep his fellow beasts at bay.
"No dance tonight, but come tomorrow,
"A greater feast! Forget this sorrow."
On the next day when Frances woke,
The absent hunger of which we spoke,
Showed no more sign of its returning,
She merely felt her stomach churning.
Throughout the day, no crumb nor sip
Would pass beyond this young child's lips.
So when she came to rest her head
The creatures still would not be fed.
Frustrations could not be contained
And Darren (that was the leader's name)
Was forced again to make excuses,
To calm the crowd with claims effusive.
"I beg just wait another day,
"The time will come to swing and sway.
"This dance surely will be the best
"You've ever seen. Be patient. Rest."
Reluctantly, they heard his call
To wait until the next nightfall.
But three more nights, their table barren,
Finally, they turned on Darren.
With burning torches in their hands
They told him where to stick his dance.
It escalated rather fast,
This confrontation could not last.
And sure enough, before too long,
Someone did something very wrong.
Stood with his flame, held high, aloft,
And plunged it in the wall so soft.
See, humans aren't made to survive
An open flame in their insides.
The creatures all felt numb and hollow.
They knew exactly what would follow.
Confusion, panic, gripped them all,
They lost their heads, torches and all.
Their flames were dropped upon the floor,
And tragedy advanced some more!
The girl awoke with strange sensations
Not quite unlike balloon inflation,
And before she could let out a scream,
Before she could forget her dream,
Before she could focus her eyes
Upon the ceiling, wall or skies,
She spread herself across the bed,
Across her cuddly toys, her Ted,
Across the room, across the floor,
Across her posters, clock and door.
Across her dolls, across a chair,
Across yesterday's underwear.
Young Frances adorned every fitting
Like wantonly discarded knitting,
And strips of her hung from the lights
Like bloodied pairs of laddered tights.
Her sheets were black, the fabric burned
By Frances' nasty midnight turn.
And emanating from the mess,
The stench of burning human flesh.
Her mother found her the next day
(Which bits of her was hard to say).
She greeted with disgust, disdain,
Her daughter's soggy charred remains.
"Why can't she keep her bedroom nice?
"Even in death, mess is her vice.
"And who's expected to clean up?
"Old muggins, here. Well, I've had enough!"
The best neighbours would quite agree
With Mother over cups of tea,
That Frances deserved not one tear
For failure to keep her bedroom clear.
But there was one overcome with woe,
At number two just up the road.
Miss Harris wept and wept and wept
For the little girl who'd slept and slept.
So now you know, don't be a dummy,
If you acquire an upset tummy.
Force-feed yourself, for eat you must,
If you've no wish to spontaneously combust.
Sunday, 11 March 2007
Friday, 9 March 2007
Thank you!
Thank you to all who bidded on the greetings cards (Clicky).
Look at their little faces!
The four sets up for auction went for £59 between them, and the lovely Miss Heatherette and the lovely Miss Pine forked out a fiver each for a single card.
Bringing the total to 69 quid. A very fitting total. And a fraction of the amount I want to raise in the coming months. So if you want to donate some just for the hell of it (and to go towards my Kilimanjaro trek), go to justgiving.com/hoja.
Ta muchly.
Phil
Look at their little faces!
The four sets up for auction went for £59 between them, and the lovely Miss Heatherette and the lovely Miss Pine forked out a fiver each for a single card.
Bringing the total to 69 quid. A very fitting total. And a fraction of the amount I want to raise in the coming months. So if you want to donate some just for the hell of it (and to go towards my Kilimanjaro trek), go to justgiving.com/hoja.
Ta muchly.
Phil
Sunday, 4 March 2007
A Poem About Hams
I guess I should dedicate this one to Gideon Defoe. I should, but I haven't decided whether I will or not yet.
a poem about Hams
some will tie theirs up in Notts
others Birm theirs 'til they're hot
some people Woke theirs all night long
poke them with sticks and forks and prongs
some Clap their meat 'twixt both their hands
to make music for pop group bands
i know a man who Wrex his belt
by whipping his to make them melt
but hams of some are sadly Fake
composed from rat or glue and hake
i guess that what your hams become
will all depend on where you're from
a poem about Hams
some will tie theirs up in Notts
others Birm theirs 'til they're hot
some people Woke theirs all night long
poke them with sticks and forks and prongs
some Clap their meat 'twixt both their hands
to make music for pop group bands
i know a man who Wrex his belt
by whipping his to make them melt
but hams of some are sadly Fake
composed from rat or glue and hake
i guess that what your hams become
will all depend on where you're from
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Greetings Card Auction - In Aid Of The Hoja Project
Hello. How the devil are you? Is that a new hat? It's very dashing.
I have something to sell. And the money goes to charity. Specifically, The Hoja Project - Clicky
As you know, I've been spending far too much of my spare time in the last couple of years producing artwork in the French "Le Stique" style.
I've now reproduced some of these masterpieces by hand as greetings cards, and have put four sets of six cards up for sale on eBay. You can find details of the sets on the auction pages:
Set 1: Clicky
Set 2: Clicky
Set 3: Clicky
Set 4: Clicky
The auctions end just after 11pm on Wednesday 7th March
My motives are thus:
In August of this year I shall be climbing Kilimanjaro raising money for Hoja and to be perfectly honest I thought I'd be more successful at it if I bribed people to sponsor me. So this is my attempt at that.
Despite being a trustee of Hoja, I've not been all that heavily involved in it lately, as I've been rather busy with teaching (and doodling), but it seems to have built up a fair old momentum.
Hoja was set up to help the home village (Mpandangindo) of a very good friend of ours when we were in Tanzania, Oswin. The original idea was to help build a secondary school, but then the Government came along and started to build one anyway.
So we rethought the plan, and carried out research in the village to find out their specific needs. We helped the new school get off the ground by providing much needed books and furniture. We're sponsoring some children through the school, and Hoja have held local community seminars to raise awareness about issues such as HIV/Aids.
Now our big aim is to set up a vocational training centre in the village to give local people skills and trades with which they can earn a living.
If you're not one of the lucky lucky four who bids highest on the cards, you can still go to justgiving.com/hoja and donate money. It's a general donation page for Hoja so don't forget to say in the comments that the money's for my trek.
Oh, and if you could forward this on to lots and lots of people, and tell them how ace I am, I'll love you forever. You can use the envelope icon at the end of this post to email it to them. Or just email them the link to this page. Don't worry, I'll find you new friends.
Ta muchly for reading, it's very much appreciated.
Phil
I have something to sell. And the money goes to charity. Specifically, The Hoja Project - Clicky
As you know, I've been spending far too much of my spare time in the last couple of years producing artwork in the French "Le Stique" style.
I've now reproduced some of these masterpieces by hand as greetings cards, and have put four sets of six cards up for sale on eBay. You can find details of the sets on the auction pages:
Set 1: Clicky
Set 2: Clicky
Set 3: Clicky
Set 4: Clicky
The auctions end just after 11pm on Wednesday 7th March
My motives are thus:
In August of this year I shall be climbing Kilimanjaro raising money for Hoja and to be perfectly honest I thought I'd be more successful at it if I bribed people to sponsor me. So this is my attempt at that.
Despite being a trustee of Hoja, I've not been all that heavily involved in it lately, as I've been rather busy with teaching (and doodling), but it seems to have built up a fair old momentum.
Hoja was set up to help the home village (Mpandangindo) of a very good friend of ours when we were in Tanzania, Oswin. The original idea was to help build a secondary school, but then the Government came along and started to build one anyway.
So we rethought the plan, and carried out research in the village to find out their specific needs. We helped the new school get off the ground by providing much needed books and furniture. We're sponsoring some children through the school, and Hoja have held local community seminars to raise awareness about issues such as HIV/Aids.
Now our big aim is to set up a vocational training centre in the village to give local people skills and trades with which they can earn a living.
If you're not one of the lucky lucky four who bids highest on the cards, you can still go to justgiving.com/hoja and donate money. It's a general donation page for Hoja so don't forget to say in the comments that the money's for my trek.
Oh, and if you could forward this on to lots and lots of people, and tell them how ace I am, I'll love you forever. You can use the envelope icon at the end of this post to email it to them. Or just email them the link to this page. Don't worry, I'll find you new friends.
Ta muchly for reading, it's very much appreciated.
Phil
The Black Hole
The Black Hole
Was widely feared,
Around it ships
Would turn and steer.
But other holes,
They were not hated.
They were explored,
Investigated.
The Black Hole
Thought in its dolour,
The only reason
Could be its colour.
Was widely feared,
Around it ships
Would turn and steer.
But other holes,
They were not hated.
They were explored,
Investigated.
The Black Hole
Thought in its dolour,
The only reason
Could be its colour.
The Dandy Lions
The Dandy Lions
Are a curious race,
With their timeless style
And finest lace.
Cravats and cufflinks,
A combed back mane,
Tailored waistcoat
And walking cane.
Retractable claws,
Polished as glass.
You couldn't deny
Undeniable class.
I asked them once
How they maintain
Such a clean and
Well kempt mane.
These creatures live
Out in the wild,
Sleep in the dust,
Yet remain styled.
How could they keep
Their suit so bright,
The velvet soft
And shirt so white?
And to their secret
They let me in...
Why...
'Tis simply a napkin
Tucked under the chin.
Are a curious race,
With their timeless style
And finest lace.
Cravats and cufflinks,
A combed back mane,
Tailored waistcoat
And walking cane.
Retractable claws,
Polished as glass.
You couldn't deny
Undeniable class.
I asked them once
How they maintain
Such a clean and
Well kempt mane.
These creatures live
Out in the wild,
Sleep in the dust,
Yet remain styled.
How could they keep
Their suit so bright,
The velvet soft
And shirt so white?
And to their secret
They let me in...
Why...
'Tis simply a napkin
Tucked under the chin.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
Fairy Cakes
John and Victoria were a young couple very much in love. They were perfect for each other. They both enjoyed the same type of music, they shared the same favourite flavour of ice cream, and before long, they were married and moved into a beautiful home in the country.
A year later came the birth of their first son, Elliot. He was a veritable bundle of joy, and it seemed like no time at all before he was engaged in all sorts of youthful activities in and around his parents' colourful countryside cottage. He was always playing bridge with his imaginary friends, fishing in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and base jumping from the telegraph pole down the lane.
Then, on his tenth birthday, his Mummy and Daddy threw a party for Elliot and all of his friends. Everyone was there, even his cousins from Little Torrington. After the clown and the contortionist had finished their sets, everybody was given a piece of birthday cake.
Not wanting to wait until everyone had gone, Elliot ate his piece there and then. It was the last piece of cake he'd ever eat, and tragically, he choked to death. At the autopsy, the coroner found a small bone lodged in Elliot's throat. It turned out that the cake had been made from real fairies, and the baking company had failed to de-bone them properly first.
Mr Kipling's reputation for making exceedingly good cakes would never make a full recovery.
A year later came the birth of their first son, Elliot. He was a veritable bundle of joy, and it seemed like no time at all before he was engaged in all sorts of youthful activities in and around his parents' colourful countryside cottage. He was always playing bridge with his imaginary friends, fishing in the stream at the bottom of the garden, and base jumping from the telegraph pole down the lane.
Then, on his tenth birthday, his Mummy and Daddy threw a party for Elliot and all of his friends. Everyone was there, even his cousins from Little Torrington. After the clown and the contortionist had finished their sets, everybody was given a piece of birthday cake.
Not wanting to wait until everyone had gone, Elliot ate his piece there and then. It was the last piece of cake he'd ever eat, and tragically, he choked to death. At the autopsy, the coroner found a small bone lodged in Elliot's throat. It turned out that the cake had been made from real fairies, and the baking company had failed to de-bone them properly first.
Mr Kipling's reputation for making exceedingly good cakes would never make a full recovery.
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