 | Welcome | May 11, 2005 |
Good arvening. How are you?
Here is the start of the CMOA story. I can only write about 250 words a day on my commute, so it'll be short bursts I think The phone was fixed to the middle of the blank wall, like a barnacle on a hull. On a straightbacked chair beneath it, Michael sat waiting, his eyes closed to slits, pretending to doze. He watched the people dotted about the dim common room. He recognised everyone, which was reassuring, though not completely. Nobody was talking much no-one was talking loud. They mostly sat looking out at the summer passing outside. A breeze shook the green of the trees and blew through the door, pushing through the hot and rotting smells of the street. The phone rang. Michael's heart drumrolled. He grabbed the receiver and curled himself around it, eyes wide, checking the room for reactions. "Michael?", the handset said. "Yuh-huh." "Thanks for taking this call. It means a lot to me, knowing I can count on you." "Yuh-huh". Michael shifted in his seat. "Are you sue that this phone is OK for us to use?" "Uh, not really, no. I think it's OK. We don't have much choice." "I suppose not." "Look there's some old woman here wants on the phone giving me growlers be quick." "I need a kettle. Can you get me one?" "I thought you had one already." "It got stolen. Can you get one for me?" "I dunno. I dunno." "You know what I can do with one, what a difference it'll make." "I'll see what I can do. It's not straightforward." "Good man." Michael hung up, and slumped in the chair. He sat that way for a short while, until the absence of handcuffs convinced him that nobody had been listening. He got up and left the common room. 
Hello lovely people. After many months of inactivity, I have decided to write something and, being a generous soul, I have elected to cede control of its direction to you, by means of semi-regular polls. Are you with me? Good.
So, I was at a wedding this past weekend and all very lovely it was too. The one minor blot on the landscape existed entirely within my noggin. Specifically, the bride entered to "Pachelbel's Canon in D whatnot" which is, as most people know, a relatively pleasant bit of music and very popular as bridal entrance music. Most people, however, don't know that it was used on by Kool Keith and Dan the Automator on their 1996 track "I Got to Tell You", wherein KK, in his Doctor Octagon; persona, lists over said music the complaints he can deal with and procedures he can offer in a musically arresting and highly earwormy manner. Which meant that as the bride shimmered in, veil on, dad on her arm, I was thinking not about the married life she would lead, nor the nerves of her prospective husband, but instead of - intestine surgery; - rectal rebuilding; - relocated saliva glands; - chimpanzee acne; (and of course) - moose bumps all of which led to me sniggering rather more than The Wife considers to be seemly.
Imagine you are a major international corporation - bear with me, please - and you have entered into an agreeement with a, say, Germany company. The agreement is worth hundreds of millions of Great British Pounds. Because you are a canny corporation, you are aware of the potentially devastating cost of litigation and so you and the Germans agreed to include in the agreement an arbitration clause, such that any dispute between you and the Germans would have to be dealt with first by a process of arbitration, to be held in England (specifically, London). You also include in the agreement a clause that states that only the English courts, using English law, will have the jurisdiction - the right - to hear the case. Inevitably, you fall out with the Germans over something (Anschluss, most likely) and it looks like your 100mm GBP dispute is going to be dealt with by arbitration in the UK. Unfortunately, the Germans, who owe you all this money (more likely to be the cause of the problem than Anschluss, however emotive Anschluss may be for your Austrian-separatist-nationalist heart) are going to go belly up if they are made to pay you. So they go to the German courts and raise an action - a totally spurious action - to get in first, as a delaying tactic, even though they have contractually bound themselves to submit to the exclusive jurisdiction of the English Courts and the exclusive application of English law. Previously, what would have happened is that you would have trotted up to the higher courts in London, found yourself a sympathetic/logical justice and have them grant an injunction against the raising of the action in Germany, which did the trick and the spurious German action was smacked down in a manner reminiscent of The Rock. Now, though, eh? Now. Now, or at least soon if the Advocate General's opinion General's opinion in West Tankers is followed (as is very likely), the English courts would not be able to do anything about it. The court first seised (i.e. the court where any issue relating to your contract is first raised) will have to make its own determination on its ability to hear the action before any other court or forum in Europe can decide, even where (a) the action is obviously spurious and (b) you have a clear written agreement between the parties as to the legal system that applies and the courts that have jurisdiction! This is potty: it allows less scrupulous individuals and corporations to exploit the law and delay - buy time - in a wholly dishonest way, particularly as foreign courts (I'm looking at you France and Italy) can take forty billion years to come to any sort of decision on anything. Oh, so you're about to have your billion euro banking facility withdrawn, you say? No problem, just aise an action - balls to your legal agreement! - and then email your banker and say "Well, I'm not going to drop my action til we renegotiate the facility." Fuck sake. I'm normally in favour of European integration and whatnot but this is a classic example of putting a principle ahead of practicalities. I can't see it making international companies happier about doing business in the EU.
Law firms.
 | Eels | Jul 7, '08 4:58 PM
for everyone |
Inspired by a thread on a forum elsewhere, please set out the title and author of the last book you read and, if you're feeling schoolmasterly, assign the book a score out of 20 (20 being best, 0 being Wuthering Heights) and justify yr scoring. Me first? OK. How late it was, how late - James Kelman
Excellent stream of consciousness social documentary style novel with Kafka-esque flourishes.
Score: 15/20
First installment of responses to this. More will follow laterer, hopefully.
Live After Death
"It's quite simple, really," said the bearded man, whose name I still hadn't managed to catch, while he pressed his gloved hand down on my stomach. "Simply stare into the lights above you and empty your mind." An electrical whine started somewhere behind my head. I flinched. "Don't be concerned," the man said as he tightened the ankle straps, "that's just the Transtemporal Chi Attenuator I mentioned earlier." The lights flickered. He chuckled. "I'm afraid it uses rather a lot of power, so it may go dark, but not to worry, not to worry."
A Cow Christmas
"Ooh, Moooira, it's mooorvellous!"
Queen's Greatest Hits: Volume 1
Tap the powder, light the match, heat the spoon, gie it a stir, draw it up ("Christ, Phil my hauns are pure shakin"), tie off and try an find a fuckin vein. Hauns ur shakin too much. "Phil. Ho, Phil, gonnae gies a fuckin haun shootin up, no?" Phil lies prone on the carpet, needle jutting. Fuck.
A Farewell To Kings
A strong hand cupped under each armpit and he's half marched, half carried along the cold corridors. Sometimes his feet don't quite touch the ground and he feels like he's gliding. Not a word spoken - no point in arguing. No-one about, mercifully. A-and there's the Dean's door open and Mandy's sitting there perched on the desk in a familiar pose - short skirt, red-rimmed eyes, cradling a mug of tea - and the Dean sitting in his own visitor chair, leering up at her tits. And then onwards, out through the double doors into the spring green, his box of documents already waiting by his car.
Ill Communication
MOTHER STOP AM ILL STOP DYSENTERY STOP WIRE MONEY STOP LOVE DANIEL DANIEL STOP HAVE NO FUNDS STOP HAVE MAILED CARE PACKAGE STOP LOVE MOTHER MOTHER STOP CORK INEFFECTIVE STOP SEND MONEY STOP DANIEL
Bedtime for Democracy
There's a flurry of fists, a directionless rage that's been building ever since his father spelled B-A-T-H-T-I-M-E and switched off the Wii. Eventually the fists cease flailing and settle, balled, on his pj-clad hips. I don't react. Incensed by my lack of concern, he thrusts his chin out and breaths heavily through his nose.
"Bed," I say. There is a pause in which he considers saying 'no' but his eyes flicker about the room. He opens his mouth, raises a hand, pointing towards his brother, who is already tucked up in bed, casually vandalising his Elephant and Piggie books.
"David doesn't want to go to bed either!" he manages at last with a tone of triumph.
"Bed," I say. "Now."
Van Halen
Placing his hands one on top of the other on his knee, Adolf D'Haeseleer heaved himself up into the trailer. He looked about the field, at the bunting, the stalls, the row upon row of small commercial vehicles, each polished to a high gleam. He felt giddy. The wind picked up and blew his sweat-damp shirt against his back. He shivered. Someone, some underling, handed him a loudhailer. They had laughed at him, laughed at his dream. "The told me," he started, his words riding out on a lick of feedback, half the crowd looking round now, "that this was a 'stupid idea'. Theo van de Velde actually told me that I would be better erecting the world's largest fibreglass sprout. Yes. But he was wrong." Bewildered faces looked back at him. Birds circled. This was his moment. His legacy!
Van Halen II
"Adolf Mr D'Haeseleer Jr? If you would step away from the shredder, I'd be grateful. Now. Please. Thank you. I'm afraid that it falls to me to ask you a few questions about your time as Treasurer of the Halen International Van Jamboree."
Van Halen III
Adolf D'Haeseleer III spun the heavy crank of his blade grinder, sparks flying in arcs across the workbench. He would avenge his father. Van de Velde would be made to pay. Yes.
I have moved house, fleeing the mean streets of Glasgow's douce-yet-boho West End for the altogether more genteel suburb of Newton Mearns, some forty million miles south of Glasgow city centre (and, consequently, also from the action). Move was brought about by Better Half's doctor sterly intoning "Pollution in the city is damaging your already weedy lungs. Move to the suburbs." In return for agreeing to this move, my wife gave me three gifts. A lawnmower, a whirlygig and an awesome clock.   
All of which should go some way to explaining why I haven't managed to hand in my homework assignment as promised.
I will write (for at least one lucky member of your number) a story thing based on an album title or titles you provide. Real album titles only please. And not this one. Chas!
I'm thinking that it must be love.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. If there was a fire, I'd be out of these quicksharp, happy to be shivering in the night-time street, only a rough blanket to protect my modesty and plus, who needs albums now - music can be obtained with little fuss or effort. Still, this is the five I'd keep. Desert Island Discs, as it were, but with added INFERNO. In order of acquisition:- 1. Angel Dust - Faith No More
The best album I had ever heard when I was 14. Lionel Richie cheek by jowl with a track called Jizzlobber. ROCK! 2. Liquid Swords - GZA/Genius
A Wu-Tang solo classic, GZA here not ranting or doing the panto-villain thing, just busting crazy rhymes ("I’m in the park, setting up a deal over blunt fire/ A bum n gga sleeping on the bench, they had him wired/ Peeped my convo, the address of my condo, And how I change a n gga name to John Doe") in a methodical style over bass-heavy rhythms and eastern keyboard lines. Atmospheric right through. 3. The 3 EPs - The Beta Band
Pronounced to rhyme with Peter, btw. Folk drone rock hiphop birdsong and rapping in Fronch. 4. Computer World - Kraftwerk
Bittersweet electropop goodness. By turns funny and depressing. And you can dance to it.
5. The Charm of the Highway Strip - The Magnetic Fields
Country music on synths. Extremely hummable melodies and brilliant lyrics ("I've been making promises I know I'll never keep/ one of these days I'm gonna leave you in your sleep") with the occasional epic pun.
So, assuming you were castaway on a desert island with all your music and your bivouac burned down, which music would you grab before heading off to sleep on the beach?
One of the things and, more specifically, the one thing that struck me this morning when I was ruminating at my desk, about the internet - well, actually, about the world wide web following the advent of google - is that there is now no excuse for not knowing something. I'm bad for this, for having to know. And the internet (to use the shorthand) means that I will now always know, which is great. But equally, and possibly more importantly, there is now no excuse for being a know-all. Anyone can dig the answer up, or find a site where someone else can give the information in question to them. Which means that there is nothing impressive about providing the aggregate number of casualties in all the battles of the English Civil Wars, or listing the characteristics and latin names of different varieties of gnat, or naming the sound engineers on each of the Beatles 7th to 12th UK top ten hits, even if you know this information it's available to everyone else who will read your posting/comment/annotation will be perfectly entitled to think that you just googled it up and slapped it on the forum as if it were your own brain you had recalled the information from, rather than the electronic brain of the web, whether this is your recall or not. Though this is less than half of it. The next stage comes with the ubiquity of the web. Mobile web access has already made a mockery of that last great oasis where know-alls could drink the sweet fresh water of Victory In Trivia. And eventually some or all of us will be connected to the web all the time, able to verify and trump any snippet of fact tossed your way by one of the ever dwindling band of anorak-sporting analogue types. But the increased prevalence of these devices will render valueless the information they churn up. So where to next for valuable content both on the web? Well, the only answer that I have found is down and deeper into the personal, the emotional and the enlightening. Quips and wit become so much chaff in the face of considered discourse, of nuanced argument. Facts and endless reams of cold data will be the preserve of Colin Hunt types, still hankering after the glimpse of classroom glory afforded by his or her instant recall of the name of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. No, we'll be impressed by people telling us, in a manner that doesn't lose its message in specificity, what it is to feel and to think in a certain way. This seems to be the very much the case on sites such as MetaFilter, where valued content rises to the top (though that is not to say that mindless punning and screeds of vitriol don't also tickle MeFi's collective fancy). And, of course, as the web becomes utterly inescapable in those aspects of our life that seem, currently, to be "unconnected", slinging in facts will garner no kudos - people will come to expect more from conversation than finding out that Samuel Beckett used to give Andre the Giant a lift to school.
this carries on from this The woman let out another chuckle. “Back in a moment!” she said brightly and walked past him. He felt the ache in her elbow grow and recede as she passed, moving away, before it vanished. He ground his teeth together, pure concentration, trying to get a grip on something, on a mind. The gun barrels pressed into his temples, oblivious. He reached about, trying for the minds of the guards but what little there was left was cold and hard and slipped about like soap. Focus. Focus. He picked one of them. He pounded away, battering, battering, slamming the fill weight of his mind against the steel ball. He paused, breathed again and recommenced, his muscles slackening, going limp, as everything was given over to the onslaught, throwing everything into each blow. And there it was. A hairline crack. Something to work with. High and behind him, he heard the door open again, miles from his assault. Her elbow creaked. He lost concentration and his mental assault slipped from his control, flailing about the room like a firehose, lashing the walls, gaining no purchase on the stone. He started to black out. Focus. He dragged himself back up to consciousness just as she placed the hat on his head. He heard the crinkle of tinfoil, felt it cool and jagged against his scalp. “There,” she said. She took a step back, clasped her tinfoil hands together and smiled as if she had just placed the fairy on the Christmas tree. His mind was dark. He had no reach. From a tool belt round her waist, she brought a staplegun and set about attaching the hat to his head with a series of robust punches. Pain shone through his head from twelve furious punctures. He couldn’t feel her elbow. He could feel blood trickle down his cheek. He whimpered. Still smiling, she took a roll of gaffer tape from her belt and, pressing the end to his forehead with her thumb, wound it round his head, a single black bandage strap, the guards stepping back as she came to the. He thought of moving, of trying to run. He didn’t. The guns were placed back against his temples. She surveyed her handiwork once more. “I have to go and get something,” she said to him, “I won’t be a moment.” Soon she was standing in front of him, her hands behind her back. She looked as if she was about to burst out laughing. “You may find this a little juvenile and, well, it is, but there’s it’s just an interim measure until we find a more permanent way to,” here she adopted the expression children use when they wish their parents to know they are thinking, “minimise the physical threat you pose.” She grabbed his left hand and forced a large red dildo into his palm, balling his fist closed and deftly taping it shut tight. She did the same with his right. He looked down at his new hands, red and obscene. She took the pistol of the guard nearest her and dismissed them both. “Move,” she said to him, “and I will shoot you in the face.” Still pointing the gun in his general direction, she tore at the metal face of her balaclava. He looked at her as other people had. Her pink-rimmed eyes, lined and jowly face, flat nose and her chin that melted into neck like congealed candlewax. He had no knowledge. He didn’t know anything about her. He felt sick. His guts lurched and his mouth flooded. Focus. He thought about going for her, ducking and rolling and clobbering her with the dildos. He didn’t. “Now,” she said, “in the spirit of scientific enquiry, I need to check whether you are, uh, neutered or whether you’re not and you’re just pretending to be.” She shouted into the back of the room, “Send in the girl!” They sent in the girl. She walked around him. She was 12 or 13. Barefoot. Tanned and skinny. She wore the loose, sweaty face that terrified people wear. He couldn’t really be sure. She might be pretending. Or sick. He didn’t know anymore. “Come over here,” said the woman, her voice warm, waving her gun limply. He knelt there, fighting to reach the girl, but unable to break out of his hat. The girl approached the woman. The woman smiled broadly. “Don’t be afraid. What’s your name?” “Claire,” said the girl. He watched the gun in the woman’s hand.
“Claire. Don’t be afraid, Claire. We’re just conducting an experiment and we want to be absolutely certain of the results. There’s really nothing to be worried about.” He saw her metal finger curl around the trigger. He fought and he fought but he couldn’t break out from the helmet. “Now, then, tell me Claire,” said the woman, “what is your favourite colour?”
Claire managed to bring the tip of her tongue to her teeth to make the L before the bullet left the barrel. He pushed himself forward from his toes, throwing himself at the woman, crashing into her waist just in time to see the girl collapsing into a pile of bones and clothes and blood. Still falling, driving the woman backwards, he swung his arms up, striking each side of her face with his long red fists, white fire exploding in his mind. The woman fired the gun again, aiming down at his head. And he saw the foil cap ripped open. And he saw the valve blasted from his head, fragments of metal and bone spinning, arcing away across the room. He saw blood squirt parabolic and he saw the woman crash down on the floor. He saw the gun skitter and slide. He saw his face hit the slabs and his teeth shatter. He saw his new fists bounce and settle on the stone floor as the woman reached for the pistol. He saw the woman and knew everything. He took control. He boxed her consciousness up and made it watch as she took the gun and placed it against her left knee. He saw the bullet shatter through bone. He felt her pain as she buckled. He tightened her grip on the gun. He saw the guards rush in. He crushed the soft kernels of their minds. They fell. He reached out the room and across the island and made everything well. He did not want to be disturbed. He knew how long he had left. He was going to take his time.
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