Witnesses

I've just read an interesting article on psychologist Alfred Binet, the man responsible for the first IQ tests. He wanted to use them to find ways to help those with learning difficulties, and not to highlight those difficulties as weaknesses. He thought it was as important how you asked a question as the question itself. A technique which highlights how the results of questioning can be warped by the questioner is 'interrogative suggestibility'. Just for fun (don't phone in), here's an example:

Case 1:

Kevin spots the actor Terrence Stamp in Oxford Street and says 'hi'

Kevin spots the actor Terrence Stamp passing in a 73 bus the day after.

When Kevin tells Rachel, she says that Terrence Stamp was being interviewed on Radio 2 at the same time as either of these sightings, what is Kevin's defense?

This isn't a court-of-law situation, so I'm not going to pretend to know the correct procedure for analysing the evidence, but just for fun...

I believe the first sighting to be true because Kevin spoke to the actor. Celebrities are used to being recognised (some positively crave it, especially Nick Grimshaw, the idiot), so to say hello to a complete stranger is unusual in London. It is possible that the person looks like Terrence Stamp and is used to being mistaken for him, or is the sort of person who says hello to strangers on the streets of London. A weirdo.

If we believe the first sighting I think it is logical that the second also occurred. If you've seen Terrence Stamp in the street AND spoken to him, why would you make up a story about seeing him on a bus? It is possible it's the same weirdo again, but the odds are mounting against it.

If Kevin saw Terrence Stamp on one, maybe two occasions, the Radio 2 interview could have been pre-recorded (and Steve Wright, the bastard, pretended that it was happening live). The second sighting is easier to dismiss as wishful thinking, or 'having Terrence Bloody Stamp on your mind too much'. Watch the road for heaven's sake, it's dangerous out there.

One way the prosecution could try to unseat Kevin would be to use interrogative suggestibility and ask the following question:

'What colour scarf was Terence Stamp wearing?'

When Kevin thinks long and hard (or long and woolly eh? Eh? Oh never mind) and answers: 'Brown, I think.' And the prosecution shouts: 'HA! We know for a fact that Terrence Stamp has never worn a scarf, brown or otherwise!' You know that they have used interrogative suggestibility in its evilest form. 

It could be enough to convince the jury that Kevin was making it up, which is perhaps better than being found guilty of stalking Terrence Stamp. 

Dismissed.

The Not So Big Questions

"Will watching 'The Great British Bake-Off' make me put on weight?"
Clive

"If a mobile phone has loads of apps on it, is it heavier?"
Wendy


"How heavy is a memory?"
Samsonite®


Three questions, or possibly the same question. Let's take them one at a time.

Clive is being rhetorical when asking if merely watching 'The Great British Bake-Off' is going to result in him gaining weight. The implication is that watching Mary Berry and Doc Hollywood presiding over endless sugary dessert foods will induce Clive to either take up baking, or go to Marks & Spencer and purchase four chocolate eclairs and eat them all at once with a cup of tea. You could argue that if he takes up baking but shows a will of steel, he could ration himself to a tiny portion of cake, or give ALL his cakes away to the poor or greedy. If he takes the M&S option, all is lost.

Logically, we must answer "no". The evidence linking Clive's gain of two stones after the first show of the last series of 'The Great British Bake-Off' is purely circumstantial. The eclairs were on 'special' that week anyway.

Now, to mobiles. Your 'phone weighs 132 grammes, you add an app, ('Facebook', for argument's sake) which is 48.9 MB of whatever-that-is, does this make your iPhone (other devices are available) heavier? I tried it, and the kitchen scales were not sensitive enough to give a change of reading.

Logically, I think the answer can't be "no, it gets lighter."Adding things to things never makes them smaller, unless it's a wolf to a flock of sheep. There is, however, a way in which the answer could be: "it stays the same." I'm no scientist (so take that back!), but the 'phone could have a weight, or more appropriately mass, that is capable of holding a certain amount of apps. When the 'phone's capacity is full it simply refuses any new apps, photos etc. After all, there is no physical feed to the device when adding apps, and no wires are needed. I'm going to guess that the "cloud" is a weightless one.

And finally to Samsonite®. Their new ad starts with the line: "How heavy is a memory?" Like Clive, the (M)admen are being rhetorical, in this case to falsely suggest that the most important part of any holiday is your suitcase. In the same way, the new UPS ad tries to take credit for all the thrusting new businesses in the world forging ahead and changing the world. Yeah right, it's all down to the post guy. The new Samsonite® suitcases are quite light, apparently; but they've been making the buggers for ages. So, big deal. A memory weighs the same as an app; it's the dirty pants and stolen towels that make a return journey more exhausting.

The First Cut

You are on Twitter and someone is annoying you. Not trolling, or being deliberately offensive to anyone in particular, just annoying. You know the ones, they pick a subject and won't let it lie, they choose to relay a 140 character missive over eight tweets

like

this

and you see the one that says "this" first, and have to check their feed to find out what "this" refers to and it turns out it's only "or that". That. It doesn't matter how they annoy you, they annoy you, so they have to go from your timeline or you'll have to read that book you got for Christmas or tidy up instead of going on Twitter. There are ways to do this.

1. Muting. This is a relatively new thing on Twitter (I'm always late to this stuff, you're putting quoted tweets in little boxes now, so each tweet has a subsection attached which has to be read before/after the one you're doing and it means the 140 character limit which makes Twitter such fun to deal with is blown out the window stop it now!), where was I? Oh yes, muting.

Muting is the stupidest, lamest, lilly-livered way of removing arseholes from your timeline.

"I can't stand what that guy's saying and he holds no interest for me whatsoever, but instead of walking away from him I'll carry on standing next to him, but I'll cover my ears up."
No-one, ever.

Then there's 2. Blocking. I've read some very sensible pieces on blocking as The Way Forward®, and it is a very logical solution. With one swipe the dick is erased from your Twitter experience. Okay, you might see him (and let us not be coy here, it is nearly always a him) and his @ mentioned in one of those group conversations, the subject of which you have no idea because some of the people involved are in locked accounts and others have blocked you... where was I? Blocking is the scientific, clean, fair way to get rid of him. He will just see his follower/followee numbers reduced by one and think another spam bot has been reported. You never interacted with him, nor he with you. No problem, move on.

But wait. You want him to know that you've blocked him, don't you? If you block you've let him off scot-free for moaning all day about lame celebrities and then bragging about his article in the paper that's really, really lame AND FULL OF TYPOS TOO. He might, at some point in the future, click on your @ thinking: "Didn't that guy follow me once?", only to discover the terrible truth. This would be sweet: he'd sit back in his armchair, reach for the brandy and realise someone out there doesn't think he's the absolute arbiter of taste he thinks he is. Sweet indeed, but there is no way of guaranteeing this will happen, and sitting in your armchair waiting for it to possibly happen will be a much more stressful and unrewarding experience than the one he might have to go through.

Then there's 3. Soft-blocking. For those at the back, this is where you block then immediately unblock, a sort of "my mistake for following in the first place, sorry". There is no place for soft-blocking in this particular story.

And finally there's 4. Unfollowing. Aha, didn't see that one coming did you? I now believe that good old-fashioned unfollowing is the deepest cut of all. Why? Because I guarantee that the stain in question checks who is unfollowing him on a weekly, daily, perhaps minutely basis. Of course he is, imagine the embarrassment of him exchanging dull pleasantries with a minor celebrity who has a few more followers than him, only to find that they ditched him months ago. He can't take that risk. So unfollow, and soon enough he'll be doing that armchair/brandy thing and mwahahahah etc.

But don't delay, best if it were done quickly, lest you find he gets in first and does you.

Mike Yarwood

Some of you will be old enough to remember the Mike Yarwood show. He did impressions. At the end of the show, he'd sign off with: "And this is me." My dad would then shout: "We know!" The implication being that all of Mike Yarwood's impressions sounded like him, putting on a bit of a voice. His Eddie Waring was good, we'll give him that, but everyone could do Eddie Waring.

What did he mean by "and this is me"? We have two options:

a) I have been an absolute genius for the last half hour, and only this sign that I am returning to my own personality can convince you that I'm not doing an impression of a third party, also called Mike Yarwood.

b) This is an impression of me; none of you know what I sound like in real life, and only my genius can portray it.

Whichever it was, Mike Yarwood's voice, or 'Mike Yarwood's' voice, was the dullest in the show.

If we take him at his word, and assume that he was simply talking as Mike Yarwood, using an unaffected *Mike Yarwood voice*, it begs the question: is it possible to do an impression of yourself? Perhaps you had a cassette machine as a kid; do you remember the fist time you heard your own voice? To most I think it came as a shock, for some reason your ears, which were as close to that voice as anything else (and built to hear things, goddammit), didn't give you the real thing. Because your voice sounded normal, apart from not being what you quite expected, you may not be tempted to do an impression of it. It would be futile too, you're not that silly.

One man who may have attempted an impression of himself is Michael Caine. How many times must he have pitched up at an interview, only to be asked once again: "Have you ever said: 'not a lot of people know that'?" I seem to remember him putting on that voice to join in, so as not to sound like a grump. Poor sod. I do however have evidence that the self-impression can, and has, been done.

Working in a University kitchen, there was one of our number (I'll call him 'Kevin' because it isn't his name) who had a particular speech pattern he used when expressing disdain at others, or life in general. If, for instance, Kevin thought the menu particularly dull, he would list the dishes that he would add to pep it up.

The list would start quietly:
"Ham & chips, gammon,..."
But, as the ideas flowed, and the realisation struck that there were so many dishes ignored by the powers that be, the voice would growl, growl some more, and increase in volume with each addition:
"..SHEPHERRRRRDS PIE!!,  STEAK AAAAND KIDNEY PIE!!!..."

After a while, most of the others in the kitchen could do a pretty good impression of this, and we'd look for excuses to start a list of our own. Kevin didn't seem to realise that we were doing an impression of him, and eventually the day came when he did an impression of one of us, doing an impression of him. And what did it sound like? The same, only louder. A bit disappointing really.



P.S. If you want to know how to do an impression on Twitter, here's how:

Frank Spencer:

*Frank Spencer face* *Frank Spencer voice* "Ooh, Betty."

You're welcome.

Being Here

Hello.

I'm studying philosophy, but before we get onto the serious stuff, we are being gently taught the arts past & present. So apart from some sketches on Plato (and Socrates by association), I'm still feeding off scraps and old Monty Python sketches.

BEING. Apparently this is a biggie. We've been taught that Buddhism sees all sentient beings as equal; you live, you die, you come back and do it all over again, unless you become enlightened. But today I saw Martin Heidegger argue against this...

Here is his interview with a Buddhist monk. via @openculture on Twitter

If you don't want to see the interview, the main point I took was this: Only humans have a sense of their own being. He uses the example of a craftsman starting a job; if he has no vision of the job being completed, the job is meaningless so he wouldn't bother. We live, if you like, in the future.

So animals do not have this sense of being, and as a result, a sense of cause and effect. When our German Shepherd, Sophie decided to take out the boredom of being left alone for half an hour on the sofa, she tore it to threads. When we came home she was unrepentant; sitting with a piece of yellow cushion stuffing on her nose, as if to say: "What?" Sam, our other GSD, did look shamefaced; perhaps he was more enlightened.

It's difficult to look into your pet's eyes and not see a little human, but it can be a relief to be reminded they are not. Our Newfoundland Gracie lost the use of her hind legs from the knee down, but the vet explained she would have no fear of the condition worsening. As a result, she merely got on with each day as if the difficulties of the previous one had not happened, not expecting things to get better, but not deteriorating either. She managed to get around quite happily for another four years like this, outliving her twin sister.

The only problem with this thinking is that none of us knows it to be 100 per cent correct. I'm reminded of the film 'The Elephant Man', where Frederick Treves takes solace in the belief that Joseph Merrick is an imbecile, unable to contemplate his deformity, only to hear him reciting poetry in his room. Martin Heidegger is renowned as one of the twentieth century's greatest thinkers, but was also a member of the Nazi party until it was abolished. (see more here)

So perhaps Harry (our terrier) knows his eyesight is getting worse, mourns his previous owner, and curses the family that gave him up when he was four years old. I know for a fact that he'd still eat fish fingers, even though they make him ill. He might not be enlightened, perhaps he's just not that bright.

Humph Under The Hammer

I went on Mastermind. I didn't win, otherwise I wouldn't be wasting my time writing blogs. First of all, John Humphrys: never liked him. Secondly, that chair stinks, although this will be a surprise to no one. Thirdly, the 'Green Room' was nothing like you'd expect, being taupe if anything, and badly in need of a makeover. No booze, no biscuits...

"And can we have our first contestant please.... "

I'd rehearsed my walk to the chair in the mirror countless times, and being an adult I'd walked towards countless chairs and sat in most of them. But this was in front of an audience of nerds and the friends/family of the other contestants. And cameras. Unfortunately my walk that day was a mirror-image of my usual walk: what appeared to me to be my right arm was in fact my left arm, this also went for the legs, hips (I was giving it some), and eye browse too. To cut a longish story less long, I walked backwards, fell over Cynthia Jerrumsgale (a retired librarian from Hull, who enjoys fishing and table tennis net weaving). Luckily it wasn't live, so with a little coaching form Cynthia Jerrumsgale from Hull etc. I made it.

"Name please."

"Edward Browse."

"And your occupation?"

"Mind your own business."

"And your specialist subject?"

"Homes Under The Hammer, series one through 18."

"Mr Browse, your two minutes on Homes Under The Hammer, series one through 18 starts ... now..."

"In series 13, episode nine, how would you describe Martin's shirt as he viewed the disused chapel in Cheedle?"

"Blue Hawaiian."

"Correct. In series two, episode 23, what made Lucy jump three feet into the air, shout "OOPS!" and strike Jim Spladgecock about the head repeatedly with a rolled-up copy of 'Loot'?"

"He'd bought an eight-bedroom mansion on The Isle of Mull without getting the damp course checked by a professional."

"Correct. In series one episode one, how many times did Martin refer to Lucy as 'Nancy'?"

"Six during recording, once on air, four on the DVD extras."

"Correct. How did Will Self describe Lucy's presenting style in his Guardian column, September 18th, 2009?"

"'Rife with Embrounded speculation, a manifestly hippocratic ecto-frindulate, bartholemewed to within an inch of her event horizon. Chirpy.'"

"Correct. Why was auctioneer Eric Spittlefarm struck off the auctioneer's register and jailed for three months?"

"For hypnotising Mable Freelove to bid against her husband Harold in series four, episode 79."

"Correct. In series twelve, episode 46, The Malveston family of Luton converted a derelict youth club into which thriving business, using grants from the council and Lottery funding?"

"A brothel."

"I'll accept that. With 67 appearances, Wilf Struntall of Struntall, Greenbaum & Frivvitsplean is the most omnipresent estate agent is the show, how did he die?"

"He took a wrong turn entering the loft conversion of a semi in Tiverton, cartwheeling a Juliet balcony."

"Correct. When Kenneth Faunkrack of East Dulwich refused to move the downstairs bathroom in a Barking townhouse to the upstairs, what did Martin do?"

"He issued a fatwa, kicked him in the shins, and threw a bucket of warm milk over him. Twice."

"Correct. Martin has missed only one episode of the show; what was his excuse?"

"Dry rot."

"Correct. How much rental income did 67, Brackleshome Road, Swindon achieve in episode three, series nine?"

"£450 per month."

"No, £450 per calender month, I can't accept that."

"Bastard."

"I have to accept your first answer. Where does the drum loop on the auction background music come from?"

"Ram Jam's 'Black Betty'?"

"No, it's 'Funky Drummer', everyone knows that." *noise like a car alarm*

"Bollocks."

".... er, thank you. Mr Browse, you scored nine with no passes."

Who knows what my general knowledge score would have been? There were still 45 seconds left on my specialist subject round, but the car alarm went off so I scarpered.







Written with genuine affection for the show, @TVMartinRoberts and @LucyAlexanderTV.

Taking Mum To The Football

My mum said there were three things she wanted:
1) A jardiniere*
*fancy vase, didn't have to be big or particularly fancy, she just liked them okay?
2) To see the fireworks in London on New Year's Eve
3) To see West Ham "Live"

Of course, having us kids would have been on the list if we hadn't already happened, same with marrying dad. Mum got her jardiniere; it was red and took pride of place in front of the window. We waited until 1999 to do the fireworks properly; by then mum was starting to lose mobility so the millennium came just in time. The football was the tricky one.

You have to realise that our mum was largely unaware of swearing. She would frown at "blimey", and we knew that football crowds are susceptible to venting their spleens, and doing it with strong words. Also there was the potential discomfort. West Ham's highest finishing position in the old 'First Division' (now, laughably referred to as 'The Sky Bet Championship'; stay classy, football...) was in the mid-1980's, when terracing still existed. Would mum be able to stand for two hours, being jostled by lads hellbent on reminding the referee what his Mrs was up to while he was officiating? We had to pick the right game.

Eventually West Ham drew Leicester City (then in Division 2) in the League Cup. This was a mid-week fixture against supposedly lesser opposition, so the crowd would be smaller and there was a decent chance our brave lads would deliver the right result. We got a good spot behind the goal in Upton Park's 'North Bank' (away fans would take up part of the opposite stand) and mum had a barrier to lean on with minimal jostleage potential.

The game was rubbish. Every time the lads at the back of the stand 'encouraged' the team to play up and play the game in their fruitiest language, mum would turn around, give them a look and tut. At one point she replied, "they're only doing their best!" We kept our eyes front. Every time Leicester got the ball, mum shouted: "Why have they let them get it again?!" We tried to explain that 100% possession was a very rare occurrence. Then Leicester only went and scored.

"What was the goalkeeper doing?"

Mum blamed all goals in all games she saw on the television, on the goalkeeper. This theory of hers does at least have logic on its side: what else do they do? These days (since the pass-back rule at least) your custodian is expected to act as an old-fashioned 'sweeper'; it's all about distribution this and distribution that. Back in the day, he stood around in a big pair of gloves getting cold, and rightly so.

Half Time.

Mum was impressed that the man throwing peanuts recognised us, as she was with the guy on the gate, who managed to let five of us in with only three turns of the turnstile. Ahem. But the half-time analysis was scathing. Why had we brought her when they were playing so badly? Had she jinxed the team? And the lads at the back were still swearing, and now they'd had a drink too. Not even Bill Remfry, the Hammers DJ, could sooth the mood with Mike Oldfield's theme to Blue Peter. We were missing 'One Man And His Dog' for this.

The second half started. "Why do they not put more people on the left?"..." When they get the ball on the left we're in trouble."..."Kick it! Kick it!" Enter George Parris.

George Parris was a lovely jolly black midfielder/defender who you couldn't help but love. He always played with a big grin and gave upwards of 125% at all times*. He only went and scored. The goal went in at the other end so, as usual, we got a one-dimensional view of something going in their area, and the unmistakable net ripple. Mum went mad. She carried on celebrating long after the rest of the crowd had stopped. After all, we'd only equalised against Leicester. But, as George came back to take his defensive position for the kick-off, mum was shouting: "Georgie! GEORGIE!!"

George looked round, a puzzled look on his face, spotted mum (still shouting "Georgie!" and waving claret & blue gloved hands), and George gave a shy wave and a big grin. Bless him.

It ended 1:1, I think we won the replay. On the way out, through a ridiculously small door with a "Remember Ibrox" sign above it, the lads parted to make a gangway for mum to go out first. "Move lads, lady coming through." I like to think they saluted her too, but this could be soft-focusing the past. Mum never went again, the game was bad enough to convince her she wasn't missing much, and George Parris made sure she didn't see a defeat.





*according to 'Townsend's first law of soccer statistics'