The Divine-C Code

The internet has much to answer for. Under a century ago children in village schools still scrawled their letters on a slate. In my day every school desk had inkwells although we, society, had grudgingly moved on to fountain pens. Ballpoints were verboten until I got to sixth form and the only people who learned to type were girls hoping for a career in the typing pool or as, giddy heights, a secretary. Although we did a term of computer studies, sending whole decks of punched cards to the County Hall mainframe before they even called it that, the notion of a computer in every home was fantastic science fiction. And that was a mere forty years back.

Suddenly – and to those of advancing years, trust me it IS suddenly – computers dominate our lives; every kid with a yen to learn can teach himself to code and with the aid of the mighty world-wide web has a million tutors on hand around the clock. Now no corner of the globe, it seems, is untouched by digital technology and he who can control it is king. The net even reaches beyond earth and into space and even further, to the netherworld. And so it has come to pass that even the kingdoms of heaven and hell are pitting their wits against each other in ways far from biblical…

It came to pass that Jesus and Satan had an argument as to which of them was the better programmer. The squabble became an out and out row – you may have experienced the unusually stormy winter weather in the south of England, where they live – for many days until their dad intervened, in his mysterious way. His booming voice ringing out from Yorkshire, where He lives, the lord God Almighty decreed they settle the argument with a contest and set them a task to program from scratch a database to hold the souls of the saved and the damned.

The King of the Jews and the Lord of the Flies sat either side of an enormous desk, their PCs back to back, and began the task, each pausing occasionally to respectively smile beatifically or glower at the other. Time slipped by as their typing fingers upped the pace and code flowed onto the screens. Hammering at their keyboards Jesus and Satan coded as if approaching the end of days. God, as judge, looked on and smiled to himself; apart from the clatter it was the quietest he’d seen them in millennia. Soon the deadline loomed and the boys furiously shifted up yet another gear, each to dominate the other.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning rent the air. The smell of ozone hit their nostrils and as the deafening crack of thunder reached their ears the power went out. In the darkness The Lord chuckled and lit a match. His face lit eerily by the flickering flame he bade the quarrelling pair hush for a few moments more. With a snap of his fingers the lights came back on, power was restored and their computers automatically rebooted.

“Showeth me thy work, foul demon!” he demanded of The Devil, using his affectionate nickname for the devilish scamp. Satan looked confused as he desperately searched for his files. Dejected he looked up at God and said, “We have nothing. We lost it all when the power went out.”

“Speak for yourself!” said Jesus and so saying he hit the Enter key. The massed choir of the angelic host poured forth from his speakers and on screen a window popped up bidding him to enter a name. He typed in “Tony Benn” and pressed Enter, whereupon the screen filled with text and began to scroll, displaying every deceased Tony Benn from the beginning of time, along with their final resting place, political affiliation and last words, the typeface in blue for heaven and red for hell.

Satan was furious. He raged, he howled and then he turned to Jesus and demanded, “B-b-but how?” In the voice of Hades itself even his involuntary stutter dripped p-p-p-pure evil. The temperature dropped a few degrees. “I lost everything, yet Jesus’ program is intact! How can this be? Surely this is some divine trick?”

The Devil's Code? C666

A low rumble began in God’s belly and grew in intensity as it travelled through the vast cavern of his chest, emerging in a mighty bellow of laughter as he held his holy ribs. The carpenter’s son laughed at his right hand. When the laughter subsided, God placed a friendly hand on Satan’s shoulder and chuckled. “Don’t you know, lad? I thought everybody knew… Jesus saves.”

The march of progress

Progress, noun, ˈprəʊgrɛs’

1. forward or onward movement towards a destination.

2. development towards an improved or more advanced condition.

You can’t stop it, they say; progress gathers a certain momentum as it carries us inexorably towards change. Of course the adjective ‘progressive’ is a backward motion in political terms, having been appropriated by the left to spin their desire to return to the failed dogma of Marxism as the opposite of the disaster it generally engenders. But nonetheless, progress usually connotes desirable outcomes, as is the case with the latest deployment in technology in healthcare.

The NHS is trialling a new remote diagnostic procedure which if successful could greatly relive the strain on both general practitioners and accident and emergency departments. It turns out that a simple urine test, which can be automatically analysed, offers a fast route to treatment for many common complaints. Funded by a small fee for each use, possibly only five pounds, this could herald a new era of self-sustaining investment in healthcare, allowing twenty-four hour access to reassurance or confirmation for all. My local branch of Tesco has installed one of the machines for the free trial and I decided to give it a go.

The procedure couldn’t be simpler. You pick up a container from the dispensary, nip to the toilets, produce a small urine sample and pop on the sealed lid. Then you insert the container into the machine and you can either wait for the results – about ten minutes – or opt to have them emailed to you. As I’ve been suffering a bit of joint pain in my elbow lately I decided to give it ago, rather than bother the walk-in centre. So I toddled along to Tesco, did the deed and went off to do my shopping. When I deposited the sample the machine had given me a small card, like a car park ticket, so on returning to the machine I fed this card into the slot. Almost instantaneously a printout appeared.

“Welcome and thank you for using this diagnosis machine. Please note that this is not intended to replace your normal health screening services and persistent symptoms should be referred to a qualified medical practitioner.”  Well, duh-er, I thought. The diagnosis followed: “You appear to be suffering from tennis elbow. Recommended self-treatment: soak the elbow in warm water occasionally. Avoid heavy lifting and twisting movements. If symptoms persist after two weeks, see your GP.” I was impressed at this accurate assessment of an ongoing and recurring problem.

Later that evening while thinking how amazing this new technology was and how it would change medical science forever, I began to wonder if this machine could be fooled. So the next time I was in Tesco I picked up a container and took it home with me to carry out a little experiment. I collected a small stool sample from the dog, persuaded my wife and daughter to contribute to the urine content, diluted the whole lot in tap water and gave the mixture a good shake before decanting off a little into the sample bottle. On a whim I masturbated into the bottle for good measure.

Back in Tesco I furtively inserted the sample into the machine, took my ticket and waited impatiently for the result. It took ages. I was here for well over an hour and each time I inserted my ticket it was returned and a message on screen told me the diagnosis was not yet ready. Finally, the ticket was retained and the printout began to roll. It said: “Your tap water is too hard. Get a water softener. Your dog has worms. Get him vitamins. Your daughter is using cocaine. Put her in a rehabilitation clinic. Your wife is pregnant with twin girls. They aren't yours. Get a lawyer."

I was amazed and slightly stunned at these revelations and wondering how I should react to this news,most of which, to be fair, I'd already suspected. But the machine wasn't quite finished. A second page of print appeared, which stated: "...and if you don't stop wanking, your tennis elbow is never going to get better.”

A long old haul

Long haul flights are the bane of working life for many a professional. Sometimes, you like to imagine, you may get a bit of work done on the plane, or catch a few hours of much-needed sleep, but the days of automatic Club Class travel for business users are long gone. It’s all you can usually do to compartmentalise yourself and drown out the existence of all the mouth-breathers greedily sharing your oxygen. So Geoff, the cranky old civil engineer, was less than ecstatic to find that he was crammed into the window seat next to a talkative and eager young scientist.

There were no other free seats available, so even after take-off and the ‘Fasten Seat Belts’ sign blinked out there was no escape other than to roam the aisles. And after a couple of hours even that refuge was denied him as the flight encountered a region of turbulence and all passengers were asked to return to their designated seats. The younger man liked to chat and seemed to believe it was an activity best shared. Geoff just wanted to nap, but even his best hints – even saying out loud “I just want to sleep” - went unheeded.

So, pleasantries were exchanged. When asked, Geoff told the young ‘un he was ‘an engineer’. Reciprocating, the other said his name was Paul and he was a Palaeontologist. Not a palaeogeologist, he was at pains to point out, but the real deal. Oh yes, a dinosaur hunter in the flesh and with a growing list of peer-reviewed papers to his credit, especially in the fields of paleobotany, palynology and paleoanthropology. As the alliterative litany continued Geoff just thought he was taking the p and tried to switch off, tuning instead to the drone of the engines. It proved futile; the hind legs of a donkey were peanuts to this lad, who could bore the balls off a buffalo*.

Eventually, sensing from his captive a distinct lack of enthusiasm for his achievements, Paul suggested they play a fun game that he had played while he was doing his PhD under the supervision of the much admired and ground-breaking Professor Gerhard Strom, a contemporary of the great Jacob Bronowski and a legend in paleoanthropological circles. Anything, thought Geoff, to lighten the mood. Paul explained: "I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me £5. Then you ask me a question, and if I don't know the answer, I'll pay you £5." Geoff just looked at Paul and rolled his eyes.

Paul, with rare empathy sensed he was losing Geoff’s attention and quickly changed the rules. "OK, if you don't know the answer you pay me £5, and if I don't know the answer, I'll pay you £50!" This catches Geoff’s attention, and he sees no end to the torment unless he plays, so he agrees to the game. Paul asks the first question. "What's the distance from the Earth to the moon?" Geoff doesn't say a word, but after a few minutes of silence he says, "I'm afraid I don't know." Then he opens his wallet, pulls out a fiver and hands it to Paul. Now it’s his turn.

“What goes up a hill on three legs” asks Geoff “but comes down on four?" Paul’s brow furrows as he concentrates, running through a gamut of facial contortions as he tries to dredge his memory. Eventually he takes out his laptop and searches all of his references. He taps into the airphone and Googles. Still no joy. Even the British Library, the Library of Congress and the databases of all the scientific communities yield no answers. Frustrated, he e-mails his academic colleagues, all to no avail. He finally concedes defeat and turns to Geoff who has been fast asleep for several hours.

Oh really? How interesting... 

Waking Geoff, he counts out ten fivers. Geoff takes them and begins to turn away to resume his snooze. “But wait” says Paul, “what’s the answer?” Geoff smiles, turns back to Paul and hands back one of the fivers. As he settles back to sleep he says "I'm afraid I don't know."

(*Courtesy of the much-missed Jake Thackray – treat yourself and have a listen.)

Monkey Business

When you’ve been married for years it’s difficult to keep the flames of romance burning and like many a man, Dave was at a loss as to what to do this Valentine’s Day. Over the years he’d deployed chocolates and flowers, intimate dining, even several weekend breaks to Paris and Rome. But times were hard and money was tight and he knew she’d frown on him spending any of the money in their joint account that she had already earmarked for new patio furniture. But as the big day approached he had an inspired thought.

One of their very first day-dates had been to the zoo where, as teenagers discovering each other, they had both realised they were meant to be together. They admired the plumage of the birds of paradise, laughed at the antics of the meerkats and nervously held hands in the dark of the reptile house. Maybe nostalgia would work in his favour? So Dave duly planned his surprise, requesting the day off work and booking a table for lunch, with champagne and roses. It had been a long time since they had done anything just for themselves.

On the morning of the fourteenth of February he woke Julie with breakfast in bed. She complained about the crumbs. He gave her a prettily arranged floral bouquet which she thought unimaginative and she positively sneered at the soppy verse in the card he’d chosen. Dave was undeterred; surely she’d melt when he took her on a journey down memory lane to where they had begun. He was excited as he cajoled her to get in the car, but she was getting exasperated because he wouldn’t tell her where they were going. As they pulled into the zoo car park she rolled her eyes.

But Dave was excited and his enthusiasm rubbed off just enough that she got out of the car, pulled her coat around her and reluctantly took his hand. It was a grey, drizzly day but still Dave insisted they visited all the old haunts. He pointed out the pair of cooing love birds as they strolled through the tropical aviary, laughed at the antics of the bedraggled meerkats as they peeked out of the top of their sodden burrow and he fought past her protest to cuddle her in the dark warmth amid the collection of exotic serpents. She wasn’t really into it so, with half an hour before their table was booked, Dave led her to the primates enclosure.

Chimpanzees chattered excitedly as they chased each other round their habitat. An old orang-utan sat forlornly in a tyre and over in the corner, in a large separate enclosure, a silverback gorilla sat away from his harem and absently groomed himself. As Dave and Julie drew near he caught their scent and looked up with interest. They approached the wire and the gorilla stood up and sniffed deliberately in their direction. He seemed to be looking at Julie. Dave suggested she walked a few paces off to the left. Sure enough the gorilla’s gaze followed her. He sniffed the air again, then placed a paw on his crotch.

“He’s getting excited, Julie!” said Dave “Go on, blow him a kiss!” The gorilla responded by beating his chest and again clutching at his crotch. The unmistakable sign of his arousal was grasped in a huge paw as the giant stared lustfully at Julie. Dave looked around, saw they were alone and whispered to Julie to lift her top. She giggled and did so. The gorilla stood up and pounded at his chest with both paws, his now fully erect penis in clear view. Julie was enjoying herself for the first time in the day and blew more kisses at the beast.

Who loves ya,baby?

Dave looked on as Julie got ever more flirtatious with the great king of the jungle and he in turn got ever more excited until suddenly the mighty gorilla hurled himself at the enclosure and before she could get away managed to thrust an enormous leathery paw right through the wires and between the bars. The gorilla clutched Julie tightly to him, his hot breath snorting in her ear. She looked to Dave for help, but he just smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of amused helplessness. “Don’t worry darling” he said, “Just do what you always do. Tell him you’ve got a headache.”  

All Along the Watchtower

Elijah and Benjamin are old school Jehovah’s Witnesses. They have been round the block and then some, faithfully spreading the good news across the land from Kernow to Kinross and back again. They work all day and hand over a significant portion of their earnings to the Kingdom Hall each month. When they are not in church they visit the sick or else distribute the Watchtower, inviting the non-believer to take up a better way. It is a thankless task but they do it willingly, knowing that they will receive their reward in heaven.

During last year’s long, hot, relentless summer they decided to take their chances with a massive, generally avoided housing estate on the outskirts of London and took a week off work to try and cover every house; find every willing ear.  After one particularly long, weary day, having been seen off by dogs, chased from the doorsteps by angry pensioners annoyed at having their daytime television interrupted and more than once been confronted with knives, they decided that the last house in this street would be their final call for the day.

They rang the doorbell and waited politely for an answer. None came but inside they could hear a television turned up loud, so they surmised that somebody must be home. They rang again and again there was no response. Elijah made to turn away but Benjamin stayed him with a hand and said, “One more try, brother.” And with that he knocked firmly on the door in the old, familiar pattern: shave-and-a-hair-cut *beat* two-bob! After a few seconds the television was turned down and they saw a curtain move in the adjacent by window.

Presently an old lady appeared at the door and bade them welcome. “You’ll have to speak up!” she shouted  “I’m a bit deaf!” She beckoned them in. Elijah looked at Benjamin and Benjamin looked back and then, after a pause they followed her inside. She ushered them into the lounge and indicated that they should take a seat. Before either of them could speak she asked, “Would you like tea?” and disappeared off into the kitchen. Perched side by side and rather uncomfortably upright on the sofa, the two witnesses looked at each other. Long minutes passed.

Eventually the old lady reappeared bearing a tray filled with cakes and biscuits. She poured them both a cup of tea, urged them to take a plateful of food and settled herself down into her armchair. In the corner the television flickered away with the sound muted. Making herself comfortable she took a sip of tea, put down her cup and addressed the pair. “Now dears, what can I do for you?” she asked.

Elijah spoke out and in a polite and earnest voice asked, “Can you spare a moment to talk about our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ?” The old lady stared at him and blinked. She pulled aside her hair and pointed to her ear; a hearing aid was clearly visible. “I’m sorry” she said “can you speak up please?” Elijah repeated his question, loud enough to startle Benjamin, whose teacup rattled in its saucer, “CAN YOU SPARE A MINUTE TO TALK ABOUT JESUS CHRIST?”

The old lady smiled, took a sip of tea and said, “Of course, dears. Where would you like to start?” Benjamin looked at Elijah. Elijah looked at Benjamin. For a moment neither of them spoke, but each silently invited the other to make the first move. Eventually it fell to Benjamin to confess, “We don’t know, ma’am. We never got this far before.”

Union Blues

Yesterday’s Twitterings started off with the great left-right debate and brought forth many accounts of bitter memories of the strike-ridden shithole that Britain was during the sixties and seventies. The Shop Steward was king and wildcat strikes could be called at the merest hint of management daring to consider, for one moment, the possibility of increasing efficiency. The sight of a ‘Time & Motion’ man with his clipboard was enough for the whole of British Leyland (remember them?) to down tools, man the barricades and fire up the braziers.

After wave upon wave of strike action successive governments were terrified of upsetting the true fat cats of the day – the union barons. With the country heavily reliant on nationalised, manpower-intensive, heavy industry the likes of Jack Jones, Derek Robinson and Joe Gormley strutted around parading their power like Third World tin-pot dictators while nightly power cuts kept the general public, quite literally, in the dark. As the summer of 1978 faded into autumn, little did we then realise that the next Christmas would be in the midst of our Winter of Discontent.

This was the backdrop to a series of talks at a medium-sized engineering firm, now defunct, in the Midlands as management and workers’ representatives were locked in a bitter battle over the working week. The factory gates were closed and pickets stood guard. To a man the strike was solid and workers stood firm as talks continued. For weeks it dragged on and the days got colder and shorter. Concessions were proposed by management but the union stuck to its guns and the men stood firm and turned their offers down.

Eventually, one grey, drizzly mid-December day the doors to the conference room were thrown wide and the press allowed in. Flashbulbs popped as hands were shaken and papers waved for the cameras. Invited to comment, Jimmy Gobshite, the union convener declined, saying that until he had told his men the good news it wasn’t for wider ears. Jimmy strode out of the factory and across the yard to the heavily fortified main gate where his comrades were waiting, the press pack streaming behind him. At a gesture the heavy chains were removed and the factory gates opened. Jimmy mounted a hastily erected podium of pallets to address his members.

He waited a moment for silence and then: “Brothers” he declaimed “I bring you great news. The capitalist lackeys have bowed before the might of our argument and capitulated to all our demands” A great roar came from the crowd and Jimmy was hoisted aloft on donkey-jacketed shoulders for a victory lap of the factory yard before being returned to his podium. “From now on, Comrades, all wages are to be doubled and paid holidays will be extended to twelve weeks a year!”

Once more the crowd went wild and once more he was carried victoriously, this time for two laps of the yard, as flat caps were thrown into the air and workers hugged each other in joy and celebration. Flashbulbs crackled like automatic fire and from somewhere fireworks had been produced and fired off into the late afternoon skies. Eventually, after several wild minutes, Jimmy was once more delivered back to his podium.

Breathless now with exhilaration Jimmy fought to recover his composure as the crowd cheered on. People were breaking out in a sporadic rendition of The Red Flag as he delivered yet another message. “And from now on, brothers” he yelled above the cacophony, “From now on… We only have to work on Fridays!” He flung up his arms to encourage a cheer, but the crowd stopped, dead. Jimmy looked out over a sea of stunned faces. 

Jimmy knew he’d struck a good deal but he was surprised at the stupefaction on their faces. He could only imagine it must be gratitude. Seconds passed and the silence hung thick in the air. Even the birds had stopped their song. Then one lone, angry voice came from the back of the crowd. “What?” challenged the voice “Every bloody Friday?”

Inspector Moth

“It’s a hard old life, being a moth, especially a moth in the Metropolitan Police Lepidoptera Division. You spend so much of your life flapping against window panes, dusting for fingerprints. It takes its toll.” Inspector Moth sighed as he lay on the couch and poured his heart out.

“I feel like my whole life has been a waste of time. I've been at the same job for twenty years and I don't just hate it, I'm revolted by it. The people I have to work with and the people I have to catch. I can barely summon the strength to drag myself in every day but I have no choice because I'm in debt up to my compound eyes. The idea of doing this job for years more just makes me sick. I tell you doc, I’m nearing the end of my tether.”

“Could I just say…”

“I've grown apart from my wife. She's no longer the woman I loved, and I can barely stand to be around her but I feel guilty for feeling that way about her. Doc, it just eats me up inside. My daughter's shacked up with a guy I can't stand who's terrible for her and she dropped out of university, but she won't listen to reason and it breaks my heart.”

“Maybe you should…”

“And my son! Doc, I just don't know if I love my own son, because he reminds me of everything I hate about myself. I look into his eyes and see the same servile, snivelling cowardice I know everyone sees in mine. How can I demand he makes something of his life when I’ve done so little with mine?”

“But I…”

“Some days I just want to end it all, but I can't even work up the courage to pull out my gun and blow my brains out. I feel like my entire life is nothing more than a fragile web of lies just barely holding me back from the screaming abyss." With an enormous sigh, Inspector Moth slumped back and lay staring up at the ceiling. A slight froth laced his lips and a sheen  of perspiration made his face gleam eerily in the harsh white light. His breathing relaxed from a frenzied pant to a measured, shallow calm. “Thank you doctor, I feel so much better already, just getting it out there.”

The hovering figure paused a moment, then said "You do seem to have a lot of problems, but I'm just a podiatrist. You need to see a proper psychotherapist, a psychiatrist even. Why did you come to me?"

I don't know who I am any more!

For a moment an uneasy silence hung between them. Eventually Inspector Moth replied, “I had no option,” he said, “your light was on."