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'

Doing A Degree In Philosophy Like

19th August 2014: Ed's Philosophy Degree Timeline.

I decided to do a degree in philosophy. It's a subject that has fascinated me ever since Monty Python's 'Philosophy Song'. Who were these people they were going on about? The boys had already taught us about the Spanish Inquisition, which were the longest rivers (The Yangtze was third or something, but very popular with english goalkeepers and climbing up the league table), and that Venuzuelan Beaver Cheese existed. It doesn't: they were mucking about some of the time. And then I saw a documentary on philosophy and happiness. It turns out that most of the thinking that these great thinkers do is an attempt to find a happier existence.

An example is the author and philosopher Michel de Montaigne who so enjoyed the act of falling asleep, that he had his servant wake him every hour so he could enjoy the experience all over again. More importantly perhaps, Blaise Pascal worked out an equation or 'Wager' so you could decide if you were better off believing in God or not (apparently you should, who'd've thunk it, eh?).

Me, I just like thinking. We do it all the time! It's great! Make a cup of tea and is that one act? Or is the filling of the kettle, moving to where the kettle goes, waiting for it to boil, putting in the tea bag.... all different acts? And bingo, the tea is made and you can move on. During that five minutes or so you could have faced an imaginary over from Mitchel Johnson, walked out in front of a capacity crowd at Wimbledon to face Jocky Whoeveric in the singles final, or described the whole process to the audience of 'Saturday Kitchen'. There are no rules. Unless there are real mind readers, everything that goes on up there is private.

More on the thinking once I learn how to think and how to think about the thinking. I've enrolled. It's an Open University course so I won't be "hanging out" on campus and discovering drugs; but it needs paying for. When I did my HND in graphic design in the late 80's I got a grant. To new listeners, a grant was a payment of monies that payed for your studies. If you didn't spend all day in the pub you could easily make a profit, especially if you nicked everyone else's pencils (I'm looking at you, €∞√øså Bø˙Kx&)*.

Those days are gone of course, and I had to apply for a student loan. Sadly, my passport expired only weeks ago; this made applying a much more tiresome affair. I had to send my original birth certificate and find some upstanding member of the community who would vouch for my commitment while not living here, being in a relationship with me, or having just met me. This part of the process is still pending. It is possible the finance will not be sorted in time for my October start; I assume I'll have to try again for the next 'term' if it goes skywards.
*name removed to protect the guilty

I was given a list of books to buy. None of them contain the word 'philosophy'. I was expecting 'The Complete Works Of Those Old Greek Guys IN LATIN', but happily no. And a DVD! Remember school classes when you got to watch a film? I'll be able to sit at the back and muck about.
Here's the list:

Heaney, Seamus (tr) 'The Burial at Thebes'
Gurinder Chadha (Director) 'Bhaji on the Beach' (Channel Four DVD)
Marlowe, Christopher: O'Conor*, John (ed) 'Doctor Faustus the A text' 
Muldoon, Paul (ed) 'The Faber Book of Beasts'
Prescott, Lynda (ed) 'A World of Difference: an anthology of short stories from five continents'

*The OU spelt 'O'Connor' with one 'n', which is strangely encouraging.
If I read them before the studying starts, I'll be a shoe-in... 

Note: it's an own goal!

Bangers

Twenty years ago, give or take a month, FIAT and Alpha released some new wheels for the one-day-I'll-get-a-Ferrari brigade. Alpha gave us a new, radical, GTV and its chopped-off Spider. A "GTV Cabriolet" would have been a more accurate name - 'Spiders' should be designed from the ground up, like the Duetto of 1966 and 'The Graduate' fame. FIAT, on the other hand did what FIAT traditionally do: put a fancy coupé body on humble underpinnings. Their already ageing Tipo hatchback was the mule in this instance. The Alpha was a much more sophisticated machine than the 'Coupé FIAT' and more expensive as a result; FIAT toyed with a convertible version of the Coupé but it would have eaten into Alpha's Spider sales [owned by FIAT of course] so remained on the shelf. Available in 2.0 litre 16v and 2.0 16v turbo versions [later a volvo 5 cylinder engine would replace both], you had 140 or 195 bhp to play with [150/225 with the '5]. The opposition at the time consisted of the Vauxhall Calibra, Nissan 200SX and Honda Prelude - all much more sensible options given FIAT's reliability reputation but dull as dishwater that had all the tasty impurities and funky colour boiled out of it.

Designed by Chris Bangle, [later famous for his "flame surfacing" on BMW's Z4] built by Pininfarina.

Jump forward a decade and the "broom yellow" Coupé in these pictures appears on a Norfolk forecourt. I watched it for months, sitting there gathering dust, blossom, leaves, snow, dust again... until a birthday when, mid-life crisis or no mid-life crisis, I decided to buy it.

"If that car can move under its own power, it's coming home."

The dealer claimed he had to wrestle the keys off the previous "new-baby-forces-sale" owner; unfazed by this speil I took it for a lengthy test drive. Taking heed of the warnings available on the www dot  sites, I listened for tell-tale knocks, rumbles and OH IT DIDN'T MATTER I was always going to buy it.

Standard FIAT parts abound but Pininfarina designed a special-feeling interior - note the body-coloured dash.

R35 JNV was a 5 cylinder 20v turbo with an advertised top speed of 150 m.p.h. and 0-60 in 6.5 seconds. In those days there was a phenomenon called "turbo lag"- you could plant your foot on the floor with the accelerator pedal underneath and nothing would happen for a moment then WHOOSH: the trees melted. The trick of cramming a big turbocharged engine into a small hatchback's dimensions caused one major problem: to change the cambelt you had to take the engine out. Only a Lotus Esprit or Ferrari F355 gave you a bigger bill for this job at the time. I had the cambelt changed once in the nine years the car was mine; it cost so much I had to take the car off the road until I could afford to tax & insure it again. Over the years, like Boycey's broom in 'Only Fools & Horses', I changed everything that moved except the clutch [which was about to snap when we finally parted company].

Tempted? The styling of the FIAT Coupé is gawky from some angles: "If you don't like the look of it, walk a bit further round until you do." Said CAR magazine in 1995.

One summer the sun heated the bonnet to the extent that the alarm went off. Later, a chirping noise came from the garage, singular at first, then double. We thought a bird was trapped inside and opened the doors and windows to let the stricken thing out. No bird, still the chirp. Next day the chirp was a treble, quadruple and eventually the alarm sounded constantly and only disconnecting the battery stopped it. The car alarms used on the Coupé were bolted on once the cars arrived in Britain from Italy; most owners replaced them with better examples. Eventually I became less precious and used the Coupé as everyday transport. Like all machines, it needed to be used and became very reliable. One snowy night the handbrake froze 'ON' - with older cars you should always park in gear to stop this. One long journey caused the exhaust to burn a hole in the plastic bumper - it was a neat elipse which looked perfectly fine without mending. I used to "touch up" stone chips when the car first arrived but its low bonnet was so prone I eventually lost the will...

The filler cap harks back to more exotic machines from the 60's - looks nice but requires an Alvin Stardust grip on the fuel nozzle to fill up.

One day I was driving my nine-mile commute from Hoveton to the University of East Anglia and (attention, Partridge fans) I was stuck on the ring road literally going nowhere. At the front of a large stream of traffic, the lights went green. As I pulled away I felt a bump under the car: "Oh no, I've run over a cat or something", I thought. Unwilling to look in my mirrors to see the worst I ploughed on to the campus, followed by a big 4x4 which kept flashing its lights. I reached the car park and the driver got out waving at me; perhaps it was her cat, perhaps she thought I was Kevin Keegan, no: 

"Your exhaust fell off at the lights - I managed to get over it in my 4x4 but it was chaos behind me - how did you not notice?"

I gently and, let's not be coy, illegally, drove home. I put 'JNV in the garage and decided enough was enough. The clutch was going [another engine-out job] and now this: I couldn't afford to own this car anymore. Eventually Mike [who had fettled 'JNV over the years, building a sizeable property portfolio with the takings] trailered the old banger away. At time of going to press, a friend called Keith is gradually bringing the beast back to life.

The Coupé looks exotic, but everything is easily replaceable due to it being based on the humble Tipo hatchback.

You can find examples of these cars for pennies online - they were among the first Italian motors to be galvanised so won't rust away like FIATs of old. My tip would be to try and find an early non-turbo which shows no sign of modification. They are cheap enough for boy racers to buy and boy racers love to lower the suspension and fit stupid wheels: original is best. High mileages need not be a problem; my best pal Jonesy is near the 200,000-mile stage with his red example. Use the car often, and service it regularly.

Oh, and the yellow paint attracts flies - go for red or blue.

To Infinity But No Further

Wow, infinity right? 
We are living in, when last checked, an infinite universe. You might think this is just another scaremongering pop-up theory formed by the Tory government (under Thatcher) to keep us from worrying about house prices. But no, scientists (I'll check which ones in a minute) maintain (endlessly of course) that the universe goes on for ever. Let us for the sake of argument agree with them.

From Wikipedia:
In 1584, the Italian philosopher and astronomer Giordano Bruno proposed an unbounded universe in On the Infinite Universe and Worlds: "Innumerable suns exist; innumerable earths revolve around these suns in a manner similar to the way the seven planets revolve around our sun. Living beings inhabit these worlds."

So if you have an infinite universe, there is not only one other sun like ours, but an infinite number of suns exactly like ours, with exact replicas of Earth revolving around them. 

A similar theory involves pi. Again, from Wikipedia:

The number π is a mathematical constant, the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, approximately equal to 3.141592. Being an irrational number, π cannot be expressed exactly as a common fraction, although fractions such as 22/7 and other rational numbers are commonly used to approximate π. Consequently its decimal representation never ends and never settles into a permanent repeating pattern. 

You can argue that pi isn't really a number, but an idea of a number. But if it is a number, it's an infinite one. As a result all number sequences must appear in it. For instance: take all the phone numbers in the Yellow Pages, string them end-to-end, and this sequence will be in pi. One business in the book goes under, their number is removed, the new sequence will still eventually appear in pi. 

Now fingerprints.
Everyone knows that every human's fingerprints are unique. But this can only be a theory because not everyone has been born yet and not everyone's fingerprints have been checked. Similarly, it might take a while, but two identical snowflakes might turn up: "Quick, Madge! Get the microscopic camera, it's melting." etc. Perhaps stretching a point; Mike Silverman (who introduced the first automated fingerprint detection system to the Metropolitan Police) has his doubts about the theory too. To be fair however, he is factoring human error into the equation:
From The Telegraph...

So which one of these theories should we believe? None of them are religious or creationist mumbo-jumbo. They're like evolution, making sense but also making you stare off into space when you should be concentrating on work or whatever.

But they can't all be right. 

If all fingerprints are different, then all the planets and stars in the universe can be different too. If all snowflakes are unique, then all the numbers in pi can be random and follow no other sequence. If someone finds two sets of similar dabs then we are not alone.

And then there's God.
Another infinite concept, he/she has to keep an eye on everything ALL the time while creating new stuff in the process; it must be infinitely exhausting. When asked what his religious beliefs were, the writer and all-round good egg Frank Muir replied: "I'm a lapsed agnostic - my doubts are beginning to waver." How can an atheist explain the universe if he can't believe it's infinite? Must he downgrade to agnosticism? Unfortunately for those reading this, neither of you will reach far enough into space to take a picture of The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe. And the other one is unlikely, let us be frank, to bump into God at Tesco. 

Blaise Pascal tried to work out what was the best philosophy to live by, given the fact that we don't know what will happen to us at the end:

From Wikipedia once more:
'Pascal's Wager' is an argument in apologetic philosophy which was devised by the seventeenth-century French philosopher, mathematician, and physicist Blaise Pascal (1623–1662). It posits that humans all bet with their lives either that God exists or not. Given the possibility that God actually does exist and assuming an infinite gain or loss associated with belief or unbelief in said God (as represented by an eternity in heaven or hell), a rational person should live as though God exists and seek to believe in God. If God does not actually exist, such a person will have only a finite loss (some pleasures, luxury, etc.).

So be nice and you might be rewarded later with infinite fun in Heaven, or have all the fun now and risk infinite nasties. You do the maths.

Any comments welcome....

"John Davies ‏@artfulbooks  I reckon any number also has infinite potential, so Pi can go on indefinitely without hesitation, deviation or repetition. Irrational numbers do my 'ead in. 
And what about those frogs jumping half way to a wall and never reaching it? #strewth"

Even 1 can be an infinite number if you give it enough decimal places: 1.0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000... (I could go on)

The experiment John refers to is this: 

Place a frog a foot away from a wall and ask it to jump half way. Then tell it to jump half way again; will froggy ever reach the wall? If the frog keeps jumping, it must eventually reach the wall. There's a formula for working out why the frog must reach the wall: on one side you have the distance jumped in fractions "1/2, plus 1/2 squared" and so on. These distances equal 1, which is the original distance to travel. 

But, just saying all those fractions = 1 doesn't prove that the frog reaches the wall! If it is only jumping half way it will never be closer than half of any distance, no matter how small. Show us, clever cloggs! First of all, I'm on to the RSPCA - why not try it with an inanimate object? Something you can control? Or are you worried that it won't work and you made up the story of the frog to cloud the issue. Also what if, like a piece of A4 paper, you reach a point where you can no longer halve the space between the frog and the wall? The frog will be sitting there drumming its fingers, waiting for the next leap, NOT at the wall.
Mathematicians: don't trust them.

Peter G. Casazza writes: (on this and other, possibly crackpot, maths problems)

I maintain that Casazza is wrong. The frog doesn't reach the wall because eventually the space between the frog and the wall will be too small to halve. If the frog decides to jump on, into the wall, it will be of its own free will and nothing to do with Peter G. #FreeTheFrog

An Angel For The East

A pylon, yesterday.

I e-mailed Norfolk County Council; this is roughly what I wrote [you have 20 minutes to fill in any enquiry so I might have panic-spelled some words, I've since had a cup of tea and a rest].

"Dear NCC,

There is a stretch of railway between Diss and Norwich which contains a long sweep of pylons. Unlike many, I enjoy seeing them - they let you know you're nearly at journey's end and they look a bit like very tall people." 

[note: when cable was touted as the future, I thought it meant they were going to BURY all the pylons. In the list of dumbest things I've ever thought it ranks 12th]

"There do not seem to be many residences around these pylons, they appear in farmer's fields, well protected from intruders and not affecting people's views. I think you could cheer this stretch of line up even more by choosing one of the pylons and turning it into a giant toy robot. It has to be a toy robot so as not to frighten any children. I admit this could be a dangerous and disruptive project, but if the robot is made up of six pre-painted panels of plastic or fibreglass [perhaps the boat builders on the broads or Lotus could help] it must be possible. The robot doesn't need to encase a pylon either, it could just hold the wires between two others."

There was no way to attach a drawing to the e-mail form, but I mentioned this project designed by Choi & Shine Architects for Iceland called 'Land Of The Giants'

So, I'm waiting for an answer. Chances are they'll see the e-mail was sent late-ish on a sunday and assume I was drunk or a student or both. Perhaps I needed to go to the arts council first, or Eastern Electricity, I'll keep asking whoever springs to mind until it's built or I'm deported.

This robot was inside a Christmas cracker and could be the purest design possible for '413?

28th January.

I've had a reply. We add @DonnaCropley to our list of enablers, and our robot has a name [or number at least]: #1172413. '413 for short.

	Jan 28 (3 days ago)
"to me

Dear Sir/Madam

Thank you for your email regarding pylons. It has been logged under reference number 1172413.

In order to access further information regarding your idea, you will in the first instance need to contact the national grid, I have enclosed a link below for your reference.  You will also need to contact Land Registry and the local district/borough council to establish ownership of the land, further links are provided below.

*links*

I wish you every success with your idea.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of further assistance.

Yours sincerely,

Donna Cropley

Customer Service Assistant

Customer Services and Communications Department

Norfolk County Council"

Of course, there's this great ad for IKEA - the robot has weak arms but makes up for it with 'lifty-vision'...

4th February:

I've applied to the Arts Council for a grant to build #RobotFourOneThree; their reply was long and comprehensive so I'll try and keep it down to the main points:

• The project has to be engaging and a benefit to the public.
• It must be a self-contained, time-limited activity with a start & end date [i.e. they'll help build it but not maintain it afterwards, this also guards against 'Grand Designs'-type budget predictions which ALWAYS get exceeded].
• It can't be of a commercial nature or designed to make a financial profit.
• It can't be a charitable cause or geared towards health or social outcomes [I think this is specific to the type of funding I've applied for & is in no way an anti-charity agenda - there must be different channels for charities to try].
• The reply warned that even if eligible [which I'm sure '413 is] not all applications succeed but there are other sources available. We also have to decide how much to apply for - there is up to £15,000 or £15,000 & above - there is an application form and proposal to construct.

Our gut feeling is that we'll need over £15,000.

So, what next? Do I find someone who'll build the robot, then find out if the owners of the land will let it live there, then ask for the money?

5th February:

I've e-mailed Lotus about the construction of '413. They make cars with metal skeletons and fibreglass skins so even if they won't make it, they should know a company that can. All Lotus cars have had names beginning with E [Elise, Exige, Esprit etc.] - it might turn out to be 'E413'. They may see it as an opportunity to trumpet their manufacturing skill, they may not. Getting a company involved who are ultimately looking for profit could jeopardise Arts Council funding, so I've stressed this is an installation. I hope they can help us.

6th February: LOTUS have kindly replied; we now add Tracey Tompsett [@traceylotus] to our list of Associates....

Tompsett, Tracey	8:31 AM (2 hours ago)
to me

Hi Edward,

Thanks for the extra information. I must say, it’s an unusual request! We have never been approached to produce a giant robot before!

I will have a chat with some of our specialists across the business, but our plant is running at full capacity building the Lotus Evora, Exige and Elise so I’m not sure there’s excess resource available.  I will see if I can get some recommendations for you though.

Thanks again,

All the best,

Tracey  

Tracey Tompsett – Public Relations
GROUP LOTUS PLC, Potash Lane, Hethel, Norwich, Norfolk, NR14 8EZ, England
 

 

A 'pylon', tomorrow? ©Ed Browse 2014

The auditions for #RobotFourOneThree are busy.

Tiger wooden toy robot.

This is another option for constructing '413....

Here's some robots your little ones can program to do "unlimited" things [that means "kick a ball, sweep things up..."]:
https://www.play-i.com/

Not sure what 'Baxter' does, but if you're writing an article or book and can't be bothered to look anything up, he might be your man. Note: you can also put him on a pedestal at extra cost [we know from science fiction that this always ends in disaster]. http://www.active-robots.com/baxter-research-robot.html

Our proposed location comes under the jurisdiction of South Norfolk District Council, our reference number is 452710. I know you love the numbers.

P.S. These could be actual future pylons...

P.P.S. Here's a pylon skipping...

I've started a Pinterest board of robots #RobotFourOneThree could look like:
http://www.pinterest.com/ebrowse/robotfouronethree/

Pylons are between 55 & 180 feet tall. We're talking about one of the taller ones. Ole '413 will be big.

We'd be doing this...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Build-Paint-Robot-Great-Childrens/dp/B009P2M6CE/ref=sr_1_9?s=kids&ie=UTF8&qid=1391205889&sr=1-9&keywords=vintage+toy+robot

And there's a giant robot who directs traffic in Congo....
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/innovations/wp/2014/01/30/theres-a-giant-robot-directing-traffic-in-congo/

This just in:

HitchBOT, the hitchhiking robot, enters final leg of 6,000-kilometre journey
Read more....

Freewheelin' Bob Dylan [but is he ART?]

At Halcyon Gallery [no 'The'] in Mayfair, you can see 'Mood Swings' - an exhibition of Bob Dylan's artwork. 'Exhibition' makes it sound friendlier and less like a very posh shop than it is. There are two heavies on the door [wired up like FBI goons] and there are roped-off areas where, if you take a peek, you can see offices manned by sharp-suited art-future managers doing deals over the phone. Never mind all that, we're here for the ART.

The 'Zim does roughly four kinds of ART.

1) Pictures.
For his 'Self Portrait' LP, Bob Dylan put a self-portrait on the cover. It doesn't look like him but I still like it because it looks like he didn't try TOO hard and enjoyed doing it. It's loose. At Halcyon we see 4-foot-tall sketches, paintings and prints all in this loose style. Some of them work as decoration because they're colourful and look like things [houses, trees etc.] but most look like Van Gogh homages. They're loose up to a point but when he gets to a face they tighten up & overwork. You want to take an eraser to them and tidy them up although they are supposed to be untidy. You could do better.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self_Portrait_(Bob_Dylan_album)

2) 'Sculptures'.
Specifically: gates and wall hangings made from old bits of iron, spanners, toothed wheels and the like. I have no problem with novelty gates. In Norfolk you often get a garden gate with bullrushes woven into the railings, perhaps climbed by a little mouse or perched-on by a heron. I bet they don't cost £100.000 each. There's a picture of Bob on Halcyon's website, standing astride one of his circular wall iron 'images'. This proves that he did them I suppose; I'm not doubting he has, but I'd rather see a short film of him speaking to camera saying: "I have a team of 200 students doing all the work, I just visit the scrapyard and choose the bits." It would be more like ART that way. Instead, he seems to be saying: "Concentrate, Bob - you're gonna be chargin' huuuge bucks for these...."

http://www.halcyongallery.com/

3) 'Genuine Car Doors Used By The Most Famous Gangsters Still With The Bullet Holes From When They Were Finally Tracked Down By The Cops'*
*Old car doors, with bullet holes and dents, from the gangster era indicated, with a black & white poster about a different gangster with each door. The sort of poster you might get to advertise a village féte or whist drive.

[look close enough and there are no actual claims that these doors belong to those gangsters SO WHY HAVE THE BRASS NECK TO CALL THEM ART & CHARGE TONS OF MONEY FOR THEM?]

4) Enormous Blow-Ups Of Magazine Covers
In which Bob takes a cover of 'LIFE' Magazine, blows it up to 6 feet and changes the headlines. There's a really nice one with Woody Allen, Groucho Marx's son features on another, Gadhafi as Superman... they look impressive. Buuuut they'd look impressive if they were just 'LIFE' magazine covers blown up - because the 'LIFE' logo looks great. But Bob Dylan didn't design the 'LIFE' logo so what is his input? He's found a good printer? The satirical headlines are thought-provoking but printed so sharply as to ruin the illusion that they're original. Again, you could do it yourself. Better. And cheaper.



The best piece is a black & white photo of Bob in his studio, guitar resting on a wall, oil paintings in various stages dotted about the shelves. It's not for sale. I might not know a lot about art, but I know what I like; I might not know a lot about Bob Dylan, but I know he's not ART*.



*apart from the music

Double-Jeopody Plus One

I was short of cash.

The advert said: "Meet Steve Coogan and win £100 in CASH!"
It said stuff about who to ring and the rest, but I won't bore you with that now. I rang the number, spoke to the brother of the bloke in The Mock Turtles and arranged to meet.

In a disused warehouse, somewhere off the North Circular was a portakabin like the one Michael Caine is brainwashed in during 'The I.P.C.R.E.S.S. File'. Cosy like. Outside, dressed as Tony Ferrino, I was met by Steve Coogan [dressed as Steve Coogan].

Inside we were not alone. Reading left to right [or if you're chinese, left to right], Coogan, Bricktop [the cockney thug], Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67] and Hunstanton P. "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli [light-heavyweight boxing champion of Dulwich]. I was introduced of course, there was no way of guessing all that other information.

"Edward", started Coogan, "congratulations on making it this far in the quest for one hundred pounds. You have been chosen for three reasons over and above the other entrants; 1) You can drive 2) Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67] liked your picture and 3) You look like you could fight a bit but not too much. Now here's the deal: We'll give you one hundred pounds in, we're speculating here, used fivers if you can a) Accompany Bricktop to the Dulwich branch of HSBC and *cockney accent* turn it over. You'll be driving. Or b) Make a short, instructive video that may or may not contain scenes of a sexual nature with Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67]..."
*wink* from Mrs L [aged 67]
"...or c) Go toe-to-toe, man-on-man, mano-on-mano, glove-to-glove, for richer for poorer over three three-minute rounds against Hunstanton P. "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli [he's a boxer]."

I stroked my chin, which didn't respond.

The bank job was tempting but the chance of being banged up for armed robbery didn't inspire [I was guessing about the tools, but it was daylight and within normal business hours so a good guess]. Mrs Elsie Lanyard [I'm guessing between 65 & 70] seemed a nice enough sort but, really. As for Hunstanton P. [I later found out it stood for 'Philadelphia', not because he was from there but it's his favourite cheese] "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli, I reckoned I could take him easy.

Steve, 'Top & Els seemed disappointed with my choice. Reassuringly, so did 'Phil.

The ring was shabby, the ropes were not strong enough to actually keep you in the ring if you so much as leaned on them, there was no bell [someone had brought a triangle along] and all four corners were red, which confused the announcer.

I've seen the "Thriller In Manila", but poor old Hunstanton Doo-Dah couldn't fight his way into a manila envelope, let alone out of a paper bag. I caught him with a south or north paw, I can't remember, and next thing I know his mum is in the ring attacking me with her shoe. Three stitches.

After the blood was mopped up...

"Edward, congratulations. To be honest we weren't expecting this result - I for one was sure you'd go for the bank job - which is why we don't have the hundred pounds, which would probably have been in used fivers, to give you. Luckily, Mrs Elsie Lanyard [still young enough to hold a driver's license] has agreed to escort Bricktop to HSBC.
In the meantime, the posh bloke out of #Gogglebox is here to give you your trophy.

Enter, the worse for two bottles of red, Dom Parker, holding one of those tiny cups, a proportionally accurate F.A. Trophy just big enough for an egg.
"Whatto", piped Dom, "well done and all that, top fisticuffs, I say, couldn't do me a favour old chap? I'm not sure I'm safe to drive, what with them having a television next door and an open bar. Deliver this box of chockies to my Auntie Glenda in Barstead Avenue on your way home and there's an extra quid in it for you..."





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