Amnesty

(Written 18/09/2012.)

An item on the local news tonight mentioned a dim person who popped into their local police station with a live hand grenade. Usual story, been using it as a paperweight for years, just thought they ought to have it checked, ho ho, where are you all going and what do you mean, the detonator's still in it, you stupid git?

Now, this kind of thing happens with stunning regularity. Especially when the cops announce an amnesty, when there's always someone who wheels in a Gatling gun they've been using as an ornament, a 5,000 pound bomb used as a doorstop, or a biological weapon that's been converted to a novelty pepper-grinder. So, being of a fanciful turn of mind, I offer this...


Police in Lewisham were surprised this morning when a woman handed in a box containing the Second World War. The war, last seen sixty-seven years ago, was thought to have been stolen and in a private collection somewhere, although German and Japanese authorities maintained it was lost. "I was having a clear-out," said Mrs Gwen Daft, "And I found it amongst some old stuff of my Dad's. I did think of taking it to a museum, but I thought it would be safest to have the police check it first."

Army explosive experts later confirmed that the Second World War was potentially still dangerous, but well-preserved for its age. "This could have created a very hazardous situation", said Second Lt. Larry Bernt-Eyebrows of the Royal Fusiliers. "Mrs Daft walked the length of Lewisham High St with the Second World War in an Asda carrier bag. If she'd dropped it... well, I don't like to think of the consequences."

After an investigation, the Second World War was evacuated, and made safe by means of a controlled explosion. Readers should note that Catford no longer exists.

Captain Scourageous of the Metropolitan Police later issued the following advice: "If anyone has an old military action, don't assume it has been defused. Only last month,officers discovered the Austro-Prussian War of 1866 on a windowsill in Battersea during a routine search of the property. Five years ago the Mongol invasion of Europe (1236-1240) was left outside a public house in Brixton. Both could have caused severe injury to passers-by and damaged neighbouring houses. It's always best to have such items checked by the police, whether it be a small skirmish, a minor battle or a world-wide conflagration. They may look safe, especially after the passage of many years, but please, don't take the chance."

Gwen Daft told our reporter that she was just glad to have the Second World War out of the house. "It's cleared enough space for our new settee", she said. "And anyway, the more I read about that Adolf Hitler, the less I like him."

(I wrote the above for a group I belong to, and it generated this response, and my further reply. Any chance to extend the nonsense...)

> Look - this isn't quite as funny as you think - I happen to know that at
> least some of it is buried under the paving slab at the foot of the
> driveway of (house number removed) Eltham Hill, London SE9 - my dad and his brothers > put it there! It's the slab which wobbles if you stand on it ...

Sorry, dear, but what I think you have there is a slab of ersatz Second World War. There was a lot of it around at the time, and some of it was quite well crafted. The tremendous distribution problems of those years meant that parts of Northern France had far too much Second World War, while Gloucestershire, for example, had very little. Naturally, a black market developed, and many low types (or "Nazis" as they were known at the time) tried to smuggle the Second World War into this country. Although they had a little success early on, later attempts were invariably stopped at the border by Customs and other agencies.

My mother remembers being hailed one night on Tottenham Court Road by a "spiv" in a darkened doorway who claimed to have a blitzkrieg in his pocket. But enough of her leisure pursuits. Later, she was offered the Norsk Hydro "heavy water" Commando raid at a long price, with an option on the battle of Monte Cassino. "But when I looked at it in the light, it was all sawdust and cow gum", she told me, adding "Much like the sausages our butcher used to sell."

Some quite exceptional fakes of the Second World War were produced, mainly for, and by, the American market. They're easily recognised these days, though, because the dates are all wrong - "First World War, 1917-1918" and "Second World War, 1941-1945.

May I suggest that you retrieve whatever lies under the paving slab in Eltham and take a good look at it? If you find Audie Murphy, John Wayne or Leni Reifenstahl inside, it's probably a fake of foreign origin. As for British Second World War fakes, cheerful Cockneys are the invariable giveaway, as are gorgeous girlfriends of honest squaddies, who refuse all male company while they wait for Bill to come home. Neither existed, then or now.

Hope this clarifies things.

Jeremy Hunt, insane-o-naut

(Written 07/10/2012)

I see from the news that Minister for making short, sharp quacking noises, Jeremy Hunt (also claiming to be Minister for Health, but I don't have to believe that if I don't want to) has proposed that the limit for abortions should be reduced to twelve weeks.

Now, I wouldn't normally offer a single word on such an emotive subject, especially as it was comprehensively explained to me many, many years ago that "No uterus, no opinion" is the correct stance, but even I know that this is wrong. Some people are against abortion, and they have good personal reasons for taking that view. For them, though, this will not be pleasing news, as only a reduction to zero weeks will suit them. Others may have good reasons for allowing abortion in certain circumstances only. Yet more may be happy with abortion on demand, and may be able to justify it entirely. For those groups, too, this proposal will not be good news.

Whether I share any of those views is neither here nor there. What I do know is that some menopausal women may not realise that they are pregnant by the twelve week stage. In fact, some only realise it about five minutes before the baby appears, but even I know that's really too late to consider a termination. Women with anorexia or other body issues may not know they are pregnant until well into the second trimester. Same goes for certain drug users. There are others who fall into the same category, all of them surprised by their doctor's diagnosis. If Hunt has his way, some of those women will be condemned to carrying a child to full term (others will be delighted, of course, but my concern is not with them). This is wrong, with a capital WRONG.

The man is an idiot.

Jeremy Hunt is a believer in, and advocate of homoeopathy. Such a belief should automatically disbar him from being Minister for Health, if for nothing other than health professionals will not be able to talk to him and retain a straight face. There is no scientific research that supports homoeopathy, in fact every single paper on it can be summarised as "This theory is a pile of dingo's kidneys." Prove it for yourself, friends! Give a child a glass of orange squash. Allow them to drink it, yet retain a drop or two in the glass. Refill the glass with water, hand it to your tiny research assistant, bid them drink, then try to persuade them that it's "more orange-y".

Homoeopathy presumes that water has a rudimentary intelligence, in that it has a "memory" of the substance that was diluted in it. Pshaw!, I say. And bollox, too. Hunt is clearly a fool.

Just how big a fool, though?

Well, this is the chap who was summoned to the Levinson Enquiry and asked searching questions about his relationship with the Murdoch Empire, with specific reference to the takeover of BSkyB, what with all the emails saying "We met Jeremy Hunt and he agreed we ought to take it over, plus he said he'd do all he could to help us" and that. Despite the emails, diary entries, and more corroborating evidence, our current Minister for Health maintained throughout that he had no recollection of any relationship with the Murdochs. No memory of anything at all, really.

In other words, Jeremy Hunt has less intelligence than WATER.

My funeral

(Written 30/04/2015, in response to a Facebook advert suggesting I save for my funeral costs.)

Yes, I realise they're tailored to my browsing history, so I see a lot of adverts for bands, booze and fast cars. Also goats, sadly. Tonight, though, my dander is well and truly up!

 

"Funeral dealt with?" enquires an ad. "Aged 56? Get £10,000 of life cover for £1.16 a week. Pay bills or leave a cash gift!" The ad is illustrated by a sprightly older chap wearing glasses so thick he could be confused with Colonel Blink, The Short-Sighted Gink (apologies to younger pals who may never have seen "The Beezer" comic, where said military gentleman appeared), who is celebrating his funereal readiness with a happy thumbs up. Seventy years ago, it would have been the stock photo for a newspaper front page article headed "Londoners tell Hitler 'We can take it!'"

 

No, my funeral isn't dealt with. Not unless you consider telling my nearest and dearest that I want the William Croft arrangement of the Burial Service - surely, the greatest, most beautiful music ever written - "Who Knows Where The Time Goes", Jon and Vangelis' "I'll Find My Way Home" (a great shout of faith) and the Cropredy Chorale singing and playing "Meet On The Ledge" at the end, followed by "Launch Chorus" from Apollo 13 at the crematorium.

 

By "dealt with", I assume that the advertisers mean "paid for", and the answer to that is a firm "No, and pray fuck off." I intend to die with a negative bank balance, owing money to many credit card companies, also said nearest and dearest. However, that is for the future, and not for consideration in the present - a present where I have only recently let go of my youth. And that took a Court Order, delivered by a biased judge who was swayed by the farcical arguments of the Goat Protection Squad. In short, I now find myself entering early middle age, a state whose requirements I refuse to comply with on the grounds that I was brought here against my will. (Personally, I think the rum'n'rohypnol tinctures were, in hindsight, a mistake.)

 

Deal with my funeral? Shan't! I won't be there, and, apart from the music, I frankly don't care what happens. Shove me in an old cardboard box, don't spend money on a coffin, especially money that could be better employed for the booze-up afterwards.

 

It is for the same reasons that I do not respond to the urging of Michael Parkinson and Julie Walters to pay into their "avoid an embarrassing death" funds. "It will pay for those final costs", they say, in an understanding tone, as if there is something shameful about dying without the readies to settle the end-of-life bills. To which I respond "Sez you".

 

My old friend Paul Douglas's uncle ordered a pint in one of Portsmouth's most comedic pubs, the Fawcett Inn (on Fawcett Road, naturally). The foaming glass was duly served, he took a gulp, pronounced it excellent, then went a funny colour and fell to the ground, the victim of a massive heart attack. Now, Noel Coward once remarked that to be born an Englishman is the equivalent of being born one drink up. Dougie's uncle died one drink ahead, as he hadn't paid for the pint, and the general feeling in the Fawcett Inn was that going through uncle's pockets for the cash might be misinterpreted if the ambulance crew or the police stepped in at the wrong moment.

 

Now, that's the way I want to go! One drink up, with enemies surprised to be named in my Will - "He left you his Visa card. We take cheques..." Deal with my funeral? What, when there's so much more music to be listened to? More women to meet? More sunny days? More food experiments to be carried out, like the pineapple jelly I made with coconut milk last weekend? (And, BTW, OMG.)

 

No, I'm too young for all that... or, at least, to the casual observer, I act too young for that. Most of the schoolfriends I am in contact with are, these days, very much older than I am. They're surprised that I go to music festivals, they don't really know what a podcast is, they certainly wouldn't download one, they don't go to folk clubs, and they don't understand trance music. The drugs they take are not recreational, they're prescribed.

 

I truly do not intend to die anytime soon, and I certainly don't intend to die with anything organised.

Another Govt IT system that doesn't work, apparently

(Written 18/9/2013)

 

I see the latest Universal Credit IT system project has been roundly condemned for being a bit useless. I am not surprised one bit.

 

Systems are fairly easy to design and code. Take it from me, I am a qualified systems analyst, accredited by the University of Birmingham. Ask me to design a system that assesses all the benefits a claimant is entitled to and I'll give you one in about three months. Ask me for a system that will assess the benefits that several million people are entitled to and I'll deliver it a few months later. What's more, it will work seamlessly within the parameters you've specified.

 

So why don't Govt IT projects work - ever? Because of useless Ministers who try to make political capital out of what they think will be delivered, and useless Civil Servants who think they know best.

 

Look, getting a computer to take certain values, manipulate them a bit, shove the result into a formula and use the final value to initiate a monetary bank transfer is simple if you have the ability to break down the sequence into logical steps and a tame programmer to work with. Once you can do that for one claimant, you can do it for a million - a billion, if you're prepared to use enough resources. If it works for one transaction, it'll work for (n) transactions.

 

What tends to go wrong, though, and causes massive delays, is when people either forget to mention an element of the kernel formula that ought to have been drawn to the hapless analyst's attention on day one ("Yes, people on sickness benefit don't qualify for tax relief on their bloat-mobiles, but registered disabled chubbies can claim an allowance for them if they have no other transport. It's obvious, why did you leave that out?") or they change the specified parameters ("The Minister has told the House that your system will also root out illegal benefit claims, please build that in before 'go live' testing starts next week. Some kind of fingerprint or iris recognition technology would be best.")

 

You see, what happens then is that the system build team have to add some more steps to the process diagram, run their theoretical systems tests again to make sure that all the right benefits go to all the right claimants, then add several hundred/thousand lines of code, and run a test of the program to make sure that all the screens don't light up with <"Out of cheese error"> (or, worse:

 

<Error 3791 - missing subroutine>

<Error 939 - divide by zero error>

<Error 7302 - divide by error 5804 error>

<Error 1603 - missing ")">  Ho, ho... but where?)

 

Then, when everything seems to work, both theoretically and without crashing dependant systems ("Claimants bank accounts frozen! Millions starve!" - Daily Mail), test scenarios can be run. Assuming that they all produce the correct results - and if they don't, we all go back to the start of the last paragraph, we do not pass "GO", but we still get paid the £200 a day - we move on to load testing.

 

This is where all the data is put onto the system, while we wait to see if the servers can take it. When they can't, we remind our masters that "buying better servers" was one of the items they removed from the system spec because their own in-house Scotty said that the engines could take it. And that extra dilythium crystals would make the project "Verra, verra expensive, Captain."

 

The person responsible for buying adequate servers is actually a committee of 30 that rarely makes a decision due to the conflicting interests of its members. Imagine an early-adopter techno-geek, a time-served C++ programmer and a parsimonious skinflint trying to arrive at a server-buying policy that will be acceptable to a Minister who struggles to find the "Start" button on his laptop, then multiply the confusion by six and you'll realise why an urgent project-saving decision can take three months and five meetings before it's implemented.

 

So, now the data loads without bringing down other essential systems ("Bulgarian scroungers walk through open borders as passport recognition systems fail!" - Daily Mail) and it's time to see if the system - which is already a few months overdue and over budget - can cope with many multiple operations at the same time. To test this, around a hundred Civil Servants are temporarily relieved from their duties and put in front of PCs, then handed a script and told not to deviate from it. The script runs along the lines of:

 

Press button "A"

Now click on "New claimant"

Choose "Romanian" from the drop-down list

Click on "Asylum seeker"

For "Dependant children", choose "4"

For "Sort Code", enter "11-11-12" and "123456" for Account Number

Click "Done"

The result is £0.00.

Please raise your hand if you get any other result, including <Out of cheese> error.

 

Many of the scripts run other more complex or simpler scenarios, and they're kept at it all day while Scotty looks at the load levels and mutters. Finally, it seems that everything works.

 

So now the training team can go to work. They were recruited quite a long time ago (just before the bloat-mobile confusion happened) so that they could document the system in ways the eventual users could understand. These documents are known as "manuals", and they contain many screenshots with helpful arrows labelled "Press this button" and the like. They have also been devising training scenarios and stitching them together into 90 minute presentations. Four such presentations will eventually become one training day. The trainers, too, are costing the project £200 a day, plus expenses.

 

The training team are mightily pissed off, because they are now on version seven of the manuals due to the ever-changing screens that the project build team are amending. On the plus side, they're at the top of their leaderboards on Bejewelled Blitz, they're enjoying their hotels and the owners of various ethnic restaurants welcome the distribution of their chargeable expenses.

 

Now that the system works, and there's a training programme that reflects the current build, a two-month training schedule that's at least six months overdue can start. And here's where the real problems arrive, because most Civil Servants will avoid training on new systems with might, main and meetings. I speak from experience. Most training sessions will run at 75% capacity. Meaning that the two-month training schedule is extended by a month to pick up the no-shows, the final few of which have to be dragged in with whaling harpoons as they claim that they have an urgent meeting concerning national security with the Prime Minister. At Buckingham Palace.

 

You have a working system and trained staff. It's nearly a year overdue, you've bought servers that were not included in the project cost and during that year-long over-run you've been employing trainers earnig £200 a day from an agency that charges £600 a day for each one and a system build team from the people who made the software. They're usually more expensive than trainers.

 

"Go Live" day coincides with Budget Day. The Chancellor of the Exchequer announces significant changes to the benefits system, changes that have been secret to prevent press leaks. We all start again...

 

My best advice for project managers? Nail the system parameters down tight, refuse to accept any changes to it - ("The bloat-mobile tax allowance is now called Fatties On Castors, please change the relevant screens." "Tough, you're getting what you paid for.") and insist on quality kit that copes with almost anything from day one.

 

The final system still won't work, of course, but it will be delivered on time and on budget. And in the crazy world that is Government project management, that's much more important than a system that works properly.

 

Just ask ATOS.