Differential hiatus strikes blow for conformity

Differential hiatus strikes blow for conformity

I look around the channel these days and I can't believe what I see: Ian Penman setting fire to bicycles; David Henderson wearing a chef's hat (in summer, no less); this new chap Smith at Novell throwing pies off rooftops. Laugh? I nearly cried.

In any case, this whole business of "computers" has got me in a quandary. What happened to the proud, dependable typewriter? Now it may not have had many rams or goats or gigs, but it bloody well had some keys. And you could push them and things would appear on the page. Tell me one of these "computers" can do that! And what is it they are "computing"? More like commuting, I'd say.

Having said all that, where is Poland? Well, if you don't know, don't ask me because I won't tell you. I'm of the belief that if one doesn't know where Poland is, one shouldn't go around asking where it is. It's perfectly acceptable to pretend you know where it is. Take note Intel! Tony Jansz may have left for Singapore, but you won't find me putting a wig on just yet.

Even so, the use of chemical halides in glass manufacture has been known for more than a decade to improve transparency. I was mindful of this fact on 31 October when I was accosted at my door by a group of garishly clad "youths" demanding lollies. I didn't give them lollies, I gave them what-for. The police can be damned! If I want to break thin rods of glass over people's heads, then that's just what I'll do.

Yes! I am a tall poppy

On a softer note, I think it's lovely that people are selling different sorts of computer things to one another. Look around you - there's someone selling printers over there, and, further along the garden path, another fellow's got some software. Hark! There goes someone with a hard disk or two. And if we're very quiet and keep our heads down, the modem chaps will no doubt amble along soon. It's bloody marvellous I tell you.

A day's work for a day's pay - that's what I'm after. However, if it's not a problem, I don't want to be the one doing the work. Rather, I'd prefer for some other fellow to come along and take care of all this "work" nonsense and leave me to the serious business of being paid and collecting goodwill and admiration from others.

That reminds me, for years I've been telling anyone who'd listen that a spanning-tree bridge can automatically route packets without user intervention. "Listen to me!" I'd shout, "The bridge will note each packet's source-address and associate this with its arrival port, thus learning its location!!" before sobbing a desperate "Don't you understand? . . . these associations are then stored in a filtering database!!!" Needless to say, I was run out of town on a rail. "Silly old Patchy," they said.

Well, now that my thoughts are en vogue, I'm the toast of the town. People pretend not to recognise me on the street, but I know they do. "Come now, cease this silly charade," I holler to them. "It's alright! There's nothing wrong with recognising old Patchy!"

Funnily enough, they all tend to avert their eyes and quicken their pace, no doubt thrilled they've just seen a celebrity. It is at times like these that I'm reminded of the giraffe who walked into the bar and proclaimed "High balls are on me!" After all, you've got to have a hobby.

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