Thus inconclusion . . .

I could list many recent examples, citing such evidence as the scrambled neurons of my brain, the terrifying tragedy of my finances, and even the careless misplacement of my job. But I won’t do that. Instead, I shall regail you with tales from backstage at Reading.

Verily, it was a land of marked contrast to the arena “out front”. And this wasn’t just as a result of the apparent generation gap. Oh no. Instead of the standard fayre of mediocre greasy festival catering, there was an endless supply of luxurious food served on large silver platters by many many buxom wenches. Whereas the arena was flooded with Carling branded fizzy-piss lager-substitute, backstage we were drenched by free flowing waterfalls of champagne. And any much-noted fashion dilemas or disasters were entirely avoided by the removal of all clothes, as everyone cavorted naked in a writhing pile of carefree lust. And all the while musical deities imparted to us mortals their insights into the arcane secrets of musical genius. All well and good you may think, but as it transpired, the velvet padded toilet seats had a fundamental design flaw.

To those of you that were not privy to this backstage utopia, rest assured that you were among a select group of people of exceptional calibre that I also didn’t invite in. Indeed, I myself am honoured that anyone would think that I would have been able to blag them in as well, as unfortunately Mr Mean Fiddler has an entirely differing opinion of my importance.

In fact, I could have benefited from some allies to give me a hand on the Friday. I had assumed that the last thing I’d have wanted want would have been more competition. However, it turns out that Brandon Flowers can really run very fast. So perhaps I did make an error of judgement, after all.

It's hardly my fault that you're reading a post that I haven't thought of any actual content for yet.

So, as a re-starter, if anyone suggests titles for posts, I'll come up with some content. Sometime.

For the record, it has been lovely having such high quality squatters while I've been away. Fortunately, I'm already on some medication that should help clear this up . . .

However, so far I have had a dozen or so texts from people trying to make arrangements to meet up on site somewhere or on the blag for free beer or other pleasurable substances. The bastards are all having fun without me. Bastards.

Right then - I've got a lot that I want to write about. So I'd best get on with it.

In a minute.

I've just got to get this procrastinating out the way.

Being a Monday morning, and given that I spent most of the weekend engaged in the many varied and exhausting processes of moving house (albeit on occasion somewhat tangentially), Brain function was idling at least one timezone behind Mouth activity. The ensuing debate covered much ground, but VSSII (Deputy) was admirably evasive, particularly concerning the accuracy of her abilities to predict beyond the foreseeable future. Opposing forces swiftly massed on grounds of strict organisational hierarchy to an even 3-a-side, and those from above defended well. Or rather they didn’t. I’d just have liked them to. They tried hard, I suppose, but failed dismally. The upshot being that, somewhere just over the horizon, there is going to be a half-arsed organisational restructuring lying in wait to spring forth an efficiency ambush. Though I think that the crucial element of surprise may now have been blown, given that in terms of the ambush, they’re still in the shop buying the bullets. The high point of the encounter was probably not when I suggested that VSSII (Deputy) might benefit from reading a second book on organisational management. Ideally one published sometime after the 80’s. And ideally one that is actually in some way relevant to the sort of organisation that we are supposed to be. She glared at me in what I understand may actually be her first ever silence. I had finally overstepped the mark. And so I apologised wholeheartedly for my inclusion of the word ‘second’.

Following straight on from the morning debacle, I got back to my desk to discover that a big pointy arrow of irony has been fired into it, albeit using a more modern manner of weaponry. I had an email, notably from a very senior HR person, insisting that I have no choice but to attend the internal recruitment and selection training course next week, as I have not yet done so and it’s policy and a job requirement not an option blather blather blather etc. . . . I curtly replied that my previous declinations still apply, if only on the grounds that my review of the course materials suggested nothing other than the training being a 2-day waste of any intelligent person’s time and cognitive capacity. I also casually suggested that perhaps her time would be better spent drafting the organisation a decent redundancy policy. The reply just received was a short ‘Do you know something that I don’t?’

I have felt very awkward and distinctly uncomfortable not being able to explain to everyone else in the office why I have been both laughing and groaning out loud today.

I still contend that it’s the planning that is the most important part.

Bugger.

The plot, or at least the sum of the events that make a valiant attempt at a nearly convincing impression of a plot, moves with many surprising twists and turns, but only it would seem at some of the most unexpected and unwelcome points in time. There are, however, too many uncomfortably slow passages. Too much space when nothing happens. Just nothing at all.

As a narrative it is far from linear, being no more than a collection of tenuously connected tales that barely hold together as a coherent piece. Yet somehow, the plethora of annoyances emerge from the chrysalis of the story transformed into something much greater than the sum of their parts. In fact, much greater than the sum of their parts could ever have even dreamt of becoming.

I found The Year so Far to be hard going in many places. Not only is the storyline barely even ephemeral, being woven as it is around a robustly intangible structure. But also the style varies. Without warning. For no reason. No apparent reason. It’s confused. And confusing. There are flaws. There are moments of brilliance and beauty. Both sides of the coin again. The main character is too inconsistently unstable to empathise with, and too superficially self-indulgent to be believable. The dialogue swings with grating ease from the irritatingly intense machinegunfire of multi-voiced cacophony, to the beautifully emotive stilted silence which makes for a haunting background noise to the whole piece. As always the valiant overuse of swearing adds essential colour to the dingiest of shadows. Though the disgraceful underuse of any musical score or other accompaniment is simply an unqualified triumph for the twin failures that are self-confidence and self-discipline.

Overall, The Year so Far is a compellingly banal yet disturbingly enjoyable experience that defies classification.*
[and so scores a middle of the road 3 out of 5 sparkling neurons]

*Unless you happen to use a workable classification system that has scope to reference Metaclassical Post-Historical de-Reconstitued Unmagical non-Realism.

For instance:

At the turn of the year, I foretold that we were entering the Year of the Magnificent Cleavage. Even though there has been some fine and fun cleavage, it has not yet earned the title of Magnificent. And so either:

1) It has not yet come to pass or
2) I am really missing something.

Double Damn.

Just look at the telly.

Hit me baby one more time. Won by Shakin’ Stevens. Predictable. But Wrong.
The Eurovision Song Contest. Won by Greece. Lots of countries voting for their neighbouring countries [which it is all too easy to forget is admirable progress from them going to war with each other]. Lots of pretty women with vacuous personalities yet unfortunately non-vacuous cleavage. You know what I mean. All predictable. But all Wrong.

Many grounds for justifiable complaint.
So there you go. So now it's your turn:

I, Mr Adhoc Chaotique, am predictable but wrong because:

1) I am an impulsive hedonist made irritable and insomniac by my trying to live the reality of my dreams.
2) I am a narcoleptic jelly of indecision that has sunk beyond any hope of revival from an unfeeling coma of shameful apathy.
3) Both of the above.
4) All of the above, at the same time.
5) I have been drinking nearly all day but am not even in the slightest bit endrunkened.
6) If I really like something it is inevitable that I will break it.
7) I care about what these words say about me.
8) I just am. It is a rhetorical question that needs no answer.

Nope.
The Luke Skywalker of teeny-pop is just too annoyingly powerful.
Listen to him sing. And there’s more than just the chorus. Hear the verse. Feel the Force.
Where’s the darkside when you need it?
All resistance is futile.
Arse.

Total volume of music files on my computer is: Lots. How am I supposed to know that? Do people keep all their music files in one place or something? Let me see . . . hang on, I’ve run out of fingers . . . erm . . . aha:
well there’s 18.12 here + 29.5 externally over here + 7.68 of recorded radio streams + 9.6 hiding on this old disk - 26.992 ish to allow for doubles in the iTunes library and also the spoken word and comedy stuff = about this much this many or inotherwords 37.9 gB songs. NB this figure does not take any account whatsoever of the large pile of music CDs currently balanced on top of my PC case.
The last CD I bought was: blank. 50 of’em. On a spindle and everything.
Song playing right now: ‘A Woman and some Whisky’, but the guitar is a little out of tune and my voice is somewhat lifeless, so it’s barely recognisable as an actual bona fide song.
Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me: Did they do ‘When the lights go out’ and ‘Closer to you’? Was never a fan. I suppose ‘Let’s Dance’ had some ‘jiggy jump to the beat and keep bouncing’ boy band energy to it, but in my opinion they only deserve mention for their crimes aganst music and their utterly diabolical version of ‘We will Rock You’. Utter Dross.
Five people to whom I'm passing the baton: I think, perhaps, that this should stop now. Before people start getting hurt.

On a more congratulatory note, well done to Blogrolling for updating their php stuff (as evidenced to the right). I didn't actually understand why it was broken (as I didn't get around to asking properly), but now it works again so I don't have to worry. More exciting things and places can now be added. Breath holding optional.

Sarah Beeny comes out on top . . . as the most toxic and chemically contaminated celebrity. And, really, I haven't been anywhere near her . . .

I wasn't overly impressed with the Queen's Speech today. Perhaps a better scriptwriter would help in future. Russell T Davies or Sarah Waters would certainly liven things up some. I am pleased for a number of reasons to see the Charities Bill making a determined reappearance towards becoming legislation. And another Parental Rights Bill is good. Though I am not so sure about most of the Bills, and particularly the Identity Card Bill. In particular. Especially the thought of entrusting personal freedom to the politicians and the judiciary when this sort of shit is happening. A Tagging and Curfew order for a peaceful protester? WTF? WTFFFFFFF? Apart from my use of swearwords, I am speechless.

I prefer symbolic weather to the real thing. So am pleased that the symbols have survived reasonably unscathed here.

Making difficult decisions is not something that I enjoy. Difficult decisions that are just permeated with wrongness are even more troubling. For instance, in the very near future it looks as though I am going to have to make someone redundant that I don't want to, while not being able to sack someone that I desperately want rid of. Personally, I am confident of being able to uphold 'repetitive taking the piss as a dismissible offence' at an Employment Tribunal, but the HR Director is a somewhat more cautious. And regardless of this, I need to figure out by the end of the week how to get more work done for less money and with less people to do it. All I need is a plan. And a drink.