Eolai's Cycling Tour of Ireland - And He's Off!

So, the Brother's finally set off on his jaunt -- a 32-County Painting Tour of Ireland. It was nodded to in a couple of pieces in yesterday's Irish Independent. 

He posted a thoughtful and witty and oddly poignant little recording on Audioboo in the early hours, before he'd packed and set out. It's worth a listen. I'm not sure where he is right now, but a few hours back he was painting in the hills south of Dublin somewhere.

The bike's impressively loaded, as you'll see, thanks to the Brother's Xtracycle, which he happily refers to on a regular basis as the best thing he ever bought. As far as I can tell he's carting around paints, brushes, canvas, a seat, tools, and all the other stuff you'd expect if you were cycling round a whole country, covering two or three thousand miles over a couple of months. Which, of course, you would do, wouldn't you?

Anyway, you should follow his adventures on his website, and on Twitter. I expect there'll be no shortage of pictures. It's about Irish social networking and the internet as much as it's about cycling and painting, after all.

On Shaving the Roman Way

One of my occasional online haunts is the blog of Paul Gogarty, an old friend and until recently one of my home constituency's deputies to the Dáil, the lower house of the Irish parliament. About a month back he wrote a long and rather detailed post about the Eurovision and shaving. Now, the Eurovision I can take or leave, though I agree with the Brother that it's a better way of learning about geography than having a world war. Shaving, on the other hand, matters to me, and as Paul was clearly having ethical and practical issues with his blades, I wrote to give him my own thoughts on the subject.

I said something like the following...

As you'll know, I've been broke for years. What you'll not know is that I have sensitive skin, and that I like a close shave. These three factors pose a bit of a challenge, but over the last two years I have solved this problem.

The Blade

For the blade, I use the classic Wilkinson Sword double-edged razor, using the kind of blades teenage girls use to cut themselves. You know the ones.

Its very simple, very sharp, and very cheap. It takes a tiny bit of getting used to, as with a Mach 3, say, one uses pressure from the hand to effectively rip out one's bristles, whereas with this it's merely the weight of the head, combined with the angle at which one holds the blade, that slices away the hairs. I started using this as I found that shaving oil, which I used to use when I was travelling, as I so often was, tended to clog multi-blade razors. No matter how much I rinsed them, they'd get blocked up with a mass of oily bristles. Single blades can't clog.

For a while I experimented with a traditional straight razor, but the learning curve on it proved too demanding. I liked the idea of only ever having one blade, which I'd sharpen and re-sharpen, as it struck me as both cool and good for the environment, and so resolved to learn with a straight razor loaded with disposable blades, but found that I couldn't get it right. It wasn't the nicks that bothered me -- I'd expected them -- it was that after shaving my face would alternate between glassily-smooth patches and patches of horrible scurfy stuff, the latter having a tendency to appear overnight. I decided I couldn't be arsed with going through weeks of that, so turned to a more conventional handle and head arrangement.

(I've been shaved with a straight-razor, for what it's worth, one balmy night in Cappadocia last summer, with a young teenage boy drawing the blade over my face as his boss watched approving. Oddly, it wasn't as unnerving an experience as I'd feared beforehand.)

Oil

Secondly, I've stopped using foams, gels, soaps, and even creams when shaving, though I like the Palmolive shaving cream a lot, especially when applied with a brush which raises the hairs to make them easier to slice away. Instead, inspired by poverty and having run out of shaving oil one Christmas at home in Dublin, I've changed to Olive Oil.

Other oils are quite thin, and can clog one's pores, but Olive Oil, especially extra virgin oil, is viscous enough to form a layer that won't harm the skin and will actually enrich it, while providing lubrication and protection as you slice away the hairs.

I usually keep about an inch of oil in a mug, with a few drops of clove oil mixed in*, and leave my razor -- head down -- in that, as keeping the blade in the oil prolongs its life. The oil will get a bit dirty, in that some bristles will invariably find their way in, but I think that's a price worth paying.

So, when shaving in my neo-Roman way, I start by showering and then pressing a hot, wet flannel against my face; I then dab my fingers in the oil and smear it all over my face, rubbing it in especially where I intend to shave; I then set to work, shaving with the growth to begin with and against where necessary, judging by feel as I pull the skin and relubricating whenever I need to; once smooth, I use the hot wet flannel again to remove all oil and freshen the skin, and then use cold water to close up the pores. Mission accomplished.

(Then you must clean your sink, as you don't want oily rings and bristles around it, and your other half or your housemates certainly won't want that.)

People keep saying I have freakishly-young looking skin for someone my age. I don't know if this is true, or they're just being nice, but if they're right I reckon it's due to the olive oil.

Don't use oil with chilli in. That would be bad.

G.

* Clove oil acts as a very mild anaesthetic, which can be handy if you nick yourself while shaving.

Spot the Ball

And so France goes to the World Cup Finals, having beaten Ireland with a rather dubious goal, with two players offside and the ball having been judiciously handled.

As the Brother said on Twitter: spot the ball . . . it's a tricky one, but there's a trip to South Africa in it.


'I will be honest, it was a handball,' as M. Henry says, 'But I’m not the ref. I played it, the ref allowed it. That’s a question you should ask him.'

Begging the age-old question of whether if a tree cheats in a forest, and the ref doesn't see the offence, has it still cheated?

Google Priorities

I'm quite taken with the Google Doodles this week, as though I was no fan of Sesame Street as a child, in my admiration for the late and truly great Jim Henson I am second to no man. Or gargoyle.

I'm particularly fond of today's, which is very clever and which has the Count on it.

For all that, though, I'm a bit surprised at Google having chosen to commemorate so determinedly the fortieth anniversary of Sesame Street (and indeed the twentieth of Wallace and Gromit, seemingly), in the same week that everyone else is commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

I'm not complaining, but I am a bit puzzled. Why would you pick a children's programme over the end of the Cold War, indeed over what may have been the most important day in European if not world history since the end of the Second World War?

It's not as though it's because Sesame Street has lots of bright colours. The Berlin Wall had those too. And better music. Of course, you can kind of blur the two.

Riding Through the Glen

I've always been a sucker for the whole Robin Hood malarkey. I'd say 'mythos', but that's obviously the wrong word, though a passable holiday beer. But yeah, when I was small one of my prize possessions was a hefty Robin Hood comic, bought at a fete in Celbridge if I remember rightly, and I followed it up by reading Robin Hood books by Enid Blyton, of all people, and by the wonderful Roger Lancelyn Green.

Robin of Sherwood was on the telly, of course, with the peerless Judi Trott playing Marion, being almost as foxy as the heroine of the Disney version of the tale.

I'm afraid my weakness for the legends didn't die with my childhood; over the years, for very different reasons and in very different ways, I've been deeply fond of the gritty Patrick Bergin take on the story, the swashbuckling Errol Flynn version of the tale, and the beautiful, tender, and heartbreaking Sean Connery and Audrey Hepburn version.

I'm afraid, however, that I've not been won over by the current BBC attempt at the legend, and not just because of how one of the cast was once mean to someone very dear to me when she was four. No, I just think it's naff.

Not as naff, mind, as the Kevin Costner absurdity that was Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Oh dear me, no. Not as naff as that.

All of which is a clunky way of saying that earlier today, chatter here in El Casa led me to discover the Guardian's hilarious Reel History series, which comically shreds various pseudo-historical films. The piece on Prince of Thieves has some gems:

'Before you know it, Robin of Loxley has escaped a Turkish (or possibly Saracen) jail, along with improbable Moorish sidekick Azeem. They arrive back at Dover, where Robin cheerfully proclaims that it will only take them until nightfall to walk to his father's castle. Even if you had a car, from Dover to Loxley would take you five hours. Robin and Azeem only have feet. Worse still, Robin takes the scenic route, via Hadrian's Wall – a diversion of another 300 miles...

Having bonded over anachronistic swearing, Robin and his band build a sort of Ewok village in a bosky glade, complete with rope ladders, engineered lifts, mood lighting, canopy-level walkways, and a mosque for Azeem. If medieval peasants, with nothing but the natural resources of the forest around them, could build this sort of thing, why did they mostly live in filthy huts made of sticks and manure?

... The Sheriff's scribe frets about the cost of Robin's larceny: "We reckon he's nicked three to four million in the last five months, sire." Bearing in mind that the exchequer receipts for all of England in 1194 came to £25,000, this is impressive thievery. Even if the scribe is counting in pre-decimalisation pennies, Robin has managed to steal more than the entire crown revenue for five months, notionally equivalent to around £250bn today. Admittedly, with that sort of cash, Robin probably could have had as many canopy-level walkways as he wanted. Still, you'd think people would stop driving money carts through Sherwood Forest after the first billion or so.'

And so forth. To be fair, the cliffs at the start aren't those of Dover in Kent, but are the Seven Sisters in Sussex, but the point stands, I think: you'd have to be a hell of a walker to make it from Sussex to Hadrian's Wall and back to south Yorkshire in under a day. Read it and snigger.

Suddenly, Hall Food Starts to Look Good...

On a less serious and more disturbing note, some weeks ago I was introduced to the truly traumatic site that is thisiswhyyourefat.com. It's a terrifying site, one where your arteries clog just from looking at it. I'm still having issues dealing with the Fool's Gold Loaf, a monstrosity consisting of a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with creamy peanut butter, a jar of grape jelly, and a pound of bacon. It looks like a wound.

I really thought I'd never see anything quite so troubling again.

And then, the other day, I was pointed towards this: a whole chicken in a can. Seemingly it just needs fifteen minutes in the oven.

And then, just when I thought it was safe to go back to the kitchen, I learned about The Testicle Cookbook, something I'm sure there's not one of us who hasn't longed for. It all seems very hearty, with testicle omelettes, barbecued testicles, testicle goulash, and deep-friend battered testicles for the Scots among us.

And there's testicle pizza too, of course.

Randall Munroe is a Genius

In the mountain range of comic brilliance, XKCD regularly leaps from pinnacle to pinnacle, but I think today's a particularly dazzling summit. The Lord of the Rings diagram is particularly clever, with up and down loosely corresponding to northwest and southeast, and there are a couple of nice touches with the Star Wars one, with the dotted line to represent the Special Edition, and with Luke's time with Yoda rightly summed up as 'Luke's Entire Jedi Training'. I mentioned this to my housemates the other day, saying Yoda's presumably spent the last twenty years in his swamp figuring out how to concentrate a couple of decades of Jedi training into just a couple of days.*

Anyway, I think Edward Tufte would approve of this, and wonder how Randall would cope trying to map out Bleak House or The Count of Monte Cristo.
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* Or a month. Or a few weeks. Or half an hour. It's basically impossible to tell how long Luke spent with Yoda, and attempts to correlate it in a terrifyingly nerdy way with how long it'd have taken Han and Leia to reach Bespin from Hoth without the Millennium Falcon's hyperdrive are surely not the way to go. Star Wars is a fairy tale, after all.

On the Eve of All Saints

Oh dear. There was an article by Marina Hyde in yesterday's Guardian -- I know, I'm not quick with this, but I am busy elsewhere -- emblazoned with the heading 'The internet has done for Scientology. Could it rumble the Christians, too?'

The headings's probably the work of a sub-editor of course, as I gather Guardian journalists rarely write their own headings. Ms Hyde's not really talking about Christians in general here, or even using Christianity as catch-all to criticise all religions, though some of the commenters on the article believe this is so; all three of the critical references to other religions in the text are to Catholics in particular. She compares the Pope's response to certain Anglicans as an attempt to lure them into a cultish communion; she cites the rantings of Mel Gibson, who espouses a rather peculiar strain of Catholicism, about the apparently inevitable damnation of Anglican wife; and she imagines a senior cardinal being asked whether he accepts -- albeit in caricatured form -- the most basic teachings of the Catholic faith. Frankly, it looks as though she has an axe to grind against Catholicism in particular, in that peculiarly English way. But I digress.

Predictably, Ms Hyde is picking up on the story of how the French have found the Church of Scientology guilty of serious fraud, and indeed on other recent developments:

'In France, Scientology was found guilty of defrauding its followers after a judge effectively debunked the idea of the church's trusty e-meter, a crude polygraph whose readings are used to encourage Scientologists to purchase everything from books to extreme sauna courses. In Los Angeles, the Oscar-winning (even if it was only for the abysmal Crash) director Paul Haggis cut his ties with Scientology in protest at what he branded their tolerance of homophobia, adding for good measure that the church's claim that they do not tell people to "disconnect" from unsupportive family members was untrue – his own wife had been ordered to do so. Meanwhile, Scientology's chief spokesman Tommy Davis stormed out of a television interview with Martin Bashir, after the latter pressed him on what we might delicately term "certain articles of faith". The alien stuff, basically.'

Hyde's general argument is that all this has happened because of the internet, that the internet has proven a threat to Scientology that L. Ron Hubbard never imagined facing. Structurally, Scientology is a mystery religion -- like the Greeks had at Eleusis, say, or the Gnostics who played with the Christian template in the centuries when the early Church was fighting to survive. It claims secret knowledge, and for a price you can be initiated into that knowledge, being purified in the process; the more you pay, the more you learn, and the purer you get. The thing is, thanks to the internet, huge amounts of the Scientologists' secret knowledge is in the public domain, and -- as South Park caricatured it in 'Trapped in the Closet'- it's not really very likely. Alien warlords? Spaceships like DC-8 airliners? Intergalatic genocide? Hydrogen bombs? Volcanoes? In fact, it's just the kind of scenario that a hohum pulp sci-fi writer from the middle of the last century might have been inclined to make up.

That's bad enough, but then there's all the whistleblower stuff, and most recently the thing with Paul Haggis, and then the rampant loopiness of what Tom Cruise said about Scientology last year, when I particularly loved how he was introduced:

'There is a worldwide arena where the game is played for the fate of whole populations . . . where one side schedules entire generations for psychiatric drugging, and marks five million more for lethal toxic exposure . . . Also on the board, scores of nations where no workable technology will even be permitted . . . and plans in play to keep people so restimulated they can barely envision a future, much less consider the eternal scope of Scientology.But there's someone on the other side of that global arena . . . Someone advancing Scientology on a fully epic scale to a very different future . . . And he is Class 4 OT7 Platinum Meritorious and IAS Freedom Medal of Valor Winner . . . Tom Cruise!'

And, then for me there's the jewel in the crown, which is that it's very easy to find solidly researched biographies of L. Ron Hubbard online, which depict him, frankly, as a fraudster, as someone who made this all up with the aim of making money.

That's the key point, really, and that, I think, is where Ms Hyde's article falls down. She goes on:

'Yet there is the rub. In France, Scientology is deemed a sect as opposed to a religion, which is why they are required to produce evidence for their claims, where recognised religious leaders are not. For those of us who believe that all religions are full of tall tales, this might seem slightly unfair [...] Clearly, Scientologists should be forced to justify their doctrinal lunacies – the only sadness is that other religions are apparently exempt from having to do the same. Imagine for a moment a Bashir-type interviewing some senior cardinal. "So," he might inquire, "you're saying that by some magic the communion wafer actually becomes the flesh of a man who died 2,000 years ago, a man who – and I don't want to put words into your mouth here – we might categorise as an imaginary friend who can hear the things you're thinking in your head? And when you've done that, do you mind going over the birth control stuff?"'

I know, this is silly: the Scientologists are being asked about their beliefs because they 're a mystery religion that in return for payment will reveal secret knowledge; Christians wouldn't need to be grilled in quite this way, as Christian teaching is freely accessible to everyone. In a way, though, she does have a point. Extraordinary claims can hardly be taken on face value; these things need to be justified, and Christians, for example, shouldn't expect to be treated with kid gloves. Indeed, 1 Peter 3.15 pretty much says we should expect to have to justify our beliefs: and should always be ready to do so: 'always be prepared to make a defence to anyone who calls you to account for the hope that is in you, yet do it with gentleness and reverence.'

The thing is, though, if you're going to ask someone to justify their beliefs, you have to be prepared to listen to what they say. And I don't mean to smile and nod politely, I mean to listen. Given that we all too often find each other's beliefs to be, to a greater or lesser degree, ridiculous, the big questions here are surely not so much based around 'what?' as they are variants on 'why?'

Some of these questions are philosophical and scientific, such as 'why do you believe there is more to the universe than meets the eye?', or 'why do you think, in an exclusively material universe, one pack of neurons is more valuable than another?' or 'why do you think, in an exclusively material universe, you have any control over how the atoms bounce in your head?', but others are historical...

Is there any basis for Scientology's fundamental beliefs other than the claims of L. Ron Hubbard, who made huge amounts of money from his claims? Is there any basis for Mormonism's fundamental beliefs other than the claims of Joseph Smith, who was widely regarded as a fraudster in his own time and who gained influence and several dozen wives from the religion he founded? Is there any basis of Islam's fundamental beliefs other than the claims of Muhammad, who used his claims to rally an army and conquer Arabia? Is there any basis for Christianity's fundamental beliefs other than the claims of -- as Paul says at 1 Corinthians 15 -- witnesses such as St Peter, St James, St Paul, and hundreds of Christ's other followers, none of whom had anything to gain from the claims they made, and many of whom faced persecution and death for making these claims?

These are the kind of questions that should be asked. I don't mind justifying what I believe, but if someone's going to demand an explanation, they ought to be willing to listen to it.

Whether you consider it a religion or not, Scientology's a new phenomenon, not yet 60 years old, and it's one that's had a very ease ride so far; this is something Ms Hyde seems to be skating over. It's a shame, she says, that other religions are exempt from having to justify their beliefs. I can't speak for Buddhism, Hinduism, and so forth, but I'll say this: Christians have been justifying their beliefs for two millennia. For the first three hundred years of the Faith they regularly did so at the point of a Roman sword, and even now, throughout the world, this is still all too often the case. It'd be worth thinking of the martyrs tomorrow, especially given how there may well have been more of them in twentieth century than in all the previous Christian centuries combined.

It's one thing to attack religions; it's another to attack them because you can't be bothered finding out about them. It's not close-minded to disbelieve religious claims, but it is close-minded to dismiss them without considering the evidence fairly and thoroughly. This stuff has been justified, and continues to be justified every day. I'm not saying that Ms Hyde would accept these arguments, but it seems remarkable that she's unaware that they're out there. They don't just hide that information in books, you know, nor do they only proclaim it in churches that are open to all. It's on the internet too.

You know, the thing that's rumbled the Scientologists.

How to Draw Comics the Liefeld Way

There was a time when I used to want to be a comic artist, and among my inspirations was one Rob Liefeld. Don't get me wrong: I didn't think he was good. No, I was astonished even then by how bad his drawing was -- and I could tell this by just flicking through his 'work' before buying something a bit more credible in the Forbidden Planet -- and was convinced that if he could make a fortune from something so egregiously bad, well, surely I could make at least a living.

Obviously, things haven't worked out that way, and as the years have passed my scorn for Mr Liefeld has faded along with my ambitions towards being a comic artist. You forget, after all.

Until tonight.

There's a lovely post on Crooked Timber today entitled 'The Dark Depths of Comics History', pointing to the odd 1990s phenomenon of Marvel Comics swimsuit issues. Yeah, I know. Look, don't blame me. I'm an ardent admirer of Sturgeon's Law. It highlights a detail of a drawing in which lush inking and subtle colouring are cleverly deployed to disguise the fact that the actual drawing is terrible:

'Where exactly is either his left shoulder or the left side of his chest? Did his shoulder just sort of give up on becoming an arm and then the arm tried again, launching itself out, a bit below, where the intercostals should be? I could stare for hours. It’s like a cross between a Japanese sand garden and a fancy butcher shop.'

It's quite special, really, but the post itself is utterly trumped by the comment thread which leads, by some comic book variant of Godwin's law, to the pit of excrement that is Rob Liefeld's artwork.

Here, for instance, is Rob's take on Captain America -- and I hope both Joe Simon and Jack Kirby were dead by the time this was drawn, as this sort of thing just shouldn't be allowed. One of the commenters, Gareth Rees, sizes it up and drily remarks that 'Liefeld’s Captain America is the result of merging two different perspectives into one picture: his shoulder is seen side-on, and his chest at an oblique angle. It’s the same kind of distortion used to get the buttocks and breasts of female characters visible at the same time. It’s a technique that goes back at least to the cubists.'

This drew the response that 'It’s not just that, but part of his back is visible as part of the side-on angle, and his other shoulder is missing from where it should be given the chest angle. You’d have to tear his torso in half to force it into that pose.'

Good, eh? It gets better, though, as Gareth Rees has linked to a marvellous site dedicated to 'The 40 Worst Rob Liefeld Drawings'. Now, I'd say they're not so much the worst Liefeld drawings as a representative sample, but what the hell, they need to be studied. I've hardly been able to breathe for laughing since seeing them, and given how my life has been the last couple of months, that's quite an achievement.

It's still beyond me why anybody bought this stuff, let alone why they bought it in such massive quantities. Baffling.

Take this beauty, for instance, number 16 on the list, of which it is entirely fair to say:

'How many teeth are in a mouth? Like a billion, right? I’ll just draw a billion, all the same size and shape.

All of the characters on this page are in the same room. Not that you’d know that, given the way Liefeld draws the majority of his backgrounds. Where most artists would include, say, details of the room or an actual background, Rob uses groundbreaking techniques like, DAGWOOD’S HAIR! HORIZONTAL LINES! CURVES! And CROSSHATCHING!

Seriously, if that establishing shot weren’t there you’d think these people were all just kind of abstract concepts. What are they, in a wind tunnel? Who gives a shit, get back to people holding swords.'

I know, astonishing, eh? And this isn't even close to being the worst piece of Liefeld art there. No, you need to see his reluctance to draw feet, his inability to draw hands, his obsession with really big guns that rest on clenched fists, his tendency to draw women standing en pointe if their feet must be shown at all, his fetish for pouches, his perplexing theory of shadows, his prediliction for drawing freakishly endowed men, and his utter ignorance of female anatomy. The last point, apparently, is easily explained:

'The most important thing you need to know before reading about all the terrible things Rob Liefeld has drawn is that he has never seen or talked to a woman in his life and has no idea what they look like or how their bodies operate. If you asked Rob Liefeld to draw a diagram of the uterus he'd put on a pair of gauntlets and punch the shit out of your chalkboard. This is how the man operates, and though I know it sounds like a lot, you have to believe me. I don't want you looking at the stuff he's drawing and think he's a conscious adult male with a creative job who can and has influenced the minds of young artists. The man is a pair of blue jeans with a face. He has on a backwards cap, and when he turns it around, it's still backwards.'

Seriously, it's priceless. And that's just his drawing. Because he wrote too...

Stops WHAT in your Mouth?

On an entirely different note, are you aware of Imodium?

Well, until the other day, I wasn't. I was strolling down the aisle in a local supermarket, and I saw a load of packets of it hanging on a rack, each one bearing the legend 'Stops Diarrhoea Melts In Your Mouth'.

I don't mind telling you, I'm a bit concerned.

The product website is great, though. You can learn all the myths about diarrhoea -- probably stuff about Herakles and the Augean stables, and maybe about British soldiers with slashed shorts in Burma -- and there's a whole section to help you find toilets. I'm not sure if it links it with a gps-based iPhone application, but if not, Imodium are missing a trick.

Fishy Claims About the EU

I'm afraid I made the mistake of getting into a spat today. Internet quarrelling isn't particularly edifying or worthwhile even at the best of times, and right now, time is hardly in great supply for me, even on days when lunch is eschewed and typing is done in abundance.

Over the last couple of days I'd spotted variations on this nonsense in a couple of spots around the net, generally in comment threads such as here and here*, so eventually, in annoyance, I popped over to the perpetrator's blog** to air my own thoughts. Folly, of course. There's no arguing with fools.

Seriously, look at this nonsense:

'Irish Ayes Are Smiling - More is the pity. This result may be perfectly clean, but it is still fishy: they have still lost in their fisheries three times as much as they have gained at all from the EU.'

This is a common anti-European trope, and a myth that the Irish fishing community appears to have to its bosom. It's rot, of course, unless you think it's meaningful in any sense to take direct Irish investment from our European partners and weigh it against the value of whatever fish have been caught by said partners in Irish waters. Even if you want to argue that said fish was worth €200 billion, rather than, say, €8.5 billion, as reckoned by the Sea Around Us project. Such a crude comparison is madness, of course.

For starters, Irish gains from the Union aren't limited to investments from our favourite charity, the German taxpayer. You need to look at trading gains too, and at private investment in the Irish economy as a player in the Common Market and as a member of the Eurozone. American companies have invested more in Ireland than they have in China, Brazil, India, and Russia; they employ more than 100,000 people, and export more than €60 billion worth of goods and services every year. So even if we had lost €200 billion worth of fish, well, there'd be no doubt that we'd still have gained. Sums, eh?

Secondly, at the time we joined the EEC, our waters were limited to a twelve-mile coastal strip. Our waters were only enlarged to a 200-mile zone in connection with the Third United Nations Law of the Sea Conference in 1976; the Americans and other countries claimed a massive extension of maritime jurisdiction, and so the EEC and others responded in kind. The new 'Irish' waters had traditionally been fished by German, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, British and other fishermen, and had hardly ever been touched by Irish fishermen. How could they have been? There were fewer than 6,000 fishermen in the country, with fewer than 2,000 of them being full-time, and they fished in the main in our narrow coastal zone, catering to the tiny domestic market - we ate less fish than any other EEC country at the time, even with the Friday fast being regularly observed, fish providing scarcely 6% of our protein intake.

Is it really credible that a country with barely three million people in it would have been able to negotiate a 200-mile fishing zone without the aid of our European partners, especially if we'd planned on excluding them from our new waters immediately afterwards? And even if we had done that, how could we have exploited our new waters, with our tiny fleet of tiny ships, geared up to supply a none-too-enthusiastic domestic market? After all, I don't think we'd have got very far exporting our fish to countries where we'd put their fishermen on the dole... And then, of course, there's the question of how we'd have protected our waters. Could a handful of offshore patrol boats, and - back in the day - a couple of outdated corvettes really have done the job?

Is any of this likely to comfort our fishermen? Well, probably not, but for what it's worth, the Irish fishing industry is far healthier now than it was back in the day. Hard to believe, but true. Back then, like I said, there were fewer than 6,000 people involved in fishing in Ireland, with fewer than 2,000 of those being fulltime fishermen, and they weren't exactly making much money out of the operation. Now, though? I've had trouble pinning the figures down, because the fishing figure proper is rarely available in isolation, usually being blurred with onshore processing and with fish farming figures, but it looks like the total figure now is upwards of 15,000. Even if you take the lowest possible calculation it's still around 11,000. That's not to say they're not under pressure at the moment, due to changes in the Common Fisheries Policy to reflect the fact that fish stocks have been deracinated, but it's simply untrue to say that they -- and collectively we -- have been screwed on the fishing front over the last four decades. That's just not true.

And that's just yer man's first paragraph. On to he goes to claim that there was a built in one-for-one arrangement with Sterling well into the 1980s, rather than the late 1970s, to say that the British armed forces are largely Irish, when just 400 of their 112,000 personnel are from the Republic, and so on. Things are even odder in the comments, where he claims that the Irish wouldn't have minded being invaded by the British during the second World War, that the British would have been willing and able to protect us from the Soviets during the Cold War, and that there are a higher proportion of people in the Republic of Ireland who have served in the British forces than in any of the four constituent parts of the UK. I've been thinking for two days, and still don't think I know anyone from home who's done that, whereas as each hour passes I think of more and more people I know here who have served or are serving in the forces. Fourteen at the moment. And that's not including ones who are applying to Sandhurst and Dartmouth etc, let alone ones who've been in university units.

I can just about forgive his not grasping my point about economic independence, because it's a bit subtle, but I'll come back to that. Sigh...

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* This one nicely preempts Godwin's Law by invoking the Nazis in the very heading. Of course, it rather undercuts itself by calling on the Dunkirk spirit, in apparent disregard for the fact that Britain was only able to carry on 'alone' after Dunkirk by becoming a client state of the Americans. This was better than a compromise peace with the Nazis, of course, but it was hardly independence.
** His real blog. Not the ones spoofing or scorning it.

Aghast at Amazon, Part 2

Of course, Amazon sells things other than books. Like staples, say, or Sigmund Freud action figures. The latter are particularly promising, especially if you team them up with other toys, as this fellow does:

'This toy is lots of fun. I like to play with it using my old GIJOE toys. My favorite scenario is to have Sigmund Freud kill off Cobra Commander, and then take his place as leader of Cobra: The Enemy. With his cigar, he works really well as an evil villain. (Plus, he likes to torture the good guys that they capture by tying them up and putting his cigar out on their bare chest.)

It is lots of fun to play with. The final battle usually takes place on the rug at the foot of my bed (which substitutes for a jungle), where Snake-Eyes challenges Sigmund Freud to a duel in order to avenge the death of Duke and all the other Joes. (Snake-Eyes is always the only surviving Joe left.) Sigmund Freud then tries some ninja moves to kick Snake-Eyes' rear, but Snake Eyes beats the crap out of him. It finally ends with Snake Eyes using his sword to gut Sigmund Freud, as his sword slowly slides out of his bloody entrails. It really is a lot of fun!

Sometimes I do a Transformer Crossover Universe, where Megatron comes in and has Sigmund Freud join him in some plot to obtain energy in order to build the ultimate weapon and take control the universe. The Joes always have to go get help from Optimus Prime, who always puts a stop to this plot just at the last minute, but not before his arm gets chopped off in battle. (I am actually missing Optimus' arm in real life, so that's why this always happens in the story.) '

You'd buy that, wouldn't you?

What other treasures does Amazon have to offer? Well, if I can just pick half a dozen, with sample reviews to tempt you...


Uranium Ore
'Picked this up for use in one of my kid's 'diversity' projects in school (Great Success!), and stuck the leftovers in the cabinet next to the baking soda.

Ran out of toothpaste, and remembered how you're supposed to be able to use baking soda to clean your teeth, so of course, I accidentally used this instead, and Wow! all I can say is, my teeth have never been cleaner! They sparkle, they tingle, and for some reason, they STAY clean now, no matter what. Highly recommended!

However, when I ran out of that fire-ant killer powder stuff, I figured I would try some for that too. Big mistake!

Boy, it sure did not kill those ants! Fortunately, those suckers get slower as they get bigger, so I have been able to use a shovel to take care of most of them, one at a time though, the sneaky devils. And the darn trash man refuses to take them away...

I would have given this product 5 stars for the teeth and the project on embracing diversity, but I deducted one star because of the giant mutant ants.'


Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen
'Worked fine with my right hand, but when I came to use my left hand my writing came out looking like the work of a complete imbecile. I can only assume Bic have created a right-handed only pen, and would caution left-handers to "try before you buy".'


The Classic Cremation Urn
'Mom proudly displays Dad in this urn in her assisted living apartment.

After keeping Dad in a cardboard cylinder in the garage on the workbench near his tools, where he was most at home for a couple of years, Mom had to move to an assisted living facility. Since she talks to him every day, we had to prepare Dad for the move. He wasn't too happy about it, and he was pretty upset that we spent so much money for his new home, especially since the old one was free from the crematorium. He also wasn't too happy about being stuck in the same room with Mom all the time, because now he'd have to listen to her talking all day.

When I told him the urn was pretty soundproof, he said ok. So I poured him in. He just fit, but I spilled a little of him on the workbench.He was ok with that.

I guess we'll get the matching one for Mom when the time comes. Dad said to wait for a good sale, and be sure there's enough room for a phone so she won't nag him all day.

Dad, it's been almost 5 years, and I miss you like it was yesterday. Mom doesn't miss you so much. To her, you're still there.'


Elk Carcass
'When it comes to carcasses, nothing beats elk. I've ordered deer carcasses, goat carcasses, drifter carcasses, but honestly, I just love my elk. I was like a kid on Christmas morning when that exhausted UPS delivery boy hauled that package out of his truck and collapsed in my driveway. I was a little disappointed when I discovered that it only came with four oranges because the product image clearly depicts five. All in all though, the oranges aren't what mattered, I just chuck those at neighbor kids on skateboards. The carcass was perfect! I thanked that UPS delivery man who was lying there dying in my driveway and I went inside to do whatever it is people do with elk carcasses.'

Curiously, the photo of the Elk Carcass is identical to the one of the Venison Carcass produced by the same people. I'm just saying.


Tuscan Whole Milk
'I find the used milk to be just as good as the new stuff. Who needs a sealed lid and so what if there's some missing. The chunks sift out easily too. Save money, buy used.'

This may be my favourite of them all. The sheer range of reviews is infinitely hilarious. But what reminded me of these absurdities is this wonderful item of apparel...


Three Wolf Moon T-Shirt
'This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that's when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my trailer to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to 'howl at the moon' from time to time (if you catch my drift!). The women that approached me wanted to know if I would be their boyfriend and/or give them money for something they called mehth. I told them no, because they didn't have enough teeth, and frankly a man with a wolf-shirt shouldn't settle for the first thing that comes to him.

I arrived at Wal-mart, mounted my courtesy-scooter (walking is such a drag!) sitting side saddle so that my wolves would show. While I was browsing tube socks, I could hear aroused asthmatic breathing behind me. I turned around to see a slightly sweaty dream in sweatpants and flip-flops standing there. She told me she liked the wolves on my shirt, I told her I wanted to howl at her moon. She offered me a swig from her mountain dew, and I drove my scooter, with her shuffling along side out the door and into the rest of our lives. Thank you wolf shirt.

Pros: Fits my girthy frame, has wolves on it, attracts women Cons: Only 3 wolves (could probably use a few more on the 'guns'), cannot see wolves when sitting with arms crossed, wolves would have been better if they glowed in the dark.'


I reckon the shirt would go great with some Zubaz pants.

Aghast at Amazon

I was delighted to discover the other day -- don't ask how -- that some of my favourite Amazon products are still on sale, complete with comedic reviews. They're well worth the inspection. Here are five gems that you might be tempted to buy, with samples from reviews...

The Very Best of David Hasslehoff
'I suppose this could be called a fusion album. As David demonstrates a perfect example of the German sense for melody and delicate phrasing while blending them with American, early 80's, big haired, tight trousered RRRock. I love this album and play it at least 10 times a day, every day throughout what has been a very difficult time for me. My family and then my pets have left me, my neighbours curse at me in the street and birds no longer land in my garden. But through it all I just keep on playing the Hoff. Play this album once and you will never buy another one again.'

The Holy Bible: King James Version
'For those of you who don't know, this is God's second novel after the Old Testament. It's a marked improvement, in my opinion. He got rid of a lot of his previous angst and scorn, and has really begun to show some of the maturity present in his later works. He's become a much more loving and kind God, and, noticeably, he doesn't throw nearly as many tantrums as he did in the first book. '

Oddly, other versions of the Bible don't seem to have attracted the same derision.

Reading Mastery - Level 2 Storybook 1, by Siegfriend Engelmann, a.k.a. The Pet Goat

'This is the stuff that makes great men so great. Should be a required reading for leaders of men. Presidential material. I found it so rich and powerful that I had to take seven minutes to reflect and decide what to do next.'

Penetrating Wagner's Ring: An Anthology, by John L. Digaetani
'Until recently, Wagner's ring has been difficult for most of us to penetrate. Access to his darkest area has traditionally been restricted to those lucky few capable of maintaining strong, determined strokes of scholarly investigation. Happily, DiGaetani provides everyone - including the most intellectually well-endowed amongst us - with the tools needed to effortlessly prize apart Wagner's ring and plunder its forbidden contents. DiGaetani's main thrust shows that perseverance and a firm-hand are all that is needed to enter Wagner. Oiled with this literary lubricant, you will find yourself repeatedly sliding deep into Wagner's ring until a satisfying climax is reached.'

Another review wonders why there is a Klingon on the front cover. Of course, you haven't really heard Wagner unless you've heard him in the original Klingon.

The Bible Cure for Irritable Bowel Syndrome, by Don Colbert
'For many years I suffered the agonizing pain that accompanies IBS. Little did I know that the answers to all my problems could be found within the "Good Book" that had been on my bookshelf since I was a child. Although I had read the Bible from cover to cover, it wasn't until I picked up Dr. Colbert's miriculous journal that I realized Jesus wasn't too busy healing cripples and raising from the dead to concern himself with curing explosive diarrhea as well. Taken directly from the pages of the four gospels, as well as the newly discovered Gospel According to Bucky, this book is a must have for anyone who has ever crapped their pants before making it to the John.'

Yep, all true. More tomorrow, while I think of it, in rather more surreal and less offensive vein.

Home is where the Books are

The Brother posted on twitter earlier to say his latest American Hell cartoon was one for book lovers. And indeed, having had a gander, it's properly bibliophilic.

Oddly, one of my shelves here in Manchester isn't wholly unlike it.

Alberta, in the middle, is, I'm sad to say, the only woman in my life nowadays. All the work stuff is on the two shelves below this one.

You'll note my effigy over on the right.

Outstaring the Gorgon

One of the things that keeps amusing me is how appalled -- and amused, it must be said -- my friends tend to be when faced with the uncomfortable plot summaries that are so crucial to the creepy parlour game of Name That Film. And for what it's worth, of yesterday's 22 plots, I've already been contacted with correct answers to thirteen of them, which is pretty good for less than a day.

But the odd thing is that if you try this with Greek myth, say, people just shrug, because such horror is entirely normal there. If I say to you something like 'Jilted wife murders husband's new wife and own children in act of vengeance, Gods approve,' you'd just think, 'Yes, it's obviously Medea, what's your point, Thirsty G?' Likewise if I go 'Man stubbornly insists on primacy of letter over spirit of law, son and wife kill themselves, locals chalk it up to experience,' you don't even blink and say, 'Antigone,' wondering what all the fuss is about, as you have probably always wondered why Sophocles didn't name the play Creon.

So here are ten more Classical plots for you to play with. If you're a Classicist and don't get them within about three seconds, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. If you're not, a lower and slower strike rate is forgiveable, in this philistine age. Give it a shot in the comment box, if you like.

1. Poor loser takes out anger on livestock, commits suicide.
2. Townspeople pay token respect to handicapped transsexual, but frequently disregard his advice.
3. Traumatised veteran returns home and butchers wife's guests.
4. Bisexual man kills perfect husband and mutilates corpse to avenge death of gay lover.
5. Musician has difficulty accepting wife's death, is assaulted and murdered by drunken gang.
6. Exotic dancer helps new lover murder her deformed half-brother.
7. Beautiful young wife trapped in unsatisfying daily routine, having to get up early for work while decrepit husband invariably stays in bed, muttering to himself.
8. Man keeps daughter captive, and is horrified when girl becomes pregnant after golden shower; daughter's son later kills man at sports event.
9. Scientist attempts murder of nephew, builds sex toy and dungeon, causes death of son.
10. Woman's brother kidnaps and rapes her daughter, woman develops eating disorder.

Ah, the things that every educated Westerner used to be expected to know. I wonder how Bible stories would work when written this way.

Name that Film... again

Right, so, here's a fresh challenge for you, just to flex your brains. I'd meant to post this this morning, but I was just too deeply immersed in the auld books to drag myself away. You know how it is...

So, the rules are the same as last time, in that all you have to do is think about the plot description and identify the films. Two rounds, so a general one with all plots described by me, and a specialist one, where some plots are my own, but most are sourced from Dorian & Co, though I've tweaked them a bit.

Here goes.

Round One

1. Insecure woman, threatened by technological advances at work and besotted by workmate, is publicly humiliated by workmate to impress his new girlfriend.
2. Macho racist, obsessed with brother's wife, mutilates corpses and spends years plotting niece's murder.
3. After suspected advances from open-minded politician, homophobic man befriends but is killed by politician's enemy, who the politician subsequently kills.
4. Vegetarian begins cycle of repeated clashes with authorities after being thrown off train.
5. Escaped Muslim convict helps embittered veteran in campaign of civil disobedience.
6. Artist's wife is romanced by old schoolfriend and finds pregnancy isn't the worst of life's complications.
7. Lonely woman experiences sequence of traumatic events and enters into relationship with sociopath.
8. Writer cheats on wife and enjoys watching lover sleep with teenage boys, is threatened by lover's father.
   
9. Radiantly healthy prostitute is threatened by doctor and embarks on love affair with drug-addict cop.
10. Teenager murders women and children and is sentenced to death, but escapes and marries older woman.
11. Fat jealous man persecutes schizophrenic follower of Atkins diet while on road trip.
12. Vegetarian celebrates birthday and gets married, dog dies.

Confused yet? Don't worry, you'll surely have seen most of them.

Round Two

1. Handicapped mass murderer kills old man, religious extremist terrorists destroy government installation, killing thousands.
2. Barbaric terrorists destroy major government construction project, killing thousands of contract labourers, handicapped mass murderer kills old man.
3. The United States provides arms, equipment and training to violent Islamic fundamentalists.
4. Alcoholic suicide bomber destroys valuable technology and kills thousands in deluded act of vengeance.
5. Rag-tag group of underdogs succeed at a massive undertaking despite overwhelming odds, credit success with faith in God.
6. British civil servant conspires with Islamic fundamentalists in terrorist campaign, plants bomb on plane, kills American general.
7. Politician arranges for assassination of terrorist leader who had orchestrated murders of civil servants and anachronistic killing of policemen.
8. Alcoholic and bereaved religious fanatic attempt suicide bombing, survive and find love.
9. In clandestine operation, gay masochist trains savage tribesmen in terrorist warfare.
10. Terrorists fight government, die.

Okay, so the last one's an old TV series. Off you go now, while I get back to work.

Brevity at the Expense of Clarity

It occasionally astonishes me how few films some of my closest friends have seen, though the truth is probably just that I've seen a ludicrous number of good ones; I was very lucky to become an ardent filmgoer at a time when cinema was celebrating its centenary so television and Dublin's cinemas were awash with reissued classics and modern masterpieces.

I tend to forget this, though, which is why I tend to be baffled when my friends look at me blankly when I casually allude to films that mean nothing to them; people have looked at me blankly when confronted with my fifty quotes from a couple of months back. It probably goes without saying that I have a weakness for playing 'Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon'.*

Still, I can't help but look at things like Dorian Wright's list of Uncomfortable Plot Summaries and think what a marvellous parlour game lies within.

How about challenging people to guess the film, based on the plot description?

1. Gays kill blacks.
2. Peasant girl develops Stockholm Syndrome.
3. Pretty redneck girl fools socialites, flirts with gay gigolo.
4. Amoral narcissist makes world dance for his amusement.
5. Unemployed college professors destroy hotel with nuclear weapons.
6. Hired murderer sleeps with little girl.
7. Midget destroys stolen property.
8. Despite shock-and-awe tactics, a superior occupying force is no match for a tenacious sect of terrorist insurgents.
9. Modern dating proves challenging for working class man.
10. Stalker drives woman to suicide.

And there are more than a hundred more. No, I'm not telling you the answers, not till tomorrow anyway. Work them out for yourselves, or look it up if you can't be bothered thinking.

Actually, not all the plots are from movies; try these TV shows:

1. Teenage serial killer destroys town in fit of semi-religious fervor.
2. Elderly man serially abducts young women.
3. In an analogue of the post-Civil War west, a white man on the losing side bosses around a black woman.
4. Over-sexed officer routinely places crew in danger.
5. Wealthy man assaults the mentally ill.

And then, for a final bonus round, try identifying the following, and figuring out just what -- or who -- they have in common:

1. Misfit discovers she is special person in a secret world just beside our own.
2. Misfit discovers she is special person in secret world just beside our own.
3. Misfit discovers he is special person in secret world just beside our own.
4. Misfit discovers he is special person in secret world just beside our own.

As a hint, they're in alphabetical order and number 3 isn't a film, at least not yet...


*And I'm sure you'll be glad to know that according to the Oracle of Bacon, I have a Bacon Rating of 3.

Some People May Have Issues With This

So the other day I sent the Kittybrewster a Facebook message asking her how this was not an April Fool's story: surely it wasn't really the case that someone had reworked Pride and Prejudice as a Zom-Rom-Com, an English Heritage take on Shaun of the Dead?

Her response was an eloquent 'what?', soon followed by a rather more astounded 'what?!'

We chatted about this the other evening, with neither of us really convinced that the story was true. Surely, we felt, it had been an April Fool's story somewhere, one that had been belatedly picked up on by the Guardian.

Alas, no, though. I indulged in some casual Googlage, and aside from discovering the book is for sale all over the net, found a fascinating article about it in the Times. Seemingly an American chap of my age, one Seth Grahame-Smith, who's never been to England and who only recently read Pride and Prejudice when he thought of introducing zombies to the tale, having failed to work his way through it in his schooldays, has indeed reworked Jane Austen's most popular novel in a rather ghoulish way.

Allow me to sample the opening chapter, which differs ever so slightly from the original:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead.

"My dear Mr Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is occupied again?"
Mr Bennet replied that he had not and went about his morning business of dagger sharpening and musket polishing -- for attacks by the unmentionables had grown alarmingly frequent in recent weeks.
"But it is," returned she.
Mr Bennet made no answer.
"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.
"Woman, I am attending to my musket. Prattle on if you must, but leave me to the defense of my estate!"
This was invitation enough.
"Why, my dear, Mrs Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune; that he escaped London in a chaise and four just as the strange plague broke through the Manchester line."
"What is his name?"
"Bingley. A single man of four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"
"How so? Can he train them in the ways of swordsmanship and musketry?"
"How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."
"Marriage? In times such as these? Surely this Bingley has no such designs."
"Designs! Nonsense, how can you talk so! It is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."
"I see no occasion for that. And besides, we mustn't busy the roads more than is absolutely necessary, lest we lose more horses and carriages to the unfortunate scourge that has so troubled our beloved Hertfordshire of late."
"But consider your daughters."
"I am considering them, silly woman! I would much prefer their minds be engaged in the deadly arts than clouded with dreams of marriage and fortune, as your own so clearly is! Go and see this Bingley if you must, though I warn you that none of our girls has much to recommend them; they are all silly and ignorant like their mother, the exception being Lizzy, who has something more of the killer instinct than her sisters."
"Mr Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."
"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard of little else these last twenty years at least."

Mr Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and self-discipline, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. And when she was nervous -- as she was nearly all the time since the first outbreak of the strange plague in her youth -- she sought solace in the comfort of the traditions which now seemed mere trifles to others.

The business of Mr Bennet's life was to keep his daughters alive. The business of Mrs Bennet's was to get them married.

To be fair, vomiting aside -- read the Times article -- it sounds rather fun, though most of the best comedy is Ms Austen's own work, and not Mr Grahame-Smith's. I like the idea of Bingley and Darcy having trained to combat zombies in Japan. Colin Firth could probably wield a katana with some panache.

If it rained men, wouldn't they explode on impact?

I've always wondered that about the Weather Girls song.

So, having mentioned the FHM 100 Sexist Women poll recently, and having said how it'd been NMRBoy who insisted I vote in it, and having grumbled about the gaping lacunae in the shortlist, I somehow managed to gloss over the fact that NMRBoy had made a similar point last year, but more succinctly, and with pictures. N's point, or part of it anyway, was that given a real choice in these matters he would vote for former Anglia weathergirl Becky Jago, a lady for whom N harbours deep affection.

Becky has a healthy Facebook fanbase, I see, with the 'Becky Jago Appreciation Society' having a respectable 124 members. Indeed, it seems she's not the only British weathergirl with a bevvy of Facebook admirers. The fresh-faced Laura Tobin has a mere 41 fans in the 'Laura Tobin Appreciation Society', but a rather more impressive 337 groupies in the 'Laura Tobin (BBC Weather) Appreciation Society'. ITV's Becky Mantin clearly reigns supreme in this area, though, with four Facebook groups to sing her praises.

The eleven-strong 'FANS OF BECKY MANTIN' isn't much to boast of, I fear, as creator Bernard Boyle hasn't yet followed through on his promise 'I WILL GET SUM INFO N PICS VERY SOON'. The other groups are more promising. 195 people are willing to proclaim 'Im a fan of Becky Mantin (ITV Weather girl)' whereas 359 hail her as 'Becky Mantin - The most glorious of all weather girls'. That's nothing, though, compared to the 1,156 members of the 'Becky Mantin (Weather Chick) Appreciation Club'.

Here are Laura and Becky, just to keep you in the loop.

I'm not sure how much these people really appreciate their meteorological idols, though. The portly and rumpled Kevin Woolley from the East Midlands, for instance, has left a comment on the smaller Laura Tobin site declaring 'She is so god damn SEXY i wouldn't kick her out of bed.' It seems an odd thing to say. Would he kick a less sexy girl out of bed? How much less sexy would she have to be? Would he be capable of raising his bloated leg to boot her out were he indeed so inclined? In fact, would there be room for her to squeeze into his bed alongside his corpulent frame in the first place? How big is his bed?

And that's nothing compared to the comments you can read on YouTube clips of Ms Mantin. No, I'm not going to quote them. YouTube comments are, as we all know, almost certainly the lowest literary form. As a rule, though, they merely daze by their banality, but these fellows add filth to the equation...

Do women likewise drool over male weather forecasters? Did Michael Fish ever receive such adoration? How do girls feel about Liam Dutton nowadays? Do ladies find him rugged and sexy, or do they find him cute and feel a need to cuddle him?

Or when they look at him, do they get a tingly feeling as though they expect a deliciously painful pun, all because something about Liam vaguely reminds them of Rowlf the Dog?

Beautiful ladies in danger...

...danger all round the world...

So I was chatting to NMRboy the other evening, and he was explaining my manly duties to me. Apparently -- and I've managed to hit a sprightly four hundred and seven years old without knowing this -- it is my duty as a man to vote in the FHM 100 Sexiest Women in the World poll.

Well, I said, if it's my duty, I'd better find out what's involved, so over I moseyed to the FHM site, there to peruse the shortlist. I hadn't even known there was a shortlist, but I suppose it makes sense that there is one, as otherwise all the lads would surely just vote for their girlfriends, wouldn't they, or maybe ex-girlfriends they're hung up on, or even random pretty girls they might occasionally bump into in the library or the computer cluster or the pub, say.

Although my flatmate's none too impressed by my forays into the world of FHM polls, feeling it's deeply sexist, it was an interesting foray, and I have to say that I learned a lot. Who would have thought that the Queen owned not merely all the swans in Britain, but all the dolphins, porpoises, and sturgeon? Or that one lady could be so diversely talented as to be a qualified nurse, to possess a degree in microbiology, and to be able to put her legs behind her head? Or that, well, um, I can't really remember.

The thing is, I got pretty irate rather quickly just looking at the list. How had it been drawn up? What manner of methodology had been used? Putting it very bluntly, why do the Saturdays count as one woman -- have they only one personality between them or something?

The list is notable for its absences, it has to be said. Where are Michelle Pfeiffer, who even if she's been to the shop at some point surely still has a portrait in her attic, Kristin Scott Thomas, who is as beautifully brittle as ever, and my beloved Allison Janney? Please don't tell me its because of their age, because the Queen is on the list -- the Queen, I ask you, of whom FHM notes 'If you’re looking for a lady with more than just money and power, take a look at pictures of Brenda from the fifties. She had it. And yes, you most definitely would.'

Where are Claire Danes and Rosamund Pike? Where are the classic proverbial either/or duo of Eliza Dushku and Kirsten Dunst? Where's Amy Adams? Alyson Hannigan? Grace Park? Where are Sophie Marceau and Julie Delpy and Juliette Binoche? And Emmanuelle Beart? Seriously...

Look, don't get me wrong. Charlize Theron is still there, as are Christina Hendricks, and Heather Graham, and Kristin Kreuk, and Monica Belucci, and Lena Headey, and a legion of ladies of whom I've never heard. But the thing is, I don't understand the absences from the shortlist. And most of all, how I don't understand how I can fairly be asked to cast my vote for the world's sexiest women based on a list that includes Sienna Miller but excludes the peerless Sienna Guillory, she of the porcelain skin and the exquisite cheekbones, inspirationally cast a few years back as Helen of Troy.

I mean, come on!