"Evolution - When?" now online, complete and unabided

The following review greeted the first publication of "Evolution - When?", my second meisterguttentag about two hours after it's release.

"Evolution-When? is a compelling masterwork, surely destined to take it's author above Richard Dawkins as Third Best Academic in England, or possibly joint Second, with Dawkins. As a treaty on Evolution and stuff, it brings to people who are not very clever new insights into Chaz Darwin's little theory about finches and stuff, relating his ideas to Mankind for the first time, just as Bono has done with Christianity. But, dont worry, it's not all about Science-if you want sex, violence and drugs all you have to do is e-mail the author and he will write a Chapter about any of these things as well, just for you."

It was lucky that Liverpool were'nt playing that day, so I had time to write this review, or "Introduction" as my publisher calls it, otherwise people would not easily get the gist of my work. However, last Friday afternoon, I decided to re-write the book in it's entirety, because a new brilliant idea had just popped into my head after I decided to Google 'Darwin' (just to make sure I had got his name right). That new version is reproduced below for the first time, but I should just take a minute to say a few words about the book. In the publishing world, these few words are usually called the Appendix, mostly because you dont need them and because books are sometimes easier to read if they're not there.

The first point I'd like to make is that the book is written from a post-Marxist viewpoint, mostly because, like most Anthropologists, I do'nt really understand the whole Marx thing, and thought it was better to just skip that particular genre altogehter - hence 'post', as in 'ante-post' betting in the world of horse racing, which occurs just after the horse has bolted. The second point is that while Darwin might come up with some pretty funny examples of stupid behaviour every year, in the world of Science, which I infest, he should stick to what he knews, like all that stuff about finches landing on giant turtles backs and swimming across the Straits in the Asparagus Islands. Darwin, I'm afraid, is pretty clueless when it comes to humans: he even claims that humans were at one time, long ago, dependant on monkeys. Anyone who has even seen Planet of the Apes realizes that this is total nonsense and that it was the other way round, and that it was'nt until Doug McClure liberated us that we were able to develop as sensible beings [Ibid]. [imdb].

THe third and final point, is that even though I am brilliant, which has been proven by me getting 66% in my exams after no revision whatever, my theory is, after all, only a theory. Scientific review, and the rigours of alchemidia, stress that porn review is an essential part of the process, so if anyone disagrees with my theories, they should write in and tell me, and I will immediately change my opinion. I will not be at all offended, as all great minds have been challenged over time - Eric Von Danniken, Semir Osmanagic, (excavator of the Bosnian pyramids - see http://www.bosnianpyramid.com/), The Rev Ian Paisley to name but a few. And in any case, I found most of my original work on Wikipedia, so if any of its wrong I wont take it personally.

The final part of this appendixes concerns the fact that this book has been published post-humously. This is because even though Science is very important, we should not take it too seriously. Some scientits are guilty of this, especially the more important ones, for example, the guys over at Intelligent Design, although I confess I havent read their webpage. I am assuming that like most Scientists, their name describes what they do - Physicians study Physics, Biologists study biology, Xenobiologists study the Science behind the tv series Xena, Warrior Princess, and so on, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, per se. Therfore, quo vidi, I'm assuming that Intelligent Designers manufacture robot vacuum cleaners and better washing machines and stuff, but one of the reasons I do'nt know much about them is that their websites just look too Scientific, full of Institutes-this, and Professor-that and paper-this and review-that - there's absolutely nothing fun on their home page at all, so I just skipped it, but not before noticing how they are all Darwinists, or so I would assume as most of the articles are about him. If you fancy a look, go to http://www.intelligentdesign.org/ or http://www.intelligentdesignnetwork.org/. , but I guarantee that all that Science will get old pretty quick.

Finally, I should point out that Evolution-When? is short and to the point. This is because when you've come up with a slam-dunk of a Scientific THeory, there's no point in explaining it all - people just want the facts, and you can always get them later. So, here it is:

EVOLUTION - WHEN.

A Brilliand New Postulation.

It is definitely true that, since the Paleolithic, and even earlier, since Biblical Times, man has been asking himself, and other people sat next to him, sometimes on the bus, the vital question "Evolution-WHEN?". Even more women, on looking at their husband, have been asking the same question, and they did this until the Dawn of Lesbianism, after which they could get satisfactory partners.

The answer has been some time in coming, mostly because Post Modernists started arguing about it and forgot the question they were asking, but finally, the answer has been discovered, in, of all places, HULL. Not Hull, Quebec, where they carried on arguing because it was fun, but Hull in Yorkshire.

The vital clue came from photographic evidence uncovered after a short walk to University and here, in it's original format is that very photograph, taken outside a Student Halls of residence. Why you may ask yourself is this significant. Well, simply put, young undergraduates are the brilliant future of humanity as we all know, and if Evolution were to happen, it is among them that we would look for signs of Evolution. IN the online version of this book, you may have to click on the photo to see it full size.



Unfortunately, as you can see, Steve Mithen and all the punctuated evolution boys are right. THe conclusion of this book is therefore, after presenting all the evidence (see photo) that the answer to the question "Evolution-When" is "In about thirty thousand years".

Matter (and cats) out of Place

Those of you familiar with anthropologicalities will be aware of Ms Douglas's assertion that humans do not like their "matter out of place". And those of you familiar with our on-going renovation will be aware that Concretia, Evil Empress of the Back Yard, represented a very serious amount of matter out of place, and affected Cheap Steve so much that he left Hull and went on a 10 month voyage of self discovery around the World.

Concretia, Evil Empress of the Back yard, did not give up easily and for months, her remains have haunted us, as attested by the pile of bricks, concrete and plaster littering the back yard. Inevitably, enough, it was decided, was definitely enough, so we hired a six yard skip, and this morning set about the task of piling it full of Concretia's remains. The timing was, as is everything in Large Villas, co-incidental with the needs of the cats, who having been resident for two weeks now, have made it clear that they want to go outside. For the first week of their residence, the cats followed everywhere, and reduced the effective area of our eight roomed house to 'within three feet of humans'. Thus, if I was cooking, the cats would take up residence on either side of my feet, making the preparation of a nice dish of pasta and pesto an un-necessarily hazardous venture. If sleeping, the cats would ignore the various couches, cat beds, window sills and other vantage points, spread over three floors, that we assumed they would occupy, opting instead to sleep on top of us, Calli on my legs, and Tosh on my stomach. The last week though, their behaviour has changed. As well travelled Canadians, they have demonstrated the natural inquisitiveness of the Northern type, hovering round exterior doors mewling insistently. Unfortunately, they have rather betrayed the classic Canadian virtues and principals of Peacekeeping, by making it perfectly clear that their major motivation for wanting to be outside is so they can attack, and hopefully dismember, Max, the cute little black and white cat that lives next door.

Today then was the day that the outdoors was explored for the first time, by the cats, and the day that we began to seriously address our own matter out of place, as the following photographs show. As for us, we shifted another six tonnes of rubble. RHB commented "I didnt realise we'd have to take so much away to add something".





Our matter out of place, the brickaceous remains of Concretia........



..Tosh wants to get Max.........



....both cats staring at an open door..........



Nel thinking......note old toilet........



...both cats went out and immediately headed for the smelliest, dirtiest most dangerous part of the yard.

The trip from the back yard to the skip, parked on the road is not straightforward, as we have no road access to our rear. So although the skip is only twenty feet away from the pile of debris we want to remove, it is necessary to go the long way round to get to it. The image at Google Maps makes this slightly clearer:


View Larger Map




Unfortunately, I have just discovered that a place called Cottingham keeps getting delivered everytime I try to publish this effort. Cottingham is though, in Hull, so in order to see what I'm talking about just type HU5 3AH in the map when it asks you if you want to get directions "from here". We live in the big old houses on the South side of the street that the map should put it's B marker on(Ella Street )ie the place that you need directions from in order to get to Cottingham. For those of you concerned about security, we are either going to move house, or delete this blog in about three days, whichever is easier.

Getting back to the point, the clay, dirt, old half bricks and concrete remnants have to be loaded in two yellow totes, hefted into the wheelbarrow then walked out of the back, into the tiny alley at the back, and then down the access alley at the side of the house to where the skips lies. Then unload the totes, pile the contents into the skip and back again. Nel conducts this work heroically, although her labours are frequently interrupted by the 'necessity' of rescuing worms and bugs from being thrown in the skip, and furthermore by talking to them as she performs these acts of liberation "Go that way, little worm" she says, and then POINTS!!!!!!!

For me, labour such as this is Benedictine, allowing contemplation on various subjects of interest, in this case, matters anthropological and psychological. The strange case of Margaret Mead has been occupying the old noggin recently, and I chuckle to myself as I consider the story. Margaret Mead was the student of an idiot called Franz Boas, who was an eminently respected anthropologist. In short, Mead was fibbed to during fieldwork in Samoa, by two Samoan women. Taking what should have been the blindingly obvious fibs of these Samoan girls as truthful statements, Mead went on to write a book describing the daily and habitual, uninhibited sexual adventures of Samoan adolescence, an adoloscence that was, according to Mead, unashamedly spent copulating with as many people as possible. The fact that Samoans were commited Christians, prized virginity very highly, and that young girls were extensively chaperoned were facts that Mead, although familiar with, (and more than this, REPORTED upon) ignored. Opinions of Mead's culpability in this story vary, but her report was widely respected and became the basis for much of America's theories on Youth Culture, and the basis for many of the hippy attitudes developed during the Sixties. Mead's mistake was only really investigated in the late Seventies/early Eighties, but by then teenagers had been invented (it was not a general concept before Mead) and, as we know, Genies, once out of bottles are difficult to put back.

I realise that if I fail in my attempt to become the 3rd Best Academic in England (ousting Richard Dawkins from the post) , I could always make a living as a screenwriter, with Mead's extraordinary story being my first Oscar winner. With that happy thought I pick up another bucket of slimy, wet mud and haul it to the skip.

Oak Table Syndrome

We decide to "chill out" for two weeks after our move and just get used to the place. As usual, the rationale for this course of action is expressed in cat time, as it is generally recommended by experts that cats be kept indoors for two weeks after moving to a new place. Thereafter, the transition to the exterior should be painless. Even so, and despite lacking the gift of prescience, I have advanced booked a sturdy ladder from a reliable neighbour, so better to expedite Calli's inevitable rescue.

These two weeks, no longer spent dashing from apartment to house to University to apartment then back to house again, have, apart from simplifying our lives enormously, provided me with an opportunity to observe the cats' reaction to our new place and ascertain what type of learners they are. Toshack, I discover, in line with Kolb's learning circle , is an active learner. He has learnt that by actively diving under the duvet, at any noise at all, and actively staying very still, he remains safe. Calli is, (and I believe this is a new category I have invented that should be added to Kolb's list of learning types) a "nosy little pest" type learner and has appointed herself as site supervisor. She has also apparently developed the technology for matter transportation and appears out of cupboards, or on the top of things when least expected, a habit which, due to the shock it generates when she does this, has caused me to develop my own habit in turn, of creeping round the house like a SWAT team member and flattening myself against walls before swiftly opening doors to cupboards and rooms.

It has too, been a time of reflection, as we consider the next phase of our renovations. We have gently pottered around the house at night, painting and talking, and enjoyed actually being in the same place, at the same time for the first time since July. It is during one of these evenings that I realize the effect University is having on me, as I describe my day's events to RBH:

"So, as I told JJ, the ontological paradigms of social anthropology are just soooo post-Modern, and there have to be, a priori, causal attenuations of the Marxist perspective, in relative terms before I'll even consider what Dawkins ("3rd best academic in England") is saying. Oh look at Tosh, is'nt he acting completely Pavlovian? Anyway, as I was saying, Dawkins et all, they're just totally liminal.Per se."

RHB looks at me questioningly

"What's for tea?", she asks.

I feel justified in speaking complete nonsense because I have just recieved the marks back from the reflective learning/learning styles/Kolb assignment, and did better than pass. In fact, given that last term, my time was spent in 99.999% renovating and the rest split between lectures and revision, I have been pleasantly surprised by the results I have achieved. This has spurred me on, and this term I have managed to devote the correct amount of time to my studies. Renovation will happen when it happens, AFTER University has recieved it's proper attention.

This additional enthusiasm though, does not disguise the fact that myself and J are both thinking of switching courses, for similar reasons. My core course, an Educational Studies course, differs noticeably from both my free elective(anthropology) and my minor (psychology) in quality. Anthropology is challenging, engaging and difficult. In fact I love this subject so much that I find it unfathomable that anyone would NOT be interested in defecation patterns round Gypsy settlements. Psychology is very well presented, factual and detailed. JJ and I discuss this as we repair to the bar. We have just emerged from one of our core Educational Modules, and most of the lecture was a film. The module in question is "Learning in a Social and Cultural Context" and the film in question was "The Filth and the Fury", Julian Temple's authoratitive history of the Sex Pistols. THe film is full of expletives and both of us are in shock, as JJ's comment as we leave the lecture hall demonstrates:

"What the f**k did that have to do with Education?" he asks.

We discuss the case for the Prosecution - being taught to call verbs "do" words, reflective learning, the Sex Pistols and being encouraged not to say "big words". There is no defence.

In some ways, I had been prepared for the situation into which we have thoroughly plonked ourselves. RHB had studied German and Russian at Liverpool University many years ago and had come to the conclusion that it was more interesting being on the dole. Like JJ, she had preconcieved notions that she would spend huge portions of her time sat round massive oak tables, discussing politics, philosophy, art and love until late at night, before perhaps punting home down the Mersey past the book filled homes of her tweed jacketed professors. In fact, it is only Will, out of all the people we know, who has notionally achieved this aim, and he has to spend most of his time marking essays, and got better paid when he was working at Pizza Hut. I, on the other hand, have always regarded studying as a competitive sport. Admittedly, it may get really interesting as I get to know things, but the First Year of a degree is about passing exams.

I do however consider how useful this degree may be to me, and therefore whether to switch courses or not, based on the reasoning that if I can, at this early stage, identify "stronger" programmes that are valued more highly by employers, and I am capable of taking that programme, then I would be foolish not to consider the option. Expressed in terms of competitive sport, it's like moving from the Minor to the Major leagues.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants...and pissing on them

After the exams, the lecturer for "Bring Your Own Beer", a module designed to teach students how to write correctly, in an academic context, delivered a hectoring lecture, angrily castigating the assemblage of students in fron t of her, for their terrible performance in the first assignment. The lecturer's focus was particularly directed at our collectively appalling grammar, punctuation, syntax and sentence structure.

The same lecturer, then posted on Blackboard - the Web based message and info system for Universities in the UK, a notice, the second paragraph of which reads as follows:


"If in your assignment feedback you were picked up your sentence construction and/or lack of paragraphing, I strongly recommend that you look at these resources, which have two tasks which you should complete and learn from."

While it is true that Alanis Morrisette's song "Ironic" does not actually describe any ironic situations (look up Ed Byrne's comic rant on You Tube), this latest piece of gibberish from this particular lecturer, compounds the cumulative irony of this module, and the way it is delivered. For example, early on in the module, we the students were urged NOT to accomplish the pronunciation of "phenomenological" because, as a word, it was "too big", and the lecturer did not "do" jargon. Similar arguments were applied to any word, or even syllable, which may cause difficulty - words such as "parallelogram" - apparently "too many 'le' 'le' 'le' ".

Equally, a core element of the module was the TEACHING as FACT of the notions of learning styles, reflective learning and Kolb's Learning Cycle. In fact, my final assignment for this module is to write a 3000 word essay, self-assessing my Learning Style, and how it has changed since the start of term. Due to the fact that I have been given to understand that it is not allowable to repeat a single word 3000 times, I have embarked upon a voyage of self-directed study, a research project to investigate the how's, why's and evidences for the concepts of learning styles etc. Titled "Reflect on this, sucker" I expect this latest work to be met with the same level of critical acclaim that "Civilization-Why?" reached. Hopefully, it will take me above Mr Dawkins, who as we all know is the 3rd Best Academic in England.

Chaos Theory and New Friends

Above is the smaller, and easily more adaptable of our two cats. On the day this was taken, the other cat was sulking as only cats can sulk. Yes, moving day has come and gone, and we are finally ensconced in Large Villas.

It would be exagerating to say that the move went smoothly, in fact, such a statement would be on a par with a statement that went something like :

"There has been a blip in World Financial Markets recently..."

In the week proceeding the move, Nel packed like a good-un, neatly organising items into categories and logically packing them into boxes which she neatly arranged in an ever growing pile. It was sometime on Wednesday that the sheer amount of rubbish we had brought over from Canada became obvious. As I am still in denial about my hoarding propensities, a modicum of tension resulted:

"What's this? " she asked, holding up a red and white plasticised fabric object.

I glanced at the item, irritated. At this point it is worth my making a bold statement, to whit : anyone who does not get profoundly irritated by the process of moving, packing and unpacking is a zombie, and this is I believe based on the fact that hauling round Neolithic brains, as we do, it is only when packing and unpacking houses that we realize that our distant antecedents would have only had to roll up their animal skin, pick up their spear and flints, and be instantly ready for the off. The realization of how complicated we have made our own lives by hoarding all sorts of junk, makes us irritable. Some of us though, are more guilty of this than others.

Back glancing at the object I realize that Red is holding up, with some disgust, one of my most cherished items.

"That's my Canadian Flag Kite! I just need to repair the tail and it'll fly".

And so it goes. The broken electric clock from our former house in Nova Scotia, the Ontario licence plates, the large format camera with the missing lens, the light
sabre, all are exposed to scrutiny. Although not eager to expose myself to further ridicule, other sundry items have made it on our odessey, including a cheap game of Chinese chequers, badly painted toy soldiers from my childhood, a 1936 copy of the Youth Hostel's Association Yearbook, 3 non-working drills, diaries filled with the pain and anguish of youth,scrawled pieces of paper with snatches of lyrical masterworks ("The sordid side of cities, the hollow howl of hate"). All this junk has made it from Liverpool Location 1 to Liverpool LOcation 2 to Leicester to Halifax to London(Ont) to Hull Location 1 to Hull Location 2, a round trip of about 8000 miles, and a complete waste of fossil fuels. A resolution is made, namely to rid myself of all this baggage, all this clutter. After the move.

Moving day itself comes and at our apartment, we are in as good shape as could be expected. At the new house we are also in good shape, depending on how you define "good shape". The building itself is more or less watertight and three rooms are habitable - the upper hall, the middle hallway and one bedroom. Elsewhere, a few little tasks need completing before the place could be called "done" - tasks such as putting in a working toilet, shower, kitchen sink, oven, appliances, starting to renovate the living room, laying the floor throughout the downstairs areas and finishing installing the kitchen cabinets. Despite this, movers are scheduled.


I have attempted to write, on several occasions, the story of the move itself, but every time I do, the attempt fails, mostly because the movers let us down, and what happened afterwards stretched my definitions of humour. In a nutshell, they were three and a half hours late, incompetent and careless, AND walked off the job after delivering just one load, leaving us with a hallway full of furniture in the old apartment and no way to move it (it was eight pm by this time). Add to that, the fact that the new tenant was moving in as we were moving out, it would be no exagerration to describe stress levels as 'raised'.

Fortunately, there was a happy ending. The new tenant, Lee, is a true gentleman, and came to our aide, driving the van he had rented for his own move through the night like a night in shining armour. The next day he came back and helped us some more, moving a few odds and ends that we had had to leave. In adversity, a new friend has been made.

The end of this tale is near to where it began. As we unpack this week, I am in the process of trawling through all the stuff we have just, once again moved, preparing to throw most of it out.

Below is the crew of friends who helped over the weekend after the move. Left to right is JJ, Mazzer, Skarr and Lee, the new tenant.

Gordon's Big Idea

I try to do the decent thing as a rule. I do not usually proceed faster than +/- 10% of the speed limit on roads (and never on a bike), I pay bills, (except to roofers) on time, I seldom smuggle more than 100ml of Eau de Cologne onto a plane(except when flying via Heathrow and then it is spread liberally round the upper torso as a biological defense against the stench of the place) and I ensure that I rend unto Caesar what is Caesar's. In other words, I pay my taxes. Or at least try to.

However, as I explain in "Evolution - When?", humans have little capacity for learning, and it is because of this, that despite my adventures trying to get "Help and Advice" from Jobcentre Plus and it's Coalition of the Willing, I attempt to pay my taxes for 2008 online. Those of you who remember 2008, may recoil in surprise that I had any taxes to pay for that year. It was a lean period, belts were tightened, cats were examined carefully to see if they could bear losing a few pounds and new guitars were not purchased. No expensive new sports were practised. Despite this though, work was found and much commuting ensued. A paltry sum was obtained and my career as Hull's Leading (and only) Freelance Theatrical Carpenter was launched.

So last week, I determine to report and pay my taxes. I decided to do this online. I entered www.gateway.gov.uk and was told I would need my National Insurance NUmber, my unique Taxpayer's reference number and my date of birth to hand. These items procurred, I proceed to register, entering the required details. After a short pause, the website tells me that I am activated,send s me a secret User Id code, asks me for a password (which I provide) and now all I have to do is wait for the delivery by mail of my Self Assessment Activation code - a unique 12 digit number that is required to complete the registration process. I can then, it says, proceed, secure in the knowledge that my details will be kept secure.

Three days later, the Self Assessment Activation Code arrives and I again log on. I enter my details:

National Insurance Number(10 digits)
Unique TAx Reference NUmber(12 digits)
Post Code (6 digits)
User ID (12 digits)
Password (9 digits)
Address (14 Digits)
Date of Birth (6 digits)
Self Assessment Online Activation Code(12 digits).

AFter entering all 79 digits I make a cup of tea reflecting that the process is slightly more complicated than in Nova Scotia, where one entered one's name and answered a couple of security questions. The script usually went something like this:

COMPUTER: "Do you know the Monk family from East Chezzetcook?"

ME: "YES"

COMPUTER : "How well?"

ME: "PRETTY WELL, I FIRED TONY SIX TIMES"

COMPUTER: "Scout's Honour?"

ME: "YEP"

COMPUTER : "Double Promise?"

ME: "FOR SURE!"

COMPUTER : "Ok, you're in. Have a nice day".



Back in the USSUK , the computer pauses after I have pressed "ENTER", has a little think, then tells me I have not been recognised. I try again, triple checking my digits to make sure they are all there. Still no recognition. I call RHB, as, being a scientist, she is pretty good at making numbers up and bedevilling statistical information. She reads the numbers out as I type, repeating each one back to her in our equivalent of the UN sytem:

RHB: "NINE"

MAZZER: " 'NINER' , that's 'o-zero-niner'. CHECK"

RHB : "A "

MAZZER : "That's 'ALPHA'. Check 'ALPHA'. Roger. Over."

RHB; "WHAT?"

MAZZER: "What's 'WHAT'?"

RHB: "What letter do you have?"

MAZZER: "ALPHA"

RHB; "Well whats all that other stuff you said? Dont say all that stuff, its just confusing. Where were we?"

MAZZER: "ALPHA"

RHB: "EH?"

We get through the pile of digits eventually and press enter. A fail message comes up. Appartently I have tried and failed too many times and now must call the Help Desk. For Help and Advice. My heart sinks.

The next working day, I call the Help Desk number. A 'line busy' signal resonates down the line. I try again and a recorded voice, in an accent suspiciously tinged with the pronunciation of the Songino Kirkhain subdivision of Ulan Bator when speaking English, says "Our Help line is experiencing extraordinarily high volumes at the moment. Please to be calling back later. And if you think its cold there, you wanna try washing yak skins outdoors where I am". Successive calls only confirm that the Help Line is working very hard.

One view is that like every other Government system in the UK, there is a mire of bureaucracy that is based on the underlying belief system that appearance is everything but functionality, if it happens, is a lucky accident, a happenstance, a by-product. Thus the Government websites are advertised everywhere, have great names like 'Direct Gov' and 'Gateway' and 'Business Links UK', are beautiful to look at, and purport to offer loads of help and advice but do not actually do anything. The other view, unfortunately, is that we return to our old friend Complexity, and admit that in order to repair the problems of a leaking ship, the captain has ordered that so much caulking, patches, bouyancy devices, warning systems, external membranes, and additional manpower to act as bailers and has welcomed aboard so many committees issuing countless reports on unending reams of paper that the ship is sinking under the weight of the measures designed to save the ship.

Last week, hot on the news that the UK was going to experience the worst recession among the G8 countries, Gordon's boys added a new patch to the ship, a new solution to the countries economic woes. Gordon's big plan is now that he has promised that by 2012, every home in the UK will have access to high speed broadband. This, we were serioulsy told, would be the platform on which the UK's ecenomic recovery would be based. Never one to scoff at novel solutions (my plastering has been witnessed by all I think), I review the plan carefully. The essence would seem to be that the few remaining steel workers in the UK, who have just been made unemployed, would be better placed in their efforts to regain employment, and thus avoid being in a state of worklessness, if they had access to broadband.

I need not type any further, I think, as to do so would only lead to allegations of libel, and possibly treason. It would not, however, be fair to leave the reader without pointing out that several words were left out of the final paragraph of this entry. Those words, in no particular order were "ROME", "BURNS", "PISSING", FIDDLING" "STUPID" "WHILE" "WIND" "IN" "THE" "WALL" "REVOLUTION" "FIRST" "UP AGAINST" "SHOWER" and "WOULD BE".