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Tuesday, 1 June 2010


I recently read ‘Against the Machine; Being Human in the Age of the Electronic Mob’ by Lee Siegel. It’s rather one sided and somewhat elitist but otherwise very perceptive about our internet addiction. If Siegel was going to write a concise little guide to this subject and about blogging in particular, it might go something like this:

‘Seek popularity calculated through business measured algorithms. Value the first person pronoun above the third. Write about what everyone else writes about, but be more outrageous still. ‘Self express’ but do not create anything original.

Privatise your leisure time and delude yourself with your ‘connections’ whilst your prosumer identity really leaves you more alone than you’ve ever been.

Use childlike anonymity whilst surfing a world filtered for you. Behave in an inane attention seeking way and seduce yourself with the illusion of ‘fame’ only a click away.

Advertise your exciting, crazy life as often as possible whilst sitting on your arse, on the same sofa, in front of the same screen, every damn day.’

So to address my hypocrisy and my apparent self loathing, I’ve decided to join a writer’s group instead. This means I will sadly be depriving you of my little posts - don’t all cry at once.


R.E. my last post: the next letter was ‘U’ and coz I’m feeling generous, here’s the third - ‘R’ RRRRRrrrrrrruh. Incidentally, ‘ruh’ is rather like the second syllable of my first name. My real one, that is.

There’s also a clue with my pseudonym’s initials too. Yeah, that’s right -I’m into S & M. See ya!

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

I want to display the peacock feathers of my mind

What I look like is the least important part about me. Bare physical details will never really get across what makes me, ME. And what I have now in terms of skin matter won’t last but my ideas recorded through writing...... oh, they can outlive me.

Inside me:
Cherries and peaches come at ya to feed you on the intergalactic trip to Ursa Minor, then back down to the Amazon in jaguar form to climb the trees, move on the ground freely and swim the water. To lick the hallucinogenic backs of frogs whilst crawling around naked, to roar and fuck like a lion, to roam with the mountain lions and avoid getting shot by Che, to send Jimi’s arrows of desire back to Jupiter and shimmer, glitter, EXPLODE like a star, a nuclear reaction; STAR BRIGHT, SO LIGHT, STAR LIGHT. To leap over mountains as if they were mere foothills and capture dreams of friends who melt into cats and then burst into a stream of colours. To feel as oblique as ultraviolet shining through a prism seen by a particular type of butterfly in Thailand; to swim, stoned within floating tyres near Buddhist temples where the monks wear dusky red – yet red means cold and is further away from us than the blue ray in the expanding universe of music, but the question is –will it pop before you die?

Do you know what it means to be human?

We haven’t finished yet – we’ve not reached the Sahara Desert yet....

Nothing I write is ‘mad’ because I’m only responding to the fucking insanity of this warped world; when sometimes I feel that popular thinking has had a brain lobotomy and I seethe that Orwellian double speak always sells well. Ruh! Ruh! The word ‘dog’ doesn’t bark. And I only write because no one else will say it for me (except when I quote others out of context).

My sexuality for me is how I think, feel, touch, and experience.... the interaction of the pheromones and a meeting of minds and mutual desires. How I see through my eyes...........
I live it and feel it – no need to be on a stage. You don’t have a monopoly on it. Taste the acid rain.

I can also touch myself in my own right. Or should that be left? I touch these keys........ the closest I’ll come ...... to being the punk poetess that I wanna be. I am the anti-Lady Gaga of words, at least. Take these slices of my brain and try and find the coded ‘female’ in me – the so-called ‘cerebral’ one. Ho, ho, brain cells fire in patterns and if there are 9 genders, I,oh, why is it ‘I’ and not ‘E’ or ‘K’, K? I have at least 3 and I’m trying for the fourth.

I don’t want to suffer delusions; I’ll always try and connect with somebody out there. I create pictures to try and tell the story of how I’m BEHIND the camera, the canvass; the subject and not the object. In my own world and in control.

Friday, 14 May 2010


It’s strange for an old activist like me to want to post a blog that doesn’t comment explicitly on current political events (the mass uprising in Greece / the new Lib-Tory coalition in the U.K /arrest of trade unionists and socialists in Kazakhstan/ name your country). Why? Because I know (despite my advanced years) that I’m active OFFline. You might not know it, but it is a key aspect of my life, but, but... for reasons I don’t really understand I need to go ‘off the point’ sometimes. It’s also true that I have several different personas (‘personas for different purposes’, if you will.... different names... ages .... genders.. feline forms)but actually they’re not so much separate people but different layers – red – purple – yellow. But underneath it all is the person typing these words – I breathe! And eat and shit and do all the things you do too.

Non political people may find it difficult to understand how my socialist beliefs are the core of who I am; how it defines the world I see and experience in a myriad of ways. I’m not tunnel visioned by my ideology – it enables me to feel optimistic and positive and therefore unleashes a sea of barely imagined possibilities. If you don’t believe in anything, then that’s your choice but I gave up on MSP inspired nihilism a long time ago and I’d rather be a so-called idealist than a know it all wit trapped by cynicism and despair. Of course, another choice again would be just to not think, but then if you know that’s a choice then it implies you are capable of thinking in the first place! Oh, I suppose that’s where the drugs come in..... Come into my brain, my friendiau – ride my brain cells, spray paint them into abstract patterns, random the order and order the random and connect science, insanity and art and exhale a deep thought or too and inhale joyous poison; raid my sub consciousness for some mayhem and mischief and tell me that I’m an Inca goddess who pisses all over the world and then eats it up before spitting it out again. Do you need drugs for that? Isn’t it all just a triangle shaped pinball machine going between the three corners of the unconscious / the drugs and the mentally ‘unwell’?

So, now I’ve hopefully set the tone, I can indulge all you non readers out there with my befuddlement with a Wayne’s World nightclub full of men with either Mohawks / cherry red beards / or flowing, head banging hair and their ‘Blue Banana’ women; not even the cloudy ooziness of Ouzo can help me fit into the land of OZzy. Apparently there’s lot of gay sex inside, but it’s still too much of a macho-ness for me. Nor do I find anything subversive or imaginative in the ‘babe’ uniformity of lace, fishnets and corsets; be proud of your branded risqué costumes which barely cover the gendered boredom really on display. The Samsons imitate their brothers’ cartoon roars and yes, we rock along too, but why can’t we hear the lionesses?

So sneers the elitist socialist – I crave the sniff of a Heath Robinson adorned cavern with lickable catnip flavoured walls and other-worldly melodies to sound track the fancies one has whilst somewhere between asleep and awake. I relish this subjective bite from an assortment of tastes. Because it doesn’t actually matter – a clique of studied cool is just as tempting for acidic teeth –a superior attitude over nothing of real importance, either way.

Although I’ve invented this supposed ability to assume different forms, either as a form of camouflage or as an oblique signal (to be picked up mostly by myself), I still want to find my pack - a pack of cards that I can’t play - so I roam with whoever I find.

I conform by boozing, until I rot my insides and I have to send myself home from work as a result of the delayed after shocks. (‘After shock, anyone?’) I romanticise the Caitlin Thomas types I know whilst worrying about the liver damaged young and hypocritically living in denial about my own lungs.

And I want to say more again – what, I do not know – but we’ll see what comes out of me. Less colour, more contented pain. I feel semi attached to both ‘normalness’ and artistic escapism. I feel closer to myself, somehow. There are no clean cuts of th – tr - es.

I never really know how anyone might react (but yes, of course, I think of it.... think, think, think).Every punctuation mark is considered carefully so no wonder I feel more complete. Except can you be ‘more complete’? Isn’t that like saying ‘quite unique’?

I say ‘Puck the striving clichés’ whilst my brain creaks a little with the effort. The ragdoll no longer bewitches me; I can’t find the song, I barely have my subject. The less I understand it all, the more I retreat deeper into my own obscurity and really dig for the marrow.

But once I’d hoovered that up........ I have to leap back out through my mouth and land in the lives of other people, several days later – was I gone that long? Now, I’m in a shed, watching a Polish artist and his friends and lover in WW2 era Ystradgynlais. My selective memories; my selective taste.

I’ve said before that ‘we’ love it when unrecognised talent gets the recognition and audience it deserves and that is true for me. Almost nothing could make me happier than this; my friends’ deserved success with what is, yes, a play – a play that really did transport us back into a South Wales I could really love and care for.

What I enjoy may or may not matter to the alien but instantly recognisable Taffia - and their opinions mean much less to me than the different people I happen to value – but I like the idea we’re all specks of stardust; all people, all plants and countries, all the random bits and bobs of ‘civilisation’, be they charcoal, spears or female pissing devices.

So, I’m judgemental of others and a self appointed arbiter of taste; I like to get at least some of the criticisms in first. Your round next? Aah, go on mate – just the one.

Of course this is why I resisted writing for so long, this is why I’ve always been so appalled by Henry and so shocked by the shamelessness of Frieda, except that I love them too.

Introspective, introverted .... Downright self absorbed, when I’m not caring for others. Alone, I think too much – I THINK (too much), THEREFORE I AM (too self critical). A revelation - one of the great things about being with others is that it keeps me from myself. But in the meantime, creation is communication and the connection is elusive here. What you say about yourself can only be of interest if it resonates beyond your own prison. Do you hear me?

Oh shit – this is the internet. Disconnect on 3. / Columnists / John Gapper - Facebook’s open disdain for privacy / Columnists / John Gapper - Facebook’s open disdain for privacy

Sunday, 2 May 2010

Marketed masturbation

Self disgust is self obsession and I do as I please’*. Very often, my self obsession is a manifestation of self disgust, so I shouldn’t just do as I please. (Although in the context of the internet then I’m not alone -

If this is my inclination then I at least want to do it with some reference to the actual world we live in. Further, it’s not enough to be topical; I want to challenge myself to say something new and original. To borrow the science author David Bodanis‘s words, writing should be ‘a telescope for new ideas - a means of directing attention to fresh, unsuspecting realms.’**

From the tinternet to life OFF the computer, from the individual to the social and political, from here to the struggle for a new society. I set high standards for myself but whilst this perfectionism causes an individual problem, what isn’t demotivating is the desire to change the world - surely there is no greater ambition?

But in the meantime (and working class people will face a MEAN time, sings the Lab-Lib-Tory party); ‘Did you watch the masterdebate, the other night?’ - Well you know that’s a real turn off. Well, did you enjoy the real-life ‘The Thick of it’ clip on B.B.C. news the other day? If only ‘politics’ was always so entertaining. Cheers Browno, why don’t you talk to more real people more often? Your cock-up almost had us engaged.*** Otherwise, we’re much more likely to be lost online.

So, topical election reference ticked Ö, let’s step back and fall down, down into the rabbit’s hole - why didn’t I take the blue pill? Why, when it’s more disappointing than Tim Burton’s latest film, as unsatisfactory as regurgitating these over familiar references within references? How many times can you eat your own vomit, exactly? Well the puke is relatively new - look on the bright side, here’s a suicide of clichés or two.

You want viral? Get a virus instead.

Oh, that’s far too one-sided; surely, in this technology we have the kernel for at least one of the ways we can share entertainment and culture in a non capitalist world? Oooh, I’m being just like Michael Moore, not wanting to scare you with the ’S’ word - oh, fuck it, if you DO know me, then you’ll be very likely to know what that is, but if you don‘t, here it is: SsS oooo cccc iiii aaaa llll iii sss mmmm.

But that’s too big subject right now - too big for social network addiction.
How many of us are there now?

59 million - 92 million - 107 million by this time next year - the forecasted projections look hotter than a Spanish desert, Tom.

FB not enough for you - stitch your avatar’s outfit together with some iconic patches:

Pose for the pic guys! Oooohh don’t you look lovely? We’re not nobodies; we matter. Let’s deny the filters; yet be proud of the artifacts of editing. Contradictory fuckers.

Just like those ‘eavenely office monkeys, everybody else does it (Aaah, my 5 year old nephew chatted to me on Messenger for the first time. Bless!). Under-stimulated college students FB hack rather than face up to the insulting future ‘offered’ to them by their edumployment training for jobs that increasingly don’t exist. But that’s too harsh and your teachers won’t admit it so while you think they’re not looking, smile proudly at your flattering onscreen illusion.

Not you? Well, whoever you are, let’s all enter the popularity contest of the mundane (I ‘m eating chips‘ LIKE LIKE LIKE). We all want to matter, to mean something, to assert our personality and dance on the table to the tune of ’I exist’, to some degree or another. But capitalism will always try to frame us into lazy duplicates; our words will be interpreted into the Simon Cowell language of ’fame’. A 1/1000th Warhol for you to Google, play with in ‘Paint’ and fuck the ã and user overload. It‘s ‘Queen’ Jordan’s lie of instant fame - designed to block all real inspiration - above all, to be inspired to organise collectively and change society to a world where the only people on the dole queue are the exploiters.

But an action always causes a reaction; resistance was always inevitable, but how to do it effectively? Techie subversives unite to burn music, if not dollars -Noughties D.I.Y. punks with all the incoherent, contradictory idealism as before. The more conscious use this technology opportunistically for what it’s worth, whilst the activists also do it knowing we need system change - and no, that‘s not an upgrade from Windows to Mac!

1, 2, 8, 333, 4000, 750, 000... 59 million …. 92 million ……even if the numbers are finite, you can’t help but be somehow impressed with the way big business has successfully commodified the memetic impulse for instant self expression and recognition.

But whether you either understand or agree with the concept that infinity itself is finite - those numbers ARE finite - even if we did live in a world where every singly human being, not one excepted, had access to decent housing, electricity, clean water and sanitation, free and accessible health services and a job with training and an income you can actually live on. But of course we don’t, so the optimistic plans of those Silicon Valley venture capitalists and chums for ever continuing growth will never be fulfilled. Damn all those inconvenient bastards, daring to live in internet no access areas such as slums, militarised factory camps, war zones or so -called ‘natural’ disaster areas. Just a few choice highlights for you from a list too long; a list which should never have existed in the first place.

And now away from such unpleasantness - put down your copy of ‘The Guardian‘ and have a sip of your Fairtrade Columbian. If you’re one of those - sigh - arty farty types, full of the satisfaction that unlike those inane FB morons, you’ve got something to say; don’t worry about getting a publisher - just press ‘click’. You can do it offline as well; buy ‘Write your story’ - £17.99 for an empty book. Just marvel at such capitalist marketing genius. Self expression sells especially well - in an independent bookstore, probably near a Buddhist temple, a deli, a musician’s late nite bar etc ra ra. But it may not be so available if you live on the wrong side of the hill. Sections of big business are astute enough to recognise a niche when they see one, so long as ‘culture’ is still kept manageably close to the elite or at least made accessible only to those trustworthy enough not to really challenge their power. Have a nibble, dogs.

But in that so-called subterranean world the majority of us actually inhabit, we are the most inventive and resourceful ones of all. Workers, in their ingenuity, have always managed to be creative with just the barest things, including, yes, such past oddities like bizarre soap sculptures featuring pins, crochet poodles to hide the shame of toilet paper or carved creatures of ivory by inspired sailors long gone. Surreal, even if ‘surreal’ isn’t usually known, and as worthy of attention and evaluation as anything those with ‘A room of their own’ could ever produce. Any opportunity, however limited - even, groan, in some witty word play in a status update or a childhood lost in Tony Hart or in thrall with Adam‘s war paint or seduced by George‘s hat and feathers.

Usually, we’ll only ever get hints of all the latent creativity and talent out there, unknown and unused. Unknown and used because we are the working scum expected to lap up the latest well connected ‘talent’ who - what a fucking surprise - just so happens to be the son or daughter of a rich and famous ‘somebody’. And when the talent from below (that we happen to admire) does break through and gains the recognition it deserves then we value it as if it was as precious as our own beating heart.

But we only know to well that they are the exception to the big business rule; billions of individuals with ideas, abilities and untapped brilliance are out there too with no such opportunity in this pyramid. The overwhelming majority of humanity who face huge to almost insurmountable obstacles to fulfill their true potential - whether that‘s creative, educational, social, political, scientific, organizational, sporting, technological, philosophical even - with any possible combination of the above - and undoubtedly there is SO much more again.

We’ll have to struggle for it - like we have to struggle for everything else. Struggle together, to actually release our full individuality.

* Manic Street Preacher lyric from 'Faster' on 'The Holy Bible'

** I took David Bodanis’ phrases from “E=mc2: A Biography of the World’s Most Famous Equation’ chapter 3 ‘Ancestors of E = MC2’. In the original text Bodanis wrote “(sic) scientists started using the = symbol as something of a telescope for new ideas - a device for for directing attention to fresh unsuspecting realms. Equations simply happen to be written in symbols rather than words”.

***For those weirdos out there who don’t live in the U.K. or follow U.K.politics -

Friday, 23 April 2010

Office monkey gone to 'eaven

Below is a response to ‘With friends like these ... Tom Hodgkinson on the politics of the people behind Facebook’ which appeared in The Guardian G2 magazine on January 14th 2008. (

Why has it taken me over 2 years to do this? Well, I did write this in January 08 (or at least the first draft) but I’ve not ‘published’* it until now because….. Well, that’s a long story in itself. So shut up, stop asking such picky questions and read the damn thing please!

*if you can call posting something on a blog to be read by, oh, two people and a dog, ‘publishing’, ha, ha. Meanwhile, there are more asterisks(*) in the text below when I make references you may not understand; a little glossary is at the bottom to aid you.

Office monkey gone to ‘eavenFacebook is possibly one of the most dumb and shallow forms of ‘entertainment’ to enslave us since, oh I don’t know, ‘Big Brother’ (except that never got me) but way worse. 59 million of us are already registered ‘users’ apparently and that’s exactly wot we are - users. FB advertises itself as ‘a social networking site’ but is anything but social; instead with determination it drags us away from real meaningful human contact so multinational companies can market shit at us (So far, so agreed, Mr. Zut d’alor journo of G2*).

Most of us have some sense of how shit it all is even if the C.I.A. links are less well known. But hey, do you stop shopping in Tesco coz they use the same spying technology with club cards? Oh food is integral to survival but ‘entertainment’ is well… lets turn off our tellies, stop listening to the radio, reading books, watching sport, blah blah blah - we need entertainment, it’s a basic human coping mechanism for the shite that is life.

Internet kicks TV’s ass as far as meeting those well known consumer demands for ‘variety’, ‘choice’ and ‘individuality’ are concerned (type your name into Google for fun). If T.V. is moving wallpaper, the mega popularity of FB is nothing but the collective yawn of office workers everywhere searching for ANYTHING to distract them (same goes for bored students or the unemployed lucky enuf to get internet access, yeah? I dunno, probably, as I ain’t been one of those for ages).

Anyway, let’s examine a case in point. 1 view from the main DOP** tower block (cell block E) is of Cwmtuch crematorium. When Cathleen Rita Bones’*** grandfather died, the AAs**** flocked to the window to watch the ‘Evening Echo’ celeb event that was the funeral. As the Stereophonics so perceptively sang; “There’s more life…..” in a crem than the DO fuckin’ P.

Okay. Let’s do this thing. We’re not stuck on some construction site, working against grey gales and pissin’ rain…. risking our lives operating heavy clanking machinery, avoiding collapsing 30 tonne steel bars coz of lax health & safety (fancy a head crushing do ya?)

You must be ‘aving a laugh, mun.

We’re not Portuguese or Polish, splattered in blood and shit, electrocuting turkeys on the ‘dunk their heads in charged water’ line. We get more pay and have better rights than shop workers, although they might at least get to move about a bit (unless they’re stuck on the till all day - then ok - maybe). Do you rather that to sitting on your arse all day eating total rip off (but bloody lovely) custard éclairs? Depending on your viewpoint.

“Alright then, the point is…. is ….. It’s a holiday camp in this cowing place. It’s a piece of piss and all these chancers that take the piss going sick all the time with so-called ‘stress’. Dragging it down for the rest of us - let me tell you - I’ve got bloody stress in my life as well, mind!” Rant, rant, rant.

A lot reckon its good money too (or so say the ones who read the Echo and don’t know anyone close who actually works yuh.) Its great coz in the factory we had to wait for someone to cover us before you could leave the line and go to toilet and we did get a big turkey at Xmas. You still have to ask permission to go to toilet if your EO***** is a XXXX, though.

The flexi is great and there’s no shifts. Well, unless you’re actually a shift worker - but you do get the allowance then so that works out. This place is safe, mun. Well, you’re not going to die from R.S.I., are you? Ok, your eyes might go a bit shit but you get free eye tests and get some money back for the glasses. The union’s crap but we’ve got the flexi, loads of holidays, duvet days.

Be grateful for what you’ve got coz it can only get worse ‘out there’.

So goes the hymn
DOP -sleeping giant
An icon of offices
Paper factory, graduate graveyard
The dull fuckin’ ‘ole
(‘Caught me up in ‘oles’ unless you’re valleys then its ‘Siared Cymraeg?’)
The place which drains the milk of human kindness out of you (if you were lucky enough to have any in the first place).

We survive by taking the piss constant and light heartedly yapping about sex and sometimes death. We survive by cranking up the inherently weird ‘office politics’ school yard, flicking ladybirds against a wall coz you’re so bored bullshit; the backstabbing, two faced… awww, but we’re just one big family, so play along mentality which sucks you in whether you’re the victim, victimiser, both, neither, whatever. The difference is only in degrees.

But we DO have a good laugh and I mean that, genuine now, I’m not always this hate filled. And there are the characters, so many cccccccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaarrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaccccccccttttttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrsssssssssss
‘You know ‘er’
Stalkers, slags, ‘eaders, loads of ‘eaders, all sorts.
We survive by dressing up as elves, fallen angels, wise men and Mrs. Clauses on the Xmas do. Oh don’t forget the usual suspects, hmmm yeh, not quite finished on the bitchin’ yer. These are the ones that really thrive on ‘the games’; predictably boring, head fuckin’ shit (like - r u jealous coz your ex one nite stand is flirting with the office ‘xxxx’?) As lazy as flicking elastic bands all day, which we do.

Note: no prizes for correctly surmising which gender is ‘xxxx’.
And as for legends - Narcissus, anyone? Calling all office intellectuals out there!!!!

Ok, all this bile, but the thing is - we stare at computer screens all day, doing the same old, same old -obvious. Now wiv the internet, it’s the great, collective (barely conscious) consciousness. And common sense might say that we’d break out when we can and tear ourselves away - a lunchtime walk to that great DOP satellite, SPAR (‘Pick me up some fags, could ew?’) Or at least park yourself in the aptly named ‘break out’ areas to eat inflation busting, regurgitated…..

But no, no, more and more we’re sucked in. We help spread the virus. We ARE online. Look, I’m fighting this thing everyday ….. Or at least fighting myself.

CELL BLOCK E, WARD 5. A trip to the dentist is a highly desired treat.
‘Golden balls’; how we laughed. A pitcher plant in the office growing field. Taste the nectar. And be grateful you were made permanent b4 the cuts. Waste away; make vain plans 4 escape if you’re young enough and wiv no ties.

But in the meantime - OFFICE MONKEYS EVERYWHERE -lets waste our precious time (free or keyed in) playing flirt, bite me chump, ‘How inane and bored r u?’ quizzes. Lets build profiles; shameless but comforting self promotion. Fun, pointless, fun. Wot’s your no? To assert that I AM A HUMAN BEING and NOT a fuckin’ ROBOT attached to a machine!

But you are logged into an evil C.I.A. linked, spying capitalist scum - spit - mega advanced marketing machine. A machine which is the total anathema of real humanity, of real living, breathing, sweating, eating, shitting relationships.
I was gonna write ‘your employer is using this to screen you’. My employer is following me online. They even wanted to be ‘friends’. Keyed in, keyed out, we lose - well, lose even more than we were losing already.


Hackers that rob the working poor to feed themselves.


Women everywhere! (+ some blokes too, coz of course you can be victims too)

COMING to a screen near you soon: Call ‘stalk’ for a free upgrade now.

Actually, what is really, truly disturbing is that if you haven’t already switched your mind off to all this from the word go, then, you - you - you
Stupid fuck, fire, fire, play, play (buy now on
Do it, do it anyway

Why, Mr. Journalist? Why do we do it? You didn’t think of that one, did you? Or are we too beneath your coolly acquired contempt?

Office scum, monkeys spread viruses, ‘monkey gone to ‘eaven’. But these multinational corporations and their lackeys (public sector organisations that wanna be private) are yes, truly, scarily powerful. ‘They’ are VIOLATING. And we do it; we steal sellotape and scissors and let u record the crimes. It’s petty, dumb and mostly pretty unconscious but as we see no real escape, ‘escapism’ numbs us (but like nicotine addiction it can never truly satisfy).

Yours is an elitist wake-up call that goes unheard amongst those who matter. We need a conscious way to channel our frustration and discontent. Get off the computer and start to organise as one. Till such time, let’s go red, red-head and mock, mock the workmen in the lashing rain.

* Tom Hodgkinson, obviously
** DOP is an abbreviation for the Department for Paper
*** A Hollywood actor originally from the local town
**** AAs are Administration Assistants and not a particular battery size