I Is Alive, Innit?
George Orwell wrote books. 1984, Animal Farm. You've heard of these.
What you may, or may not, have known is that George Orwell was first and formemost a journalist. He wrote over a hundred essays on various things. He was a fantastic wordsmith, and knew how to craft memorable sentences and phrases. If I had only one percent of his talent, I'd have made a living as a writer instead of as an IT geek.
George Orwell was also a Policeman. Not just any Policeman, he was a Colonial Policeman in Burma back in the days of the British Empire. It was his job to beat the natives with sticks if they got out of line, and fabricate evidence against them to make sure that the British natives were always the winners in legal disputes against them.
This experience helped shaped the young Orwell. He learned to be cynical, and to distrust the purity of motives of those in authority.
Being cynical, and a master with words, he realised that you can own peoples thoughts simply by owning their language. For instance - hieroglyphics. The Egyptians used them, all over the place. Everybody in Egypt knew how to read and write them - Egypt was the most literate nation in the ancient world. Yet today, we need bearded boffins to decipher them. Why is that?
One reason is the Romans. They systematically destroyed knowledge of how to read and write hieroglyphs, and made sure that everybody spoke Latin and Greek instead. Within a few generations, nobody could read what the hieroglyphs said. Same thing happened in Scotland with Gaelic. Own the language, then you own the thoughts. Orwell knew this - this is why he banged on about "Newspeak" so much in 1984.
Here's a modern-day example. Four soliders were killed in Iraq due to "friendly fire". Aw, that's not so bad - the fire was friendly. The real message is that four people died when somebody fired a missile right at them and scored a direct hit - they were blown to bits. But, somehow, "friendly fire" conjures up a different picture in your head. Own the language, own the thoughts.
So when I started working at the global Bank I currently work for (1 more day), I started owning the language. This was not an Orwellian thing, it is a necessary part of making sure that the things needing done got done. By making sure that there was a common language for what we were doing, everybody was on the same page.
So, as well as introducing new words into common currency - which people now use every day (such as "upstream" and "downstream") I figured that it would be an amusing aside to have everybody speak Gangsta.
By "Gangsta", I am thinking of Ali-G and his ilk. By appending the word "innit" to every sentence, and saying things like "I is" instead of "I am". Stuff like that. You have to keep yourself amused somehow.
My biggest achievement in this was when one of the Directors of the Bank asked me what I thought needed to be done to fix a particular problem. I replied that "we needs to lock everybody in a room till its fixed innit?". His frank, and amusing, response was - "then we is f**ked, innit?". This is the Director of a Bank - he makes decisions on your application to extend your overdraft. But at least he had a sense of humour. That said, he'd need a sense of humour with the size of my overdraft.
For some bizarre reason, I was thinking about plastic surgery today and how it works in the long term. Suppose I was really ugly (and maybe I am). Suppose that I decided to have plastic surgery to make me look like Brad Pitt. So now I look like Brad Pitt but, genetically, I am ugly.
Supose that The Missus is ugly (she's not). Suppose that she decided to have plastic surgery to look like, em, to look as beautiful as she does now (close call, well recovered). And a boob-job. Anyway, genetically, she'd still be ugly.
So our children, like the Wee Yin, would be genetically ugly twice - despite having plastic parents who look like Ken and Barbie. They would need plastic surgery just to look average. Some more plastic surgery to look beautiful, but genetically they're still ugly, and so on.
In a few generations, you'd have kids being born who grew up to look like Shrek.
Apparently, eskimos have 24 different words for snow. There is fluffy snow, wet snow, powder snow, snow that the huskies have pissed on, snow you used to get as a kid that is so much better than modern snow - you get the idea.
My ageing friend has cottoned on to the fact that I use the word "f**koff" the way that eskimos use the word for snow - The Missus cottoned on to this years ago. There is "f*koff" in the context of "go away for ever", there is "f**koff" in the context of "I am not yet convinced", "f**koff" in the context of "I don't like that guy" and stuff like that.
Amongst of all of this multi-context Tourettes, he is trying to put together a project plan and a proposal. He is better at this than he is at brake calipers, but let's hope that it achieves its intended purpose - to have Mr Happy become Mr Sad and Defeated - and he doesn't over-torque this one. I will keep you posted, but am expressly forbidden from revealing details right now. He is begging me to forget the brake caliper thing, almost on a daily basis, but when you got the ammunition you keep firing ...
My ITM got a DNF in his first enduro. No shame really, it was the toughtes enduro on the Irish calendar and he got DNF because of time. Only 3 people in his class finished. Only 3. Most of them gave up - he did not - and the rest were out of time. Well done ITM - well done for having the balls to take it on. Roll on Morocco.
I am s-o-o looking forward to Morocco. I am so looking forward to getting on the bike and just, well, giving it some. No 2-strokes. No Mr Happy. No Gangsta directors of global Banks. Just me, a KTM 525, and loads and loads of sand. And The Missus. She is the only Missus who is going - I remember telling Patsy Quick that I really really wanted to go, and that if the Missus got left behind then I would end up singing soprano. God Bless Patsy, who understood this and arranged a special place (for a special Missus) in the 4x4.
Have a look at this, I found it on YouTube. It's really reallt cheesey, but it joins together two things I really like - Star Wars and Meat Loaf. Not the most obvious combination, granted, but I'll say in blogs futuro how Meatloaf became a large part of the soundtrack for me growing up away from home.
As for the Darth Vader thing, I know how Darth Vader became Darth Vader. I made a similar journey myself. Imagine this. Supremely powerful, superbly intelligent, abilities which people around you wish they themselves could have. Sounds good huh?
Now do it all behind a mask. All that power. All that potential. And this dirty great mask you have to wear, because revealing yourself to the outside world means certain death.
Why certain death you ask? Let me explain.
Imagine, for a second, having a conversation with the Director of a Global Bank. What he sees as amusing, talking in Gangsta, takes on a completely different shape if he realises he's talking with somebody who's spent time in a mental hospital. That judgement - that famed judgement of mine he has come to rely on - is now flawed. That uncanny ability I have to spot the flaws and shortcomings in large computer systems (my ageing friend calls it spooky) - has now become the ramblings of a madman.
The problem of mental illness is shared by 100% of the population. 25% have the illness. The other 75% have the problem of their attitude to those who are. That said, I know when it is in my interests to just put the mask on and keep the light saber sheathed.
We fly out on Friday. Family has moved heaven and earth to make sure that the Wee Yin is looked after in order for us to go to Morocco. How lucky am I, to have a family like that?
Everything is packed. I know everything is packed because The Missus is not allowing me to wear any off-road bike gear because it's all packed. Which means no Byways. The Missus is firm on this point. In the same way as my ageing friend is learning to interpret the many possible meanings of "f**koff", I know the difference between a "No-means-no-youre-not-getting-your-bike-gear" and a "no-you-havent-asked-me-enough-times yet" maybe.
And that language is universal - whether in Latin, hieroglyphs or Mongolian. When The Missus says "no" and means it. All of you gentlemen out there will know what I mean.
I wonder how many words there are in Arabic for sand? More importantly, when I tell my ageing friend that "sand can just f**koff", will he know exactly which "f**koff" I am talking about?
Which reminds me of a story I heard about a guy who parked his car on a double yellow line. A traffic warden comes right up and tell him he can't park there.
What you may, or may not, have known is that George Orwell was first and formemost a journalist. He wrote over a hundred essays on various things. He was a fantastic wordsmith, and knew how to craft memorable sentences and phrases. If I had only one percent of his talent, I'd have made a living as a writer instead of as an IT geek.
George Orwell was also a Policeman. Not just any Policeman, he was a Colonial Policeman in Burma back in the days of the British Empire. It was his job to beat the natives with sticks if they got out of line, and fabricate evidence against them to make sure that the British natives were always the winners in legal disputes against them.
This experience helped shaped the young Orwell. He learned to be cynical, and to distrust the purity of motives of those in authority.
Being cynical, and a master with words, he realised that you can own peoples thoughts simply by owning their language. For instance - hieroglyphics. The Egyptians used them, all over the place. Everybody in Egypt knew how to read and write them - Egypt was the most literate nation in the ancient world. Yet today, we need bearded boffins to decipher them. Why is that?
One reason is the Romans. They systematically destroyed knowledge of how to read and write hieroglyphs, and made sure that everybody spoke Latin and Greek instead. Within a few generations, nobody could read what the hieroglyphs said. Same thing happened in Scotland with Gaelic. Own the language, then you own the thoughts. Orwell knew this - this is why he banged on about "Newspeak" so much in 1984.
Here's a modern-day example. Four soliders were killed in Iraq due to "friendly fire". Aw, that's not so bad - the fire was friendly. The real message is that four people died when somebody fired a missile right at them and scored a direct hit - they were blown to bits. But, somehow, "friendly fire" conjures up a different picture in your head. Own the language, own the thoughts.
So when I started working at the global Bank I currently work for (1 more day), I started owning the language. This was not an Orwellian thing, it is a necessary part of making sure that the things needing done got done. By making sure that there was a common language for what we were doing, everybody was on the same page.
So, as well as introducing new words into common currency - which people now use every day (such as "upstream" and "downstream") I figured that it would be an amusing aside to have everybody speak Gangsta.
By "Gangsta", I am thinking of Ali-G and his ilk. By appending the word "innit" to every sentence, and saying things like "I is" instead of "I am". Stuff like that. You have to keep yourself amused somehow.
My biggest achievement in this was when one of the Directors of the Bank asked me what I thought needed to be done to fix a particular problem. I replied that "we needs to lock everybody in a room till its fixed innit?". His frank, and amusing, response was - "then we is f**ked, innit?". This is the Director of a Bank - he makes decisions on your application to extend your overdraft. But at least he had a sense of humour. That said, he'd need a sense of humour with the size of my overdraft.
For some bizarre reason, I was thinking about plastic surgery today and how it works in the long term. Suppose I was really ugly (and maybe I am). Suppose that I decided to have plastic surgery to make me look like Brad Pitt. So now I look like Brad Pitt but, genetically, I am ugly.
Supose that The Missus is ugly (she's not). Suppose that she decided to have plastic surgery to look like, em, to look as beautiful as she does now (close call, well recovered). And a boob-job. Anyway, genetically, she'd still be ugly.
So our children, like the Wee Yin, would be genetically ugly twice - despite having plastic parents who look like Ken and Barbie. They would need plastic surgery just to look average. Some more plastic surgery to look beautiful, but genetically they're still ugly, and so on.
In a few generations, you'd have kids being born who grew up to look like Shrek.
Apparently, eskimos have 24 different words for snow. There is fluffy snow, wet snow, powder snow, snow that the huskies have pissed on, snow you used to get as a kid that is so much better than modern snow - you get the idea.
My ageing friend has cottoned on to the fact that I use the word "f**koff" the way that eskimos use the word for snow - The Missus cottoned on to this years ago. There is "f*koff" in the context of "go away for ever", there is "f**koff" in the context of "I am not yet convinced", "f**koff" in the context of "I don't like that guy" and stuff like that.
Amongst of all of this multi-context Tourettes, he is trying to put together a project plan and a proposal. He is better at this than he is at brake calipers, but let's hope that it achieves its intended purpose - to have Mr Happy become Mr Sad and Defeated - and he doesn't over-torque this one. I will keep you posted, but am expressly forbidden from revealing details right now. He is begging me to forget the brake caliper thing, almost on a daily basis, but when you got the ammunition you keep firing ...
My ITM got a DNF in his first enduro. No shame really, it was the toughtes enduro on the Irish calendar and he got DNF because of time. Only 3 people in his class finished. Only 3. Most of them gave up - he did not - and the rest were out of time. Well done ITM - well done for having the balls to take it on. Roll on Morocco.
I am s-o-o looking forward to Morocco. I am so looking forward to getting on the bike and just, well, giving it some. No 2-strokes. No Mr Happy. No Gangsta directors of global Banks. Just me, a KTM 525, and loads and loads of sand. And The Missus. She is the only Missus who is going - I remember telling Patsy Quick that I really really wanted to go, and that if the Missus got left behind then I would end up singing soprano. God Bless Patsy, who understood this and arranged a special place (for a special Missus) in the 4x4.
Have a look at this, I found it on YouTube. It's really reallt cheesey, but it joins together two things I really like - Star Wars and Meat Loaf. Not the most obvious combination, granted, but I'll say in blogs futuro how Meatloaf became a large part of the soundtrack for me growing up away from home.
As for the Darth Vader thing, I know how Darth Vader became Darth Vader. I made a similar journey myself. Imagine this. Supremely powerful, superbly intelligent, abilities which people around you wish they themselves could have. Sounds good huh?
Now do it all behind a mask. All that power. All that potential. And this dirty great mask you have to wear, because revealing yourself to the outside world means certain death.
Why certain death you ask? Let me explain.
Imagine, for a second, having a conversation with the Director of a Global Bank. What he sees as amusing, talking in Gangsta, takes on a completely different shape if he realises he's talking with somebody who's spent time in a mental hospital. That judgement - that famed judgement of mine he has come to rely on - is now flawed. That uncanny ability I have to spot the flaws and shortcomings in large computer systems (my ageing friend calls it spooky) - has now become the ramblings of a madman.
The problem of mental illness is shared by 100% of the population. 25% have the illness. The other 75% have the problem of their attitude to those who are. That said, I know when it is in my interests to just put the mask on and keep the light saber sheathed.
We fly out on Friday. Family has moved heaven and earth to make sure that the Wee Yin is looked after in order for us to go to Morocco. How lucky am I, to have a family like that?
Everything is packed. I know everything is packed because The Missus is not allowing me to wear any off-road bike gear because it's all packed. Which means no Byways. The Missus is firm on this point. In the same way as my ageing friend is learning to interpret the many possible meanings of "f**koff", I know the difference between a "No-means-no-youre-not-getting-your-bike-gear" and a "no-you-havent-asked-me-enough-times yet" maybe.
And that language is universal - whether in Latin, hieroglyphs or Mongolian. When The Missus says "no" and means it. All of you gentlemen out there will know what I mean.
I wonder how many words there are in Arabic for sand? More importantly, when I tell my ageing friend that "sand can just f**koff", will he know exactly which "f**koff" I am talking about?
Which reminds me of a story I heard about a guy who parked his car on a double yellow line. A traffic warden comes right up and tell him he can't park there.
- "Why not?" asks the guy.
"Because you can only park there if you are disabled" replies the rather smug traffic warden.
"Oh," says the guy, "but I am disabled"
The traffic warden looks him up and down, there is nothing visibly wrong with the guy.
"How are you disabled then?" he asks.
The guy considers this for a second and sighs.
"I have Tourettes. Now FUCK OFF!"
Download the Manic Mission Information Pack for the full story ...
posted by 2009 Dakar at
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
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