Blog Feed – Page 4 – 2020 – A Year of Perfect Vision

The Truth

What is the truth? I fear that I will never know. How could I? Could you?

I read stuff. Lots of stuff. Right now, I’m part way through a paper concerned with how advertising can best reach its target audience, and I’ve just begun the fifth instalment of the Harry Potter septology (is that a word?). Just now, I finished reading this:

https://jbhandleyblog.com/home/2020/7/27/lockdownlunacythree

I know for sure, as much as it’s possible to know for sure, that the paper I read is reporting research which has been done at a university here in Taiwan, and advertisers may well be interested in the results. I know for sure, unless I’m actually living in a fake world and K Reeves esquire is about to rock up and explain The Matrix to me, that Master Potter and his friends and enemies are the product of Ms Rowling’s imagination. As for the blog about COVID-19, well, I refer you to my opening line, above. I don’t know the author, but he has cited and provided several links to articles, papers and data on which he has made his analysis, so I am prepared to accept that it is worth reading. This is just one of a number of items I have read (or watched) over the past couple of months, most of which seem to be providing rather compelling evidence that this virus is serious, but in no way serious enough to warrant some of the draconian steps imposed by governents around the globe. The message that keeps coming through (and this is just my layman’s interpretation/summary) is that this is a nasty form of flu which compares fairly well with other recent serious flu outbreaks. I have seen graph after graph suggesting that death rates are consistent with seasonal flu, and that numbers are falling off exactly in line with the normal graphs for this kind of thing. Now, here I should stress that I am no scientist, no doctor, no epidemiologist, but I have been known to do a bit of data analysis back when I had a proper job. More to the point, I have never taken anything at face value. I want to question the rationale. But where do I find the evidence to support the rationale, for or against? It is simply impossible to verify anything.

The Wachowskis Said To Be Working On New Matrix Project | Movies ...

Just the other day, I saw a piece of film, apparently showing a woman in a supermarket telling a mother and her children “I hope you all die!” Why? Because they were not wearing a mask. Of course, this may just be a piece of film made by a person or persons unknown with some kind of agenda, or simply hoping for something notionally outrageous enough to ‘go viral’, as they say. There is not a snowball’s chance in hell that I could ever know if what I just witnessed (online) was genuine. Indeed, I could even have witnessed said episode in the flesh, and I would still be unable to be 100% sure that it wasn’t a group of wannabes seeking their fifteen minutes. This is a feeble example, but I chose it as rather typical of the kind of anecdotal evidence that is trotted out on just about anything, these days. On its own, it is meaningless, but I would bet my house that it has now been watched by millions, many of whom will not have questioned its veracity. It becomes part of the perceived truth, simply by being out there.

Back to the virus itself, and the measures being taken. I have been particularly interested in the comparisons being made around the world, not least with what has happened in Sweden. I’m not going to get into the details, but if you have a moment, I’d heartily recommend that you take a look at what’s, apparently, going on. You could do this through the medium of one of those loverly search engines on which we rely so much. My personal fears, based on what I have read/seen (and I have to admit based on opinions which appear to follow sound logic and science, and a rationale (or rationales) which make sense to my analytical brain) are two-fold. First, the lockdowns are likely to bring multiple unintended problems in the near future and for many years to come, and second, the country in which I live is never going to develop any kind of immunity (and I have my doubts that a vaccination will be forthcoming/effective any time soon, if you read the history of attempted vaccines for this kind of thing), so we will constantly be living in a state of paranoia.

Let me finish on another little slice of anecdotal evidence. Last week, I was driving home, heading south on Freeway 3. I decided to take a break at one of the service stations. As I attempted to enter the building in which I planned to purchase coffee and a bun, a young woman sopped me and asked if I had a facemask. I didn’t. Why would I? There have been no cases here for in excess of three months? Not a problem. I was given a mask. I entered the building. Many people were, understandably, sat eating and drinking. Ho hum. Such is Taiwan. Never mind. The visit suddenly took an unexpected turn.

After 30 years, Taiwan National Police prepare for uniform upgrade ...

As I left the building, I was accosted by a young police officer. In perfect English she carefully explained that the most dangerous part of my day now lay ahead of me: the drive home. She suggested I should take care, and further suggested that I might like to consider enrolling on a course to improve my driving skills, as the government is now keen to reduce the deaths and injuries on the roads. I nearly fainted.

Of course, this last part is complete bullshit. No truth here, whatsoever. Trust me, I made up the police officer bit. You do trust me, don’t you?

Eight deaths per day on the roads, not to mention hundreds of injuries. No matter, we’re all going to be safe with our masks. Jolly good. Carry on.

Keeping You in Suspense

In my last post, I made a brief mention of what was at the top of that climb I did with the 35 or 36 hairpins. A few comments have been forthcoming, so I just wanted to add a little context and information, just in case any readers fancy making the journey and would like to take a look for themselves.

I mentioned the Taiping Suspension Bridge. Here’s a little bit of information, gleaned from the Internet, by which I mean I made a search on Goooooogle, obviously.

https://www.taipingbridge.tw/taipingbridge-e.html

As I am not one for heights, I suspect I’ll never set foot on this remarkable slice of Taiwanese engineering, but I’d like to ride up there again, just to check.

Here are some photographs of the mountain road and the bridge, to add some colour and perspective.

Image may contain: mountain, outdoor and nature

Image may contain: mountain, grass, sky, outdoor and nature

I think these photographs date from before the bridge was completed, so here it is, in part, from below after I’d had time to recover somewhat.

And one I nicked off the web. Rather nice.

Taiping Suspension Bridge | Alishan National Scenic Area

I suppose, for those interested in cycle racing in general, and perhaps the Tour de France in particular, the climb is reminiscent of Alpe d’Huez. Sort of. I must admit that while climbing, I was not entirely appreciative of the scene, what with being focused on that long strip of asphalt steadily rising in front of me as I carefully chewed through the handlebars, with one eye on the bend count and the other on my heart rate. To be fair, it was not especially uncomfortable; I ride more gruelling climbs closer to home, so I think I can admit that I enjoyed it. Mostly.

While waiting at the top, just after taking the shot of the underside of the bridge, this little chap took a liking to my shoe. He was coming and going for a good couple of minutes, settling for a few moments before lifting off, circling and returning. Quite unexpected.

It must have been an omen: I positively flew down the descent, until I got delayed by some local in his beaten up old Toyota Zace, fag gripped between two fingers of the left hand hanging out of the window, going just fast enough to prevent me from passing safely, but much slower than I could manage. Not that I’m a brilliant descender, mind, but I do like to reap the rewards of having done the hard work on the ascent, and I could have done without the fag ash in me face, Zace. Never mind. I made it down in one piece, which is always a bonus.

Going Round the Bend(s)

This morning, I finally summoned the enthusiasm to jump in the car, drive north for about an hour, then get on my bike to ride a road I’d heard about several years ago. It’s a climb with 36 hairpins. Well, they say 36, but I have to take issue with that, more of which shortly.

I think I got wind of the road on the back of some publicity about a fillum about bike racing. ‘Got wind’ is rather a fitting turn of phrase, since the film in question, To the Fore (2015), was from Hong Kong (although filmed on location in Taiwan among other places, and hence the reference to this particular road), and was released under the Chinese name of 破風 (po feng), which translates as break wind. You can see why this grabbed the attention of my inner-teenager. Oh, how I sniggered. In fact, if you are in any way familiar with bike racing, the concept of breaking wind is at the centre of the sport; we just happen to call it drafting. For those not familiar, it is simply the practice of cyclists sheltering behind a rider, or riders, to keep out of the wind, thereby saving precious energy. I think the energy saving is of the order of 30%.

No doubt you are thinking that this is all very interesting, but it was of little import this morning. The benefits of drafting while climbing as slowly as I climbed are limited, but since I was riding solo, there were zero benefits reaped by little old me. I rode early to avoid the traffic, but I did have the chance to experience the full force of the delightful deisel exhaust blasting from just the one concrete mixer that happened to crawl past, probably around half way up. I was rather fortunate. There weren’t even any tourist buses on their way up to the Taiping Suspension Bridge. Surprisingly, I saw no other cyclists until I was on the descent. Evidently, Monday mornings are not really prime time for climbing mountains through the medium of the greatest of man’s inventions. It felt rather wonderful. Just me, a mountain, a few scooters, motorcycles and blue trucks, and that bloody concrete mixer. I’m currently not as fit as I would like, but I still made good (enough) time and it is a climb with no especially long, steep sections. More of a steady ascent, which suits me as I can find a nice rhythm, punctuated by just the odd short, steep pitch here and there.

The road itself is marked with signs on each of the 36 corners. Here’s the first:

Here’s the last:

I adopted a strategy to ease me through the climb, breaking it down into blocks of 12 corners. 36 seems rather a lot, while three batches of 12 is more manageable. I kind of nicked the idea from someone called Wiggins. I recalled him explaining that he broke down his attempt at the Hour record, with five blocks of 12 minutes. I think he knew what he was doing.

Now for the issue with the count. This is bend No. 25:

If that’s not clear enough, here’s the map view, with the little yellow chap in the centre marking the location:

Sorry, but if that’s a hairpin, then I’m Vidal Sassoon.

Here’s what I think happened. Bloke drives up, miscounts 35 as 36. Another bloke drives up installing signs, missing out 25 because he installed 24 and 26 either side of his lunch break and simply forgot where he was in the sequence and couldn’t be arsed to nip back down to check. Gets to top, installs 36, clebrates with a beer and a ciggy, then finds 25 wrapped in bubblewrap, lurking under a sheet of carboard. Oh crap! Boss will have a fit. Meh! Just stick it on that slightly wobbly bit. Nobody will ever know.

So there you have it. As they say in Taiwan 差不多 (chà bù duō). Close enough, innit?

Alarming

Yesterday was the lad’s last day at school, which means we’re now into the summer holiday. Usually, we’d be in the UK for some/much of this break, but this year we’re firmly entrenched in: sweltering heat, the occasional thunderstorm, rice and noodles, skating practice, mangoes and quadruple dustbin lorry rendezvous (is that also a plural?) each week. This is Taiwan Normal.

So it was that I dragged myself up to bed last night, relishing the thought of a Wednesday morning when I could sleep until I’d recovered from the rigours of the day just endured. Being a fairly well-organised sort of bloke, I’m usually careful about end-of-day procedures. Teeth cleaned, kettle boiled, lights and air-conditioners switched off, pill swallowed, washing-up left until the morning because sometimes I simply can’t be arsed, sweaty T-shirt and M&S undercrackers deposited in the laundry basket, and last but not least, alarm set. That’s about the sum of it. In view of what I’ve previously told you, there was obviously no need to set the alarm. Hurrah! I did, however, check that it wasn’t switched on. Here’s where it all went wrong. I’ll need to set you up for this, so, take a deep breath and try not to doze off. Frankly, it’s a bit dull, but such is life. Take it or leave it.

Alarms. Sleeping arrangements. Consideration. These are the players in this particular stultifying scenario. We do have an alarm clock, but I don’t like to use it as we all sleep in the same room (yes, we have lots of bedrooms, two of which have the children’s names on them, but it’s an Asian thing, apparently) so I don’t want to wake those who don’t need to be woken. I’m considerate. See? Thus, I use an old mobile phone. This one.

I’ve been using it for years. Perhaps six years; I think I bought it as an emergency phone on a return visit to the UK in 2014. It has a discreet vibrate function, so I can stick it under my pillow from where, cometh the hour, it will only wake yours truly and I can then wake the schoolboy. The only slight hiccough is that it used to switch itself on at the allotted alarm time, until maybe six months ago, when I found out to my cost that it decided that it would only work if already switched on. Luckily, it has no function as an actual phone, as it has no sim card for use in Taiwan, so having to leave it on all night is of no consequence, apart from the fact that the battery is all but buggered. Not to worry, I thought (six months ago), my Taiwan sim card is in this modern phone, so I could simply use that. In fact, this one.

Apparently, it’s known as a smartphone. It used to belong to Mrs T. Apparently she had what is known as an upgrade, so it was handed down, sans contract. I top it up with NT$100 every six months and that does me just fine. Thank you.

So, there I was, sound asleep, secure in the knowledge that said phone would wake me at 6.28am every week day. However, on the first day of the new-phone-alarm ers, at 7.03am, I woke from yet another nightmare. Inexplicably, I had slept through the alarm and the subsequent four reminders at three minute intervals, although I had no recollection of hitting the snooze option, not once, but four times. Having scrambled to get the boy to school on time, I returned to investigate. It seems I’m neither deaf, nor stupid (your view may vary). No. It seems that said smartphone’s alarm only works if the phone has not been turned off before being tucked under my pillow, which is precisely what I don’t want because it’s a working phone and it might ring in the night, or I might be zapped by all those nasty waves wriggling through my ears, deep into the inner recesses of my brain. It seems (and I confirmed this following a chat with Prof Gooooogle) that a smartphone’s alarm function only works when there is power coursing through the little blighter.

The old Samsung could do it (it could, it’s just failed), so why couldn’t its fancy antecedent? Smart, my arse.

Are you still with me? Good, ’cause the point of this whole story has yet to be made. That was the promised set up.

Recap. Last night. First night of the holiday; phone (old Samsung) switched off because I don’t need the alarm; tired; looking forward to sleeping until waking naturally (albeit with the very real threat that one or other sprog may well wake me before the optimum time, but that never changes); forgotten none of my last minute duties. Feeling smug.

Fast forward to 6.28am. After six months of not switching itself on (like it used to, remember?*), the sodding phone decided to wake me (and everyone else in the room, as it was vibrating loudly on the bedside table, rather than under my pillow as per a normal day). How the bloody hell did it know? Now that’s a smart phone. A bastard, evil phone, but a smart phone.

*I should also make it clear, for the sake of doubters of the veracity of this tale, that I have checked periodically to see if it has miraculously reverted to form. It had shown no signs of wanting to work while switched off. Not one.

A Bit Pottier

I’m now well into my late fifties, so I must have decided that this month would be a good time to do something unexpected of one so old, wise, stubborn and fragile. You’d probably never guess, so I’ll keep you in suspense for another moment or two, assuming you’ve not glanced at the tags, and the photographs.

Oh, never mind. Yes. I have just finished the first two Harry Potter books. Still five to go, I believe. The thing is, my son has had the whole set for a couple of years, just sitting there, unnoticed, unwanted, gathering dust, turning a bit brown on the edges like wot books do, but he has recently decided to dive right in and he’s already on the fourth. He’s always been an avid reader – always has his nose in a book, not unlike his gran – but for reasons unknown to me, he’s steadfastly avoided Ms Rowling’s tomes. Until now. I suppose he was just a little too young? He’s been engrossed with collections by Dahl, Blyton and Walliams, among others, all of which he’s read at least twice by my reckoning. Now, me being me, I was firmly of the opinion that the whole H Potter phenomenon was a load of old marketing bolleaux, so I had never considered even picking up a copy, let alone opening the first volume, intent on finding out for myself. I had no issue with the lad owning and reading the series, on the grounds that pretty much any reading is a good thing, isn’t it? If Ms E Blyton is/was acceptable – slightly dubious views on race, Nazis and whatnot, I seem to recall – then why not Rowling? In fact, I think this is where I was ultimately persuaded to change my opinion and challenge my assumptions. Namely, it was the fact that a certain JKR kept appearing in my Twitter feed, because she was commenting on things about which other people decided she wasn’t entitled to comment. I figured she must be some kind of demon in disguise, bent on corrupting our children, and if this were the case, I’d surely find evidence swathed in Potterishness.

None of it. It never happened. At least, two volumes in and it hasn’t yet happened. I’m not too proud to admit that I find the books rather engaging, imaginative and compelling. I can see what all the fuss was about. In fact, finding Rowling/Potter has made a pleasant alternative to my usual reading material. If not working, I tend to favour cycling stuff; the history of cycling fascinates me – biographies, auto-biographies, exposees, drugs (obvs), mechanicals, etc. – and there are a few very entertaining cycling-related reads in my ever-expanding library. I particularly recommend Tim Moore’s Gironimo. Otherwise, I tend to be reading and correcting essays and papers, the latest of which is reporting on a study of (would you believe?) the differences in the driving cultures in the UK and China, and how these have an impact on the level of collisions on the roads. The data is to be used to help those interested in designing systems for automated vehicles, and how they may be personalised to suit the preferences of the (essentially nominal) driver of the future. I shudder to think what it would be like in a self-driving car, hurtling around in the style of your average Taiwanese driver, but that’s something I shall be the first to avoid. I don’t just write this stuff, you know? It happens and I report it for your collective edification.

Getting lost for another year at Hogwarts is becoming ever more appealing as I today begin volume three. You may well smile to see father and son, side by side on the sofa, volumes three and four in hand, resepctively. Secretly, I’m hoping I can catch up and get ahead while he’s asleep, but for now I have to keep reminding someone about the concept of the ‘spoiler’.

So far so unspoilt.

Life

Life so far today.

It was 30 degrees centigrade in our living room at 8.30am when I finally succumbed and switched on the air conditioning. The contractors working on the new property immediately behind our house were already drinking beer. Beer. 5%. 8.30am. Welcome to Taiwan Normal.

Before this, on the way to school, the usual madness. Of particular note, this morning was the mask-wearing fraternity. Chap in his car, smoking his cigarette, mask clamped around his ears and under his chin. What is the thought process? At the next lights, old geezer on his motorcycle, rake tucked under his arm, mask clamped around his ears and under his chin, fag hanging from his crinkled lips, mouth and nose issuing forth clouds of blue-grey smoke wafting across the phalanx of fellow scooterists and motorcyclists edging forward, ever closer to the exhaust of the one in front. It’s okay, they’ll arrive at the next light at least 1.5 seconds sooner than they would have done otherwise.

Don’t think I’m going to allow that one to pass without further comment. A rake tucked under his arm. I looked closer. There were about 20 of them, all with rakes tucked under their arms, over their shoulders, pointing heavenward, pointing rearward, forward, downward. Pointing. Imagine the carnage if one happened to be involved in a nasty collision. I advised the boy to look up The Rake’s Progress. Hogarth, I think? More correctly, here, that should be The Rakes’ Progress. I’d hate anyone to think this was being written by a greengrocer.

A Rake’s Progress (plate 3) 1735 William Hogarth 1697-1764 Transferred from the reference collection 1973 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/T01790

On the radio – or rather the ‘USB application’ function on the car’s infotainment system – we were being treated to the joys of Jilted John’s Jilted John. Gordon is indeed a moron. I cried all the way to the chip shop.

I just realised that I’ve used the words phalanx and infotainment in the same piece. I love the former and loathe the latter, but this is 2020, so it ain’t going away any time soon, especially for those wishing to frequent a car dealership. I am somewhat confident that I have never used either word before – I even had to look up the spelling of phalanx (ooh, twice in the same paragraph!) – and certainly not in the same document. Who needs drugs when I can get high on this kind of shit?

Meanwhile, my rather beautiful daughter continues to amaze me. Her language is extraordinary, but the thing that really tickles me at the moment is the Tower. Not any old tower, but the Tower. We have a book in which one picture features a panoramic view of Paris, dominated by that Tower. Now, while criss-crossing the landscape of Annan and environs, usually on the school run, on spotting another electricity pylon, young clever-clogs exclaims rather gleefully, “Look Daddy! The Eiffel Tower!” I can just hear Monsieur Eiffel turning in his grave, although he must be getting used to it by now. I suppose it could be worse. That book could have been set on the Lancashire coast and Mr Blackpool would be the focus of this anecdote. I’m not familiar with any of his other works, but he must have been something special. They named the town after him.

Anything is Possible

That’s what they say, isn’t it? Set your mind on something and make it happen. Think positive. Reach for the stars. Follow your dreams. There’s no such word as can’t. Believe in yourself. If at first you don’t succeed…, etc., etc., etcetera!

Simple. I could go on, but what’s the point?

Simple, because it just isn’t true. I believe in myself, but only up to a point, obviously. I do believe that my world view is entirely logical and reasonable – I look, I think, I analyse, I adapt what I think and believe as and when I am presented with new knowledge, information, facts, data, cheese, or whatever – but irrespective of all this, there is simply no way that I can reach out to others who have a world view which is entirely illogical and unreasonable. Undoubtedly, I may be able to persuade one or two, but there is not the remotest chance that I could do this on a different level. I think positive and decide to follow my dreams, but these dreams are just that. Well, actually, they are nightmares, often of the recurring type. Lately, I cannot get to the airport on time; a while back, I was in a large building or hotel, unable to find my room. Night after night, my dream is to clear my head of this frustration by returning to my room, packing my bag and getting to the airport in time to catch the flight. The drugs don’t work.

This is getting rather general, so here’s a weird, random example to explain what it means to be in my world of logic and reason. It will come as no surprise that it pertains to this fair isle and its roads.

Last year, I struck up a kind of relationship with the Executive Secretary of the Ministry of Transport and Communication. ‘Struck up a relationship’ is probably not an appropriate term, here. It almost makes me think of something slightly shifty, which it wasn’t. Perhaps more accurately, I wrote to him (rather like I’d written to the President a few years previously, to no avail) voicing some concerns, so I was rather surprised and not a little flattered that he invited me to Taipei for a chat. I liked him. I still like him. He is clearly concerned about the state of the nation insofar as the death and injury rate is concerned, so he welcomed what I had to say and he continues to make noises which are encouraging to me. Better still, he gave me a nice mug* and an umbrella. I used the mug yesterday, but I can’t find the umbrella. No matter. Since my visit, I have sent him countless examples of exactly the kinds of things we discussed, and a few others which didn’t make it into our chat, always centred on the general behaviour I witness every day, here on the roads of Taiwan. Did I mention that he is the Executive Secretary? Yes, I think I did. Herein lies the problem.

For all the positive signals coming from his office (indeed, directly from his own emails in response to my, erm…, forthright observations), I have yet to see a single change. Not a one. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Nowt. This isn’t simply idle bitching on my part. Look at it this way, with another quite specific example. A few weeks ago, I sent examples of the inexplicable, irregular, irrational, incredible, idiotic application of speed limits in the area. I literally sent photographs showing the roads and identified the speed limits in place. In his response, he stated, and I quote: “Totally agree. It seems unreasonable for the speed limit.” In spite of what I said earlier, I understand that nothing is really that simple when it comes to this sort of thing (what with laws, committees, egos, politics, ignorance, intransigence, stupidity, all needing to be considered) but this is where I am on this particular thread. If anything is possible, if I believe (in myself), if I think positive, if I provide examples and incontrovertible evidence of irrational, illogical, inconsistent, inexplicable, idiotic behavior, and if the Executive Secretary agrees with me, and still nothing is going to change, what else is there to do but sit down and weep? It is simply impossible to make any headway. How can a nation so paranoid about health risks (think Covid-19) be so uninterested in other tangible, ever-present, highly visible, easily nullified, almost entirely avoidable, health risks? The numbers speak for themselves. Eight deaths have been attributed to the virus. Meanwhile, eight deaths per day happen on the roads, not to mention the huge number of injuries (largely entirely avoidable) suffered by young and old alike.

The limit here is 50km/h (that’s about 30mph). Why?

This is equally true in other facets of life, and my life in particular. There are countless things I have had to endure, or eventually reject, in spite of explaining why they cause me distress and/or irritation and further explaining a simple quick fix. On the grand scale of things, they are insignificant, but they make a difference. Okay, this example is a little ‘specialist’, so bear with me. I have tried on many occasions to persuade members of my cycling team and other assorted training mates to ride a simple ‘through and off’ paceline. There’s little point in explaining how and why it works and why it is important, but it is one of the fundamental skills necessary to develop as a competitive cyclist, and many of those with whom I ride, or have ridden, are fit and strong and more than capable of riding in the prescribed (and widely-understood method), but they seem simply incapable of adjusting their behaviour. Perhaps they are unwilling, what with me being a foreigner trying to show them how to do it, and them risking losing face by conceding that I may actually know what I’m talking about. I now ride almost exclusively by myself.

My loss, I suppose. I can’t win. I could jack it all in, but then I’d lose again.

*I have no idea what’s going on, but I have just spotted that it is marked “Global Limited Addition 100 Pieces”. It must be worth a pretty penny. I mean dollar.

Before the War

A long time ago, even before we became embroiled in what we now know as the Second World War, a little chap was born in the Royal County (as he now likes to call it, and probably always has, now I come to think about it). Precisely two months after he was born, war was declared. I ain’t no historian, but I do know that particular date, what with it having been mentioned annually for the past Gawd knows how many years, at this time of the year. I suppose it’s a rather macabre kind of memory, and I’d rather he’d have been born two months before the declaration of Eternal World Peace, or the establishment of the Free Chocolate for All Society. Surely, by now there is one of those, right?

Back to the once-little chap from Berkshire. Last year, as he walked in to the kitchen to be greeted by yours truly and our two sprogs. Happy Birthday Dad/Grandad! “Urgh! Thanks. I never thought I’d make it.” To be fair, he’d told me (quite seriously) some ten years previously that anything beyond the fabled three-score-and-ten was “a bonus”, so the eternal pessimist must now be feeling rather smug to have blagged another 16% and counting in this life. I just wish we could have been there this year, but you know how it is?

Now, because English is such a brilliantly awkward language (see previous post), my assertion that I ain’t no historian is technically correct. Double negative. I have degrees in history, or at least the History of Art. I only mention this because something caught my eye this morning, and it got me thinking. Here’s the sequence: Algeria ‘trending’ on Twitter; curious as to why, I click; among other things, I read this:

“just found out that it’s actually a 16-year-old Algerian girl who influenced BOTH Picasso and Matisse. and. No one gives a rat’s ass about her work??? people didn’t even bother to remember her name…unlike P*casso [sic] & Matisse who both became legends..”

I’m curious; the artist is Baya Mahieddine; I’m not familiar with the name; I look her up; born 1931, first exhibition in 1947; I’m sure Picasso and Matisse were pretty well established by then; I wonder, for the umpteenth time, about the danger of stuff being presented through social media. Here, the tone of the tweet implies that this ‘girl’ was rather significant in the lives and careers of the two Masters, but she has been ignored, what with being female and Algerian and all that. A few minutes of research would allow anyone to establish that Matisse died in 1954 and Picasso in 1973, yet the implication is that they “became legends” after their having encountered young Baya. Any influence could hardly have been major. The point is, the poorly-informed and hard/lazy of thinking brigade could easily have been persuaded that this is yet another example of history unjustly editing out an individual, and this is perhaps a few steps away from another statue toppling episode.

This then reminded me that I had been chatting with a local fellow cyclist the other day. I think we agreed that it might be a good idea if citizens were required to pass a test of some sort before being allowed to vote (or to have children – he is a teacher, so I’ll accept his wider experience on this), and I know that it sounds like a rather hideous proposition, until you sit down and accept that the poorly-informed hard/lazy of thinking brigade (that’s about as polite as I can be) have elected some rather hideous leaders in recent years, and some of those more recent than others.

That War may never have been declared.

Choice

I’ve ventured into Costco territory once or twice on here in the past. It’s one of those places, a bit like/a lot like Ikea, which I kind of love and loath in equal measure.

I go to Costco about every ten days, on average, I’d say. I tend to dash in, grab what I want and dash out again, usually just after opening before the place fills with, well, people. I love the fact that I can buy 10,000 chicken breasts and a 67-inch flat-screen television under the same roof. The other week, I noted that I could even buy a surfboard. I bet they positively fly out of the doors. At least, I think they were surfbords. The boxes were about twice the length of my car. I hate the fact that other people are allowed to shop at the same time as me.

I know I’m going to lapse into full-on grumpy old man mode, but let me just get this off my chest. There is a chiller cabinet. It has about a billion cartons of milk awaiting customers. One certainty of a trip to Costco is that I always buy milk. Always. When I say a billion cartons, of course I mean a fucking shedload, all produced and packed on the same day, or (if I’m being realistic and reasonable) perhaps a day or two apart. The ‘use buy/best before’ date is invariably approximately a month away. Today’s cartons: 31st July 2020. See? Just what is it, then, that persuades every other purchaser of said white gold to stand around for five minutes, sorting through the boxes before finally selecting a pair of cartons that seems to fit their selection criteria? They are all the fucking same! “Just pick up the cartons and get out of my way, you imbeciles! Oh, and if you hurry, you might just be able to enjoy another free morsel of plastic American cheese, but you’ll have to queue for ten minutes. Fear not, you will make up the time on the way home when you ignore all the sodding red lights for which you can’t be bothered to wait!” That’s how it goes in my head. Thankfully, my Chinese has not yet advanced enough beyond the confident ordering of a cup of coffee in a 7-11, but the day will surely come when I can vent my spleen in tone perfect mandarin with gay abandon. Milk ditherers of Taiwan, you have been warned!

You know what? I think Gay Abandon would make a good name for a character in that novel I’m never going to write. She’s a down-at-heel journalist, just about to break a story that will change her fortunes. I’ve yet to figure out the story. You might want to check back in about three years. Gay’s got legs, I reckon.

Now, that has reminded me of something else. Back in my university days, there we were sat in a lecture about something. Well, it may have been about other. Yes, other. That was it. Either way, the lecturer made a comment/observation/assertion about the male gaze. Because I’m rather lazy, I’ve just half-inched this from Wikipedia, but it is kind of crucial to the anecdote:

“In feminist theory, the male gaze is the act of depicting women and the world, in the visual arts and in literature, from a masculine, heterosexual perspective that presents and represents women as sexual objects for the pleasure of the male viewer.”

My dear old (then young) mate, Tom, was on a different planet. There he was thinking, “what’s all this got to do with male gays?” Oh, how we laughed. English is such a brilliantly awkward language.

It’s Something Sharp

I ended my last post with the ongoing conundrum concerned with “the point”, and it has taken me a week to begin to drag myself out of the ever-present cloying trough of acute apathy. I know this will be read by a few, and I suppose that is what drives me on, but it is an essentially futile gesture. It is, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve been contemplating these past seven days, when I’ve not been swearing at my rim/spokes/nipples/hub on a little project I’ve got going on in the garage, or riding down to Kaohsiung and back on consecutive days in blistering heat. It was the Dragon Boat Festival weekend, you see, so I was participating in a family do (an all-you-can-eat-buffet, since you asked) in the city, more of which later. I’ve never seen a dragon boat in all my time out here, but I know all about the festival, simply because my daughter has a Peppa Pig book dealing with the same. Granddad Dog had a big one; Grandpa Pig’s was much smaller.

Contemplating the point – in itself rather a pointless pastime – I have come to the conclusion that, in the grand scheme of stuff*, there are very few things, people or events that really have made a difference to our lives.

*I just paused to see what Goooogle could offer me a propos “the grand scheme of things”, and I found myself transported into a world I’d never imagined. As with previous assertions, trust me when I tell you that this was one of the images which cropped up:

I shat you not, but forget everything else that follows; this has just made my day. Nay, my year, which is just as well, what with being half way through 2020 already.

Anyway, back in the groove with the old contemplatory hat on, it struck me that in a world obsessed with celebrity and fame, and when we hear about something ‘going viral’, it is pretty much the same on all levels, by which I mean that the subject, the individuals, the video clips, the memes, the gifs, and all the rest of the multitude of offerings fired down the line to our multitude of devices, are all essentially irrelevant. Pap. Ephemeral. Bollocks. Vacuous**. Meaningless.

**Seriously, I just paused (again) and checked Goooogle to ensure the spelling was correct. Top of the page – stories about the orange buffoon, Trump. There is a God, and she works for Goooogle. Had that lad not shat in the kettle, this would have made my day/year.

Think about it. Shakespeare, Einstein, the Wright Brothers, Monty Python, Alexander Graham Bell, Newton, Darwin, The Beatles, that dog that could say “sausages”, Dickens, the bloke behind Apple whose name escapes me just now, Johnny Rotten, Muhammad Ali, Father Christmas, Berners-Lee, Johannes Gutenberg, Biro, Pele, Dunlop, Eddy Merckx. A small selection of people who actually made a difference to just about everything and everybody (I realise that your views may differ, but work with me for a moment). They’d all be worth having as a guest at the dinner table, and at least I’d know what to prepare for that smartarse dog. Compare these with countless nobodies who flare up and burn out. Who really cares what they have to say, or what they can do? So what? Fifteen minutes is far too long.

Thus, here I sit, wasting my time, wasting your time. Sorry about that. I think, deep down, I am searching for that moment at which I realise just why I am here doing what I do, hoping that in 300 years time, in classrooms around the globe, they’ll be discussing my influence on the art of pointless prattling to a minuscule proportion of the population of this planet we call Earth.

Earth globe cloud map. Side of the Asia and Australia. The Earth texture of this image furnished by NASA. (http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/view.php?id=57735)

As for the aforementioned buffet, we had 2.5 hours (that’s 150 minutes) to eat and drink as much as possible. I was absolutely stuffed after about 0.5, but, you know…? The thing is, they even have alcohol. Bottles of wine, draught beer. You just rock up and help yourself. Imagine that in Nottingham, or Portsmouth, or Belfast, or anywhere in the UK/Belgium/France, etc. Carnage. Queues at many of the dishes, but hardly any business on the booze aisle. Some things about Taiwan are bloody ace. Come and stay. Bring your wallet. You won’t regret it.