147 Questions

You may or may not be familiar with the info that I'm now entering my Second Year of a Bachelor's Degree. You may also muse to yourself "Well it's a bit odd that this chap is the second best academic in England, yet has only just passed the "do" words module". Strange it may be, but as everyone should know, or as award winning, s hospital cleaning World's Best Professors, or any self-respecting, costume making Euroscientist, or, reflectively, any pizza serving Philosopher can tell you, being at University, and being brilliant are two entirely different things. The brilliant bit is the fun part, and the degree bit is, as Grasshopper long ago advised me, a competitive sport.

With this in mind, the major subject of my degree is prosaic and practical, centring on achieving qualifications that will allow me to Teach people to Bang nails into bits of Wood. Notwithstanding, I am allowed one brilliant bit a year, where my principal area of interest, AKA the Brilliant bit, can find full expression. It is under this aegis that I attend the first lecture of "Innovation; A Cultural History", my free elective for this year.

This is the second week of term, and I'm strolling through the beautiful autumnal sunshine towards the ivy-covered History building. The old mood is a mixture of sheer glee at the prospects ahead, and sadness that my good friend JJ isnt here. JJ left towards the end of last year, and some experiences have not been the same since. Throughout the first semester, JJ and I had established a tradition at Staff House, the post-doc and Staff dining hall, of buying eachother lunch and debating the great topics of the day. First among those topics was usually "What are we eating?", because the food provided at Staff House confirms every prejudice about English cuisine that exists. Chilli, curry, ragout, stew and that old English standby "....... Pie" (insert 'fish', 'cottage', 'vegetarian', 'meat' ) all taste, feel and look exactly the same. Today was my first meal back at Staff House without JJ I have no other reference than the chalkboard that I am eating lamb. It tastes a bit like chicken.

Cheeriness, however, is restored by the anticipated content of the lecture I am headed towards - this is not a module to be 'passed', oh no, 'Innovation' is a module to be savoured, to be mulled, debated and to spend far too much time on. Expectations are high.

Arriving at the lecture theatre twenty minutes early, I settle down in a seat at the front, remove my pens and notepaper, turn off my phone and compose myself. I am eager not to miss a second of the forthcoming delights, and also to impress the Professor with my attitude, so when I discover twenty minutes later that it is the Professor himself who has awakened me from my deep slumber, I know for certain that I have at least partially succeeded. In yesteryear, history Professors were very old men, wearing crumpled tweed suits, whiskers sprouting from everywhere, especially the nostrils, and authors of impossibly long books about the British Empire thinly disguised as fantasy novels. These days, with the advent of the Discovery Channel, and the ongoing controversy about which aliens actually built the Pyramids (I think it was the Greys), History Professors are young rock and rollers, devil-may-care abseiling telegenic enthusiasts who look like they're just about to go solo back-packing in Kgyrystan. "Innovations" Professor is no different - humourous and slightly ironic, clean and healthy looking. The last thing he looks like he is about to do is write a book.

As the lecture progresses, I realise that the list of 147 questions I have prepared for this lecture is inappropriate, as this initial session is just an outline of the year long module and an introduction into procedures and so on, so I carefully write down his e-mail address and office hours. Doubtless, he will prefer, as did Kenny last year, to discuss the ideas behind "Civilization: Why?" in some depth, and some of my ideas (particularly those controversial sections about pockets of Neanderthalism still remnant in Leeds) will be too advanced for most of the class.

It is totally without any irony that I can report that the structure of the module, in detail, is even better than I had imagined. Not only are the topics fascinating "Was it inevitable that the atomic bomb would be dropped, once it had been invented?" , but the seminars are to be presented in a way I have not yet encountered, in that each seminar is to take the format of a mini trial. We, the students have been nominated as judge, jury, prosecution and defence for various of the seminars so that each role is performed by each student, and we are going to put "on trial" various concepts within the topic. The topics are "Why were the Greeks and Romans technologically so limited? " and so on.

Back home and happy that my free elective is going to be fantastic, I settle down, with less resentment than normal, to work on one of my mandated modules "Inclusive Learning", and find to my surprise that my perceptions of it have changed. It is no longer dull, worthy and content-free, but a topic which, if approached from the point of view that it is about different ways of teaching, may be very illuminating. "Innovations: A Cultural History" is already bearing fruit.

How to study

Its Tuesday afternoon, one of the few periods of the week uninterrupted by troublesome lectures, gym attendance, football matches and renovations. I suppose in the olden days, a married couple (such as we are), anxious to arrange their lives to less resemble a pair living through the after effects of a global catastrophe (which describes most people I know) and striving to avoid being the cause of any further chaos (which has been a theme throughout our partnership) might sit down at the dinner table, clear it of unnecessary cats, and one might ask the other :

"My dear, what are you doing tomorrow? I know you have your little women's coffee morning on Thursday, rehearsals for the amateur players on Wednesday, and a court apppearance on Friday following that unfortunate incident in the fishmongers last week over the last piece of haddock, but I seem to have forgotten what occupies your pretty little mind this coming Tuesday".

The significant other would probably respond:

"Silly old thing, I'm off to Raquel's on Tuesday, there's a rather good all-male troupe of strip-artistes in town. Burlesque's all the rage, dont you know?"

The male might laugh, then reply that he was a silly, old thing, omitting to add that he was also going grey, bald and fat and that some of his teeth were a bit loose, but would theatrically slap his forehead and agree that as his paranour was engaged, it would be acceptable for him to go and watch he football, down at the local pub. Schedules agreed, the co-habitees wold carry on reading their papers.

Today, of course, all this has changed. It has taken weeks of negotiation, juggling, accomodation, planning and hypothesising to arrange our schedule. Most of this communication has been by electronic means, mostly because when we ask eachother in the traditional manner, the reply is invariable "Let me check my calendar. Ah! It appears as if I've just missed a waxing. I wish these things would be more consistent in sending reminders."

Nevertheless, accomodation has been made, and schedules have been set, despite that I have missed several waxings. I get home from the morning's lecture with enough time to cram in a good four hours study, park the Crosstowner affectionately in the hall and set to.


Before I study though, there are a few little things I need to do. Firstly, I open the back kitchen door to allow the cats some outside time, as they resolutely refuse to exit unless one or the other of us is watching. Then I open my laptop. I check the football results again to see if they have improved since Sunday, and they have not. Then I investigate further the brilliant new anthropological theory that occured to me while I was in my "Inclusive Learning" class earlier in the morning. Suddenly, it looks as if Calli, the smaller of the two cats, is having difficulty killing a particularly attractive songbird that is busy twittering above her in the bushes outside. She meeps plaintively, so to help her get over her disappointment, I play a good game of "pounce" with her for ten or fiftenn minutes. Game over, I realise I'm hungry, so I eat a few slices of bread (with marmalade), make a cup of tea and sit down. Realising I have'nt organised my study schedule for the afternoon, I draw up a to-do list. The list extends into domestic tasks as well, mainly because I realise we havent yet downloaded tonight's television watching, or arranged anything to eat for our evening meal. A quick dash to the local store for provisions, set the computer up to download, make another cup of tea, e-mail RHB to remind her that I am at home studying. Suddenly my computer beeps at me, and the recieved e-mail reminds me I have night school that evening. I realise my wet weather gear isnt organised, so just in case, I find it all, ready to pack for tonight's class, and in doing so, discover that my cycling shorts are dirty. Not wanting to waste energy, I organise a full load of washing. By this time, Calli wants stroking, and Tosh wants to play, RHB has e-mailed to ask me to get something out of the freezer for her tea, and I remember I have'nt posted the first edition of "Bike" to a friend, a canvasser is knocking at the door, a neighbour wants me to throw the kid's ball back over the fence, JJ has texted me to arrange a drink, and I need another cup of tea.

I glance at the clock. It's four pm. How on earth did this happen? We planned everything ! The clock must be wrong, so I check, but alas, none of the clocks in the house disagree. There is only one refuge for students in need of a quick, compressed study, so I Google "Traits Theory" and click without hesitation on the Wikipedia entry. The "Trait theory" entry doesnt list "disorganised" as one of the Big Five Personality traits, but it does include the following fascinating observation:


Current research concentrates on a number of areas. One important question is: are the five factors the right ones? Attempts to replicate the Big Five in other countries with local dictionaries have succeeded in some countries but not in others. Apparently, for instance, Hungarians don’t appear to have a single Agreeableness factor.^[55] Other researchers find evidence for Agreeableness but not for other factors.^[56]

Obviously, my afternoon has not been wasted after all. A whole new line of anthropological investigation has been opened.

Back to The Future 2

"It's you!"

I look at myself and confess that it is, indeed, me, myself and I. Despite this confirmation the Transpennine Express representative, a man I recognise as a sparring partner from the bad old days of the delayed 7.33 is unimpressed.

"I'm afraid you cant take pictures here" he says. "Security."


I wonder what possible benefit terrorist might obtain from an ill-functioning railway service, but, regrettably older, tired today, and perhaps a tad wiser, I argue not at all, and slope off with camera and Crosstowner held fast, fearful of police intervention. It is a Saturday afternoon and I've just finished a couple of days back at my old company completing a project for a major client for their Christmas displays. University registration was last week, lectures do not start properly until next week, and I had a couple of days free. Free, that is, until I bragged about this freedom to my friend Tom, who is still emplyed by Dick. The job's fun, travelling aside, creating a huge pile of shinky boxes, replicating a big pile of presents. Mazzer's like shiny, so I jump at the chance, and within the allotted time fabricate a simulacrum of the concept, deemed acceptable by Tom. The project's a lot of fun, and Tom is fine to work with so the work is, like a lot of my enjoyable work, more like playing than work.




The travelling is a different story. At present, the old brain is currently occupied with questions of human origins, questions largely provoked by Chris Knight's book "Blood Relations; Menstruation and the Origins of Human Culture". Knight's proposal is that the origins of human culture lie in a "sex strike" that early females initiated, partly as protection against aggresive male behaviour, partly as a means of ensuring that their offspring were supplied with adequate food.

The work is interesting and throws up a number of questions, but as many of them are about the author's motivations as they are the actual question. Knight is a very radical Professor, fired earlier this year from his University post for suggesting (during a demonstration against globalization) that bankers might be hung form lampposts. He is, very politiclly active, and a Marxist. His analysis, is firmly framed within Marxism. And that, largely is where the problem lies, at least for this reader.

Marxism, in itself, as an economic analysis of industrialism, is something I have no problems with - there were top-hatted capitalists treating workers like bees in the dark Satanic mills. Latter day capitalists are no better - turning rainforests into cattle farms powered by indentured labour and pouring mercury into the Amazon in pursuit of profit. Our (my) own complicity in these activities (at least one of my guitars is tropical mahogany) is unquestionable, but Marxist interpretation of the control of the means of production lets me off the hook. Does nt it?

Where I have difficulties with modern day Marxists, particularly Marxist anthropologists, of which there are not a few, is that they translate their analysis to societies bearing absolutely no relation to the society that Marx lived and worked in. The best way to describe the difficulties I have in this are by describing what anthropologists are discussing when arguing about early human evoltion, ie how did we become human?

This is the picture. A group of hominids ( or early humans) are hanging round the Great Rift Valley, Africa engaged in that most common pursuit of mammals - surviving. These hominids have just split from Chimpanzee ancestors (see exciting news from this week: http://communities.canada.com/ottawacitizen/blogs/darkmatter/archive/2009/10/01/who-are-we-questions-from-the-oldest-known-human-ancestor.aspx) and are trying hard to decide how to evolve. Franky, they dont know and most of the group are half wishing that an anthropologist would come along and help them. Two in particular, Lucy and Ardi, are especially anxious, mostly because of the knowledge that they will go doen in history and will one day be VERY important. They need to know how to evolve. Suddenly, their wish is granted, but like buses, when you're waiting for one, they all turn up at once. A big bearded fellow addresses them

"You brothers and sisters" he says " are the oppressed. Subject to an aggressive domination from tyrannical overlords. You will establish class solidarity and throw off the chains of imperialism that subjugate you".

The hominids, lounging round in the sun, grooming eachother and slightly drunk from the semi-fermented apples they've been eating, look round anxiously for signs of the oppressor. Suddenly, one of the other anthropologists, wearing an Armani suit, sunglasses and smoking a big cigar, pushes the bearded one aside, making him stumble. Beard's glasses fall off, and the new guy stomps on them, smirking unpleasantly. He points at Lucy:

"You there!! Dont listen to him. He's a fanatic. Human's dont co-operate. You'll never get to the moon if you try that BS. Why dont you steal some of your little friend's baby's food. Take it for your own baby. Competition! That's what it's all about - dog eat dog, survival of the fittest.lJust go for it!"

The hominids are growing increasingly alarmed. Ardi gets up, heading towards a little dip in the landscape a few metres away.

"Where d'you think you're going? " This is from a third anthropologist. He looks like an art critic, square glasses with horn-rimmed frames, and a tee-shity that reads 'Dawkins is GOD'. Ardi, unused to being shouted at, responds timidly;

"Just going to the loo. Back in a bit"

Horn-rimmed looks stern :

"Oh no you're not. Not voluntarily, at least. Not until you've evolved the cognitive architecture to make voluntary decisions about defecation and it's symbolism."

Ardi bristles:

"Look mate, I know he " Pointing to Beard " is a Marxist. And he" pointing to Armani " is a free market behaviourist, but who are you?"

"I'm an evolutionary psychologist" says Horn-rimmed "and you are pre-Cathedral of the Mind".

Later that night, after the anthropologist have all been eaten, a meal shared equally among the hyenas who caught them and the hominids who decided 'Waste not, want not'. Lucy asks Ardi what tey should do.

"Let's wait and see..." says Ardi " about four million years".

Back in Leeds, sitting on the bus that is a train, I'm contemplating that my journey, at least today, is suffering from an acute attack of anthropology - rigid adherence to a dogma without any substantial evidence in favour of the thing.

Spiced Rum

All quietish on the Eastern Front at the moment, as we ramp up for a new term. Both have been away, in my case working again at the dreaded NEC, a place that makes the most barren strip mall in Sarnia, London, Missisauga or Hamilon look like a rainforest of variation. RHB has been in Bangor on work related matters, then , after a short stop back in Hull for an evening, headed down to London's glittering West End to take in a play, a museum and an art gallery. She returned, bearing a much more artistic demeanor than when she left, stuffed to the gills with culture, and in possession of a bum fountain, or at least the beginnings of one. Travelling by train, she was scheduled to return on Saturday evening at 19.15, hop in the shower and walk the short distance with me to a friend's birthday party, but naturally, the train was delayed so she arrived at Jerry's birthday party just in time to see him blowing out the candles.

Jerry is a legend at Large Mansions. I met him in the depths of Concretia, evil Empress of the back yard. He was visiting the place to assess some plastering work we needed doing: work I actually did myself in the end, but should have used Jerry, as my post on "The Calumny of Plastering" makes evident.

To recap on Concretia, I had hired a crew headed by Cheap Steve to demolish the two foot thick, twelve foot long concrete monstrosity that had provided totally unsuitable foundations for the property's existing extension. The episode broke Cheap Steve . The week after he hadnt demolished the thing, Steve left Hull, intent on travelling the world for 10 months. The full story of Cheap Steve can be obtained by searching this Blog. Just insert "Cheap Steve" or "Concretia". The true story of the demise of the thing though, was not fully reported at the time on YWNA. Probably because I wanted to claim credit for myself. The truth involves Jerry, and can now be exclusively revealed.

Our (me,Darren, JJ, Cheap Steve, Cheap Steve's mate 'Highway Robber', Nel, John from next door, Steve employees and two full construction gangs) collective failure to remove Concretia still left me with the problem that I could'nt start work on my new extension until the wicked carbuncle was gone. Failure had been massive. The whole affair had become a debacle and neighbours were queueing up to offer advice, then watching as their advice too, bounced off Concretia like a moth bouncing off a window-pane.Of clear back-lit glass. Anyway, to continue.....

.....Desperate, but after much thought, I set about digging under the 6ft by 12ft raft of concrete, reasoning that I could then drill small holes through it to weaken it. The possibilities I was considering for breaking it up after weakening it included fire, more pneumatic drills, brimstone, magic, genetically modified mice with diamond tipped teeth and plastic explosive. It had become an obsession. Jerry walked into this mess, as I was spelunking my nemesis, and was introduced by our mutual friend JJ. I explained to Jerry, more as a by-the-by than anything else, what I was about. The great man sized up the situation shrewdly, then said, quietly:

"Let me give it a little hit?"

I handed him my remaining sledgehammer, raising a sceptical eyebrow at JJ, who had been attacking Concretia with me the previous day. JJ smirked back knowingly. Our endeavours had made so little impression on Concretia that we began to doubt our heritage, specifically our forefather's legend's about how the Irish had dug the English' canals. Either stonebreaking was not genetic, which meant that our forefathers had lied to us, or, if it was, our Irish genes were diluted. Which also meant our forefathers had lied to us.

JJ and Nel at Jerry's Birthday Party. [Note; it is possible that posting this entirely unflattering picture will be my last mortal act. In my defence, and for the record, may I say that I only posted it because the facial expressions are funny, and the image in no way is a true representation of either of these individuals, who, as we all know, are stunningly good looking. If, however, RHB does enact on my person a hideous revenge, I hereby bequeath my entire "Mexico 70" album to JJ].



Jerry hefted the sledgehammer, testing the weight. It was a cheap thing, as the sledgehammer budget has been completely blown the previous week. Jerry looked thoughtfully at the immovable object polluting my backyard. Feet slightly apart, he gave one long swing, towards a region of the malevolence I had been relentlessly, ineffectually, bashing for most of the previous day. The next few seconds were in slow motion, etched into my brain like Steven Gerrard's header in the Istanbul 2005 Champion's League Final, as the hammer head hit, then cracks spread, Concretia sagged, crumbled and broke. JJ, , stepped backward, astonished:

"Jesus, Jerry!!" he declared in his broad Dublin accent "You're a horse of a man!"

I too exclaimed, but as with most Liverpudlians, my voice raises several octaves when excited, amazed or scared, so all anyone would have witnessed of my own visage was an open mouth. In the distance, dogs barked.

Genetically, JJ and I needed a cup of tea and sipping it comfortably, we asked Jerry how," in the name of God", he had accomplished his feat. Accents are a curious thing, but there's something about the Jamaican accent that enables it to deliver the deepest wisdom, simply. Jerry just looked modest.

" Hit it were it come. That's all. You gotta hit it were it come."

Over a year later, we're sitting in Jerry and Sarah's back yard, eating the delicious trout that Jerry, Shaka, and JJ caught that day, and sipping spiced rum. The males are telling stories and the females are commenting on how the males "embellish" these oft told tales. JJ and I concur with theopinion that there's no story thats so good it cant get a little bit better. Even so, I refrain, on this occasion, from referring to Concretia, as RHB has had a hard day's travel, and heard the story before.


Our own back yard is now much improved from the days of Concretia, although not quite ready for numbers of visitors yet, although, thanks to Jerry (and everyone else who helped) it soon will be. Last week, I promised to post a picture. Below are two pictures, the yard as it was, and the yard as it is. It feels good to look at them :



Close examination of the above picture will reveal a particularly satisfied, pinkish cat. Concretia, Evil Empress of the BAck Yard has been replaced by Toshack, Canadian Barn Cat and Sun King.

The Tower of Babel

Exterior of the house summer 2008. Scaffolding is roofers.





Exterior of the house September 2009; Scaffolding is what Nel and I put up.



Detail of masonry work repainted.

Front of house completed apart from drainpipe repaint. Note, if you will , that we moved the original fence.



Original rear of house. Photo of new rear to follow tomorrow.


As those of you expecting an invitatioin to our house warming party may be aware, we are nnot quite finished at Large Mansions. It would be face saving if we could attribute this to earthquakes, floods or other natural disasters, but unfortunately, the real reason is our work-shy nature and an element of planning deficiency that makes the UK's exit strategies from its various theatre's of war positively prescient. There is one target however that we identified as a "must do" this summer, and that is the task of 'winterizing' the old place. In that area, we have succeeded, and succeeded well. I may as well get all the terrible puns out of the way now, but the procurement of scaffoldimg last week (inbetween zipping up and down various motorways), and a subsequent erection that I was inordinately proud of, meant that Project "Wind and the Rain", ended on a high.

Winterizing, for us, meant an extenal treatment of all of our windows so that they are completely airtight, this removing unwanted draughts. This then allows us to choose where draughts and fresh air can ener the house as opposed to being constantly surprised by errant gusts of wind. In Large Mansions, night-time was when these draughts made themselves unpleasantly apparent. The household would prepare for slumber, usually in strict order : firstly RHB, announcing that she was 'done' in the middle of "Prison Hell: the world's toughest jails" or "Tough guy or Chicken: Can ten male models survive the world's toughest grooming regime?", would retire suddenly leaving a confused assemblage in her wake. The larger of the two cats and I, would sit up, noses twitching in a state of indecision : stay or go? which enabled the smaller cat to sneak out the room. She would, in a Liverpool phrase that is the only appropriate one I can think of to describe the urgency of her movement, "leg it" up the stairs, while Toshack and I were trying to unmesmerise ourselves, brains still focused on whether Reuben would survive the Leg Wax Challenge. Tosh and I exchange looks, decide to see out the end of the programme, then as next week's cliff hanger is announced, switch everything off and head for our respective ablutions.

It is at this moment that it all gets very tactical. By now, the remaining space on the bed is limited - RHB is a diminutive creature, but somehow gains volume when in repose. Callisandra Vella, Evil Queen of the BacK Garden, similarly grows to a stature that matches her many titles. The challenge, for me and the larger cat, is to claim space before the other does. After tooth brushing, during which he miaows at me constantly, Tosh and I stalk eachother, both headed in the general direction of the chamber.

Ten minutes later, I am usually to be found lying precariously on my side, along a 3 inch strip of mattress at the edge of the bed, covered with just the correct amount of duvet to perfectly constitute an irritant. The rumble of loud, contented purring adds to the effect. It is at this point that I was wont, for six long months, to notice a faint, but chill breeze across the shoulder. If sleeping was an Olympic sport, I doubt that I would ever achieve even junior qualifying standards, so bad am I at it: the faintest thing can cause insomnia, and the breeze was a persistant threat. Even as we gradually sealed the outside of the house, the breeze stubbornly remained. NIghts would pass spent wandering the echoing corridors with a lighter, holding it up to window frames, door seals and room corners, trying to establish the origins of the vent, but it did not reveal.

I was apprehensive about sleep - it was the first I had spent in the house (being otherwise than Birmingham) since completion of Project Wind and the Rain. equipped with all my draught detecting kit, I lay down hesitantly. Nothing. Amazed, but optimistic, I stopped breathing. Still nothing. Then, cautiously I breathed out slowly. The next day we drew up a new to-do list, very happily.

The War of the Blogs

As you may be aware, once this author has a bee in his bonnet, it tends to stay there. Or would do if honey bees were not disappearing faster than you can say pesticide.

It all started when I stumbled upon a blog when I was researching some work done on climate change by Dr Latif. Dr latif was proposing a suspension in overall global warming for about a decade indicated by ocean temperature measurements in the Northern Atlantic. I had heard of Dr LAtif's work via BBC radio, who ran a couple of features on his work. An entry commenting on Dr Latif's work was mentioned in my Google search so I clicked on the link, eager for illumination, expecting perhaps an informed medium level explanation of the work. The link however disappointed, citing Latif as evidence that Climate Change was not occuring, and challenged the BBC (from whom I had heard of Latif) to publicise his "heresy".



On a whim, I posted a comment on the blog, correcting the error, and thus unwittingly, this years YWNA Campaign Respecting Accuracy (in) Posting (CRAP 2009) has been launched.

The exchange that started it all can be found here:

http://notasheepmaybeagoat.blogspot.com/2009/09/global-warming.html


The idea behind CRAP 2009 is to work slowly down the list of blogs that Not a Sheep is linked to and engage them in debate, on their own turf, challenging inaccuracies, prejudice and nonsense at every turn. This campaign will be pressed with a steely determination, ruthlessness, fortitude and tenacity until either

a). every single blog on the entire world wide web that posts nonsense has either reformed or given up.

or

b). I get bored.

Those with long memories may recall my campaign to reform the rail systems of the UK. The success of that campaign was liteally unmeasurable, and I expect a similar result for Crap 2009. Watch this space.

A Proponderance of Knowledge

The van drive is uncomfortable, not just because I am on a bag containing my cordless drill, but also because a group of executives are accompanying us to the next venue in our, by now inexorable, tour of England's Midlands. Their task is to 'roll up their shirt- sleeves', put their 'shoulders to the grindstone', and get down and dirty with 'the trades' and 'help' us put up the stage. Most of them look chillingly enthusiastic.

"Why?" I ask the slightly flabby executive next to me.

"Team building exercise" he replies "Its Clive, by the way. What's your name, fellah?"

"Mar..n" I mumble, hoping desperately that a name badge is not suddenly supplied. Clive's team all have them - all I can hope is that the illiteracy he obviously assumes of me means that I can be excluded from tagging.

"Nice to meet you chap. No prizes for guessing where you come from, eh? Who do you support?"

"Mooseheads."

"What?"

"Mooseheads. I'm Canadian. "

Admittedly this is a slightly naughty divergence on my part, so I clarify the situation immediately : "Just a little joke - I emigrated to Canada years ago and now I'm a citizen. Came back here about two years ago."

Clive laughs quickly, and asks the familiar question "Why did you bother coming back here?", with the also familiar accompanying rising tone of incredulity. I explain how after a dissolute life as a rocker's moll, RHB is now a top boffin as a direct result of watching daytime television. Clive is admiring.

"Euroscience - so that's all about EEC policy and suchlike?"

"Sort of, " I concede and then explain how Euroscience is the scientific study of Europe. RHB's speciality is V1 and V2, which, I further explain, are the technical names given to the tiny little microeconomic regions near France - Monaco and Lichtenstein. Clive is fascinated, and even more so when I expand, explaining that I too am headed towards academia, by virtue of being only a part time carpenter, and a full time anthropologist.

"That's brilliant!" he enthuses "And how long do you say these books took you to write? "

In case you, the reader thinks I was being unfair on Clive, I have to admit that I was. There is simply no defence for misleading a perfectly innocent, patronising middle manager by telling them outright lies. Unless of course, they start waffling on about how they themselves also fancy getting some more education, and are thinking of an MBa, and are fascinated by the concepts of 'Quantum Marketing'.

I utter a gutteral noise, which Clive interprets as awakening interest, and he raises his chin slightly in my direction. "Particle Physics...." I manage to gasp."...quantum marketing?? ...but...its not....umph ..." the 'umph' exhalation is because we've just gone over speed bumps and my drill has been triggered, 1500 rpm somewhere near the glutimous maximus.".....thought it was er, physics...quantum stuff..?.."

"That's just it" he enthuses "What makes it all so exciting. They've" ['they'?] have taken the principles of Quantum Physics and applied them to the market. Particularly people........."

Clive explains how in Quantum Physics, "they" have "proved" that if you apply equal forces to two particles which are held in close proximity, then separate the particles by miles, then apply force to one of the particles, the other instantaneously also acts as if the same force had been applied to it. Apparently, in the actual experiment, a single 'molecule' , after being held next to it's best friend and having forces acted upon it, was then flown to the other side of the world - presumably in a special molecule box - and was, literally bombared with 'forces'. By 'they'. Left with no choice, the molecule 'reacted'. That, Clive explains is how particle physics works, and furthermore, is the only way to explain some consumer trends across the world.

"How come, for example, suddenly everyone wanted one of those tamagochi things? It was like, no-one had heard of them , then suddenly, every kid had to have one. Humans just act like quantum particles. "

Depressingly enough, quantum marketing isnt the only thing Clive proves to me. He also introduces the concept of tribal branding, which is, he tells me, straight out of anthropology.

"People act just like tribes" say Clive "and no more so than when they're in a group. Its a really exciting concept, but if you can get under the skin of these ideas, then it takes marketing to the next level".

Obviously, the questions to ask are "Why?", "What next level?", "Why?" (again), and "Are you in the wrong van?", but after a three-quarter of an hour, ten mile journey we reach the venue.
Clive springs out the van.

"Right, chief, where do you want us? We're in your hands? " he asks, rubbing his hands together.

As Clive is, I learn later, one of the future senior managers of his particular retail outfit, I think we are in his hands. Does anyone know any good shipwreck songs?