Yurt16

At that first ever gig, twenty years ago, if Gez had elbowed me in the ribs and suggested that in twenty years time we’d be paying good money to see a My Bloody Valentine reunion gig, I’d have told him he was a bit stupid. For, whilst the first gig I went to was the Pixies, the first band that I saw live was, technically, My Bloody Valentine. We sat at the back of the hall, three of us sharing a can of Red Stripe, and shaking our head at the bloody racket coming from the stage. Until the Pixies took to the stage, I thought that maybe this was just what live music sounded like.

But no, this was what the Valentines sounded like, and, several lifetimes later at the Roundhouse, the staff are handing out earplugs as we enter. Before we take our seats I have to adjourn to the cloakroom. Two kids in front of me are checking in their skateboards, I check in my jar of chocolate spread. This audience is a cross-section, to be sure.

We experiment with our earplugs. Insert the small flange, push on the large flange. It’s a tad complicated but there’s a point at which you realise its made a difference. I’m shouting to Martin “I can’t hear you” and he’s shaking his head blankly in return. Neither of us, it appears, can lip read.

Now, I’ve seen Sleater Kinney, they were loud. I saw Dinosaur Jr, they were loud. Mission of Burma, the band that originally broke up because their live performances deafened guitarist Roger Miller? Yeah, I’ve seen them. Twice.

However, throw all of those bands together in a room, and I suspect you would come nowhere near to the noise that My Bloody Valentine make tonight. With the earplugs, it’s just a wall of noise. Take the earplugs out, and its a wall of noise that makes your head throb. The funny thing is, I find that if I push the earplugs against my ear drum, it strips out the ridiculous multiple layers over the top, and I can actually hear the tune below, and I can make out the vocals. No, I can make out that there are vocals, I can’t actually make out a single word.

As pointed out in the Guardian review, the band is all about the legend; they had no choice but to make this bloody noise. But I’m not sure that a gig that I can only hear tolerably if I press earplugs up against my eardrums is a good gig. It’s definitely not a very comfortable one either way. Martin’s earplugs are obviously working more effectively than mine, as I notice at one point that he’s eyes are closed and he seems to be drifting off. We stay until after ‘Feed Me With Your Kiss’. I know that we’ve got ‘You Made Me Realise’ still to come. I also know that it’s going to have about 16 minutes of feedback in it. I’ve obviously crossed a line in my life because this no longer seems like a good idea.

My ears are still ringing.

Update : John Moore blogs about the gig/noise here. Cue much earplug discussion.

London. Chocolate. Walking.

“Why does nobody offer these 3 things in one simple package” I wailed, dashing my fist against a scatter cushion, disturbing a pile of old papers which fell onto the laptop keyboard and by a strange twist of fate, landing in such a way that it opened google, typed in those very key words and tra-la-flipping-laaa, found me a chocolate walking tour of London.

I had to go! And I had take my friend S along too, for I needed to make up to her the minor fact that I shan’t be at her wedding due to a due date being the day before.

And so on Saturday, we and some like-minded chocolate lovers met in a patissierie on Piccadilly, where we started with coffee, freebies and some introductions. We shuffled down the road to an arcade and into our first chocolatier where we received our first tutoring in the many arts of making, tasting and eating chocolate. Plentiful chocolates were handed out, and scoffed down gratefully fast. We swiftly moved on to the next house of pleasure, where we ate and drank more chocolate, again happily handed around gratis, not one eye batted when I said ‘could I have ANOTHER pink champagne truffle please, I am eating for two!’

On we pressed, this time to a private club which served what I have to say is possibily the best hot chocolate ever tasted, in one of the most eccentric parlours I have ever been in. I was, at this point, beginning to flag at the site of more chocolate. I wolfed down some savoury snacks in a vague attempt to ward off gestational diabetes.

We continued across Oxford Street, heading northwards. Another stop, more tutoring on the art of making chocolate, more wonderful chocolate to taste, S & I now sharing our chocolates and fantasing about savoury walking tours. A bit of a break as we stroll up Marylebone High Street, struggling to contain nausea. In the final ’shop’ we try some 100% chocolate (dissolves into a strangely dry texture), basil chocolate, salt chocolate, chilli chocolate, cardamon chocolate…all absolutely divine (but not Divine). Falling out of the shop, having spent money on salt chocolate and a bar of the most expensive chocolate which has a handwritten serial number on the back (only 20,000 bars are produced each year) we are led to a small stall in the local market to meet a young chocolatier just starting out. He’s so young, so enthusiastic and full of love for chocolate that with small groans we cannot refuse his chocolate. I buy a bar of his chilli chocolate for SM, and with that S & I headed off to the nearest restaurant to stuff our faces with savoury stodge, shaking with the sugar rush.

Digital thieves swipe your photos - and profit from them

“In an age when digital photography rules and people post their images online, how can we stop our photos being stolen?”

Unfortunately the answer seems to be that we can’t, but the Guardian’s take on the story is here

Before:

After: Read the rest of this entry »

Yurt16 HQ have received the following piece of correspondence:

Dear Yurt16 HQ

I wish to complain about the lack of bloggage from that lovely young Elsie-Coops-thing person. It’s all very well hearing about Bruce and ebay thieves and bonuses from that SM fella and while we are grateful for any throw away comment about Elsie-Coops contained within those posts we, the public, demand more! We want a word from the lady herself.

Yours, in the loony bin

Elsie’s Mum

Well thank you Mother and well done for finally working out how to use the computer at the library. SM recommends the new John Harvey book while you’re down there.

I have been quiet recently for I’m very aware that listening to me dribble on about the joys of being pregnant could get a tad dull. But for those who do want to know, I’m rapidly expanding and slowing down equally as rapidly. Stairs once bounded in a single leap are now approached wearily, getting up from the sofa in a single smooth move was always taken for granted, but now I need a helpful hand to pull me up otherwise it’s a case of shuffle forward and find things to grab for support to help me on the way up. Turning over in bed involves the movement and rearrangement of lots of pillows that surround me and then a second rearrangement of the duvet because I’m always too hot and knees and feet and elbows need to be out. Once resettled I invariably need the loo or a heartburn tablet and thus it all starts again - SM’s needs vis a vis sleep, pillows and duvet are of no concern anymore. I’ve taken to napping in the afternoon, time SM happily fills by playing football on the Wii aware that after I drop, Wii time might be somewhat curtailed. Maternity clothes are generally quite awful and floral but have happily discovered Gap Maternity.

But I absolutely love being pregnant, frankly because it’s all about me and I get to talk about myself lots. Have I mentioned me yet? The belly really does seem to get bigger everyday, I’m watching my tummy button begin to stretch out, wondering if I’ll hear a ‘pop’ when it finally goes. I love feeling Lentil wiggle around inside of me, it’s just magic. SM makes me cry with laughter by talking to it down my tummy button. Eddie is also involved, when we sit on the sofa he sticks his nose into my belly as though he’s saying ‘hello you’.

So that’s it really. Manchester was great for reasons outlined by SM, but also because we stayed in a lovely hotel with the most comfortable bed with 6 pillows which were arranged into a cozy Elsie shaped nest within moments of us arriving in our room and they made me a sausage bap sandwich when we went to the bar after the concert. Next week I’m being packed off for a spa day and night in a hotel. And over the weekend I had a very small glass of white wine, my first drink in nearly 6 months!! It made me feel quite giddy, something that used to take 2 bottles of wine to achieve. And finally today the tiler arrived to do the tiling in our new bathroom - two weeks later than expected but thankfully the pregnant-lady hormones mean I’m very chilled out these days.

And, Brucie Bonus, just discovered some cookies in the cupboard!!

Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that I’m currently in the good bit of being pregnant, and that in 3 months I’ll be feeling completely different about being pregnant, when you can look forward to complaints about the heat, my girth and sobs of ‘when will this THING come out’. Those older and wiser have assured me that the last month of being pregnant is designed to be hell so that you literally sprint (or waddle) into the labour ward excited at the prospect of being able to see your feet again. Oh joy

And so to Manchester, where we had a date with Bruce, but first a date with Rol.

Ever since we’ve known him, I’ve suspected that Rol doesn’t really exist. He never turns up for pub meets, and although I know a few people who claim to have met him, I thought they were just in on the joke. But no more.

We found our way to our seats in the stadium, and knowing that Rol was somewhere on the pitch, I called him to find out where he was. He made his way over towards our stand, and I told him we were at 1 o’clock. He pointed in the direction of 1 o’clock, which wasn’t exactly in our direction “Half past seven,” I shouted. “10:22!” After five minutes of this frantic timewasting, we agreed to meet under the stand, whereupon we just talked about nothing, as old friends do. Now that he’s beaten us to the Courteney Cox gag, there’s not a lot of dirt to spill, but it was a pleasure to finally meet the man in person, and I hope it’s not ten years until we do it again.

And Bruce? Sadly, he didn’t play “Missouri Girl”, but this was a far tighter, far more lively Bruce than we saw at the O2 in December. Early on, you could see that he was playing around with the setlist, and “Its Hard To Be A Saint In The City”, played in response to a sign from the crowd, came as a genuine surprise. The sound, being off to the left of the stadium wasn’t ideal, but the huge video screens were superb, capturing all of the magic of the show, and with some fantastic glimpses of Bruce getting down and close with the front rows.

We didn’t stay for the full show. We got a bit worried that the sustained volume might be a little too loud for the baby, so we left early and avoided having to scrum for the tram. But we saw enough of the show to know that Bruce is back on form, and if the rest of this tour carries on like this, it’s going to be a heckuva summer.

One of the things we’ve discovered as you get used to living together is that you tend to get a bit behind on your television viewing. It’s ok when there’s a show that’s ‘must-see TV’ for us both but if there’s a show that only one of us is into, it’s not long before there’s a backlog. Hence, as previously discussed, my backlog of Battlestar Galactica, and the rental DVD of Heroes that I really need to send back. E, on the other hand, has about a million series of Dallas still to get through.

So, it’s a pleasant surprise to me that we kept on top of Dirty Sexy Money, all the way to the season finale last week. I’ve been a fan of Peter Krause since Sports Night, so I was always prepared to give it a go, but they quickly reeled me in with the spot-on characterization, and the verbal jousting between Krause and Donald Sutherland.

There’s a mystery at the core of the series that is just as much of a McGuffin as the Laura Palmer murder was to Twin Peaks, and although I have issues with the last three episodes of the series, and the speed with which some of the character arcs developed, I’m happy to pin that on the writer’s strike. It’s an ensemble piece in which, uniquely, I don’t really loathe any of the characters, and, as the weeks pass on, the quirks seem to come naturally from the characters rather than being shoehorned in to satisfy the plot of the week.

As an aside, Sports Night, the TV show that I mentioned at the top, is seeing a 10th Anniversary re-release this September. If you’d ever wondered what Sorkin & Schlamme did before ‘The West Wing’, this box set has the answer. Ostensibly a drama / comedy based around the production of a nightly sports News show (think ESPN SportsCenter), it ends up being a superbly written, directed and acted show about doing the best you can under great adversity, and with great humour. It’s got a superb cameo appearance by William H Macy, and a knockout performance by Robert Guillame, and it’s the only TV show that can hit me emotionally in the same place as ‘Its a Wonderful Life’. Seriously, I love this show, I’ve spent the last half-dozen years lending my original DVD set out to anybody who expresses even a vague interest, and I’m looking forward to the re-release and the chance to watch all 45 episodes over again.

E, on the other hand… Not so bothered.

Finally confirmed this week, our annual bonus, payable because of the company performance last year. I tell E about it and she mentions that I should treat myself to something. “Good Idea”, I think, and pre-order the American Flagg trade, which I’ve had my eye on for, oh, about the four years since it was originally announced.

I pass the laptop back over to E, and ten minutes later, she’s updated her status on Facebook.

To say that she’s looking at £150 baby changing bags.

I might have to hide the bonus.

We went to see REM at the Royal Albert Hall. We were at the front and it was swell, and as you do, we took a few photos. We were happy with some of them so we put them up on Flickr. If you like, you can see them here.

Move forward a month or so, and I get a comment. It’s from a fellow flickr user letting me know that somebody is selling our photos on ebay. You can read the comments on the photo here, and follow the link to the thieving auction here. My favourite part is where he says that all copyright in the photos remain the property of the seller, and that any resale is prohibited. Not only is he a thief, he’s a cheeky thief as well.

And a rich one probably. According to his account details, young willypenc has only been a member of ebay since February. In that time, he’s racked up a nice 420 (and counting) positive items of feedback. He seems to sell his photo sets for between four and five pounds. So, from those 420 items of feedback (and lets throw in the dozen negative/neutrals), he’s made somewhere between £1728 and £2160. Not bad work for trawling through a few photo sites and nicking loads of photos.

I’m more than a little annoyed about this. Funnily enough, so is Mrs M as she was the intrepid photographer. I resolve to get this sorted. I fire off a letter to flickr letting them know and asking if they could follow up with ebay, and I report the item on ebay claiming its a breach of copyright. Oh yes, I didn’t mention, all of my photos on flickr state ‘All Rights Reserved.’

I get a quick response from flickr. Sadly, its not a very useful one :

“I’m sorry, but Flickr is unable to take action when
copyright infringement occurs on a site other than
Flickr.com. If the photos are hosted on a site other than
Flickr.com, you would need to contact the site in question
or the site’s hosting company to get the photos taken down. “

Quelle surprise. I didn’t actually expect them to fix it, I just thought they might be able to, you know, let ebay know that they weren’t best pleased with the guy who’s ripped off photos from hundreds, maybe thousands, of flickr users.

And ebay? Ebay let me report it. Then they sent me an automated reply. It has answers to three standard questions, one of which is

” Firstly, thank you again for taking the time to send us your report.
Keeping eBay a safe and reputable place to shop is our top priority and
we take reports of members who break our rules very seriously. Please be
assured that we thoroughly investigate every report we receive.

If the item you reported wasn’t removed from the eBay site, it may be
that after carefully reviewing the listing, we concluded that the item
the seller describes doesn’t breach eBay policy.

Please understand that as it’s important that eBay maintains member
privacy, we can’t share details of any action we take on the other
member’s account. This eBay principle protects the privacy of all our
members.

We encourage you to report any questionable items you spot to us. Click
“Contact Us” on any eBay Help page, select “Listing Policy breaches” and
choose the appropriate topics to help us review your report quickly.”

Translated, this means that they can’t be bothered to do anything, so they’re effectively condoning thievery. In fact, as they take a cut off of each sale, does this mean they’re an accessory?

This brings me to the end of our little story. Yes, I can take measures to stop my photos being downloaded, or I could watermark my photos. In the future I probably will. I’ve got another comment today from somebody reporting that he’s selling their Eagles photos as well. I notice that the Eagles photos are now watermarked. It’s a shame.

So, if you’ve read this far, I’d like you to do me a favour. I think we should spread the word about willypenc and about ebay’s lack of action. If you have a blog and you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could mention this story, maybe link to this post. I know that I don’t have the reach to spread this all across the internet but you never know, if by this time next week, another 25 people have reported this git to ebay, then maybe they might take a bit of notice.

Unlikely, but maybe.

Yes. If you’ve ever received an email from me, via gmail, at any point in history, you may well have received an invitation from me today for linked-in. Please don’t feel under any obligation. Despite my long and distinguished career working in IT, it turns out I am a bit of a muppet who can accidentally send out 112 generic invitations without realising it.

I wouldn’t want to dissuade anybody from signing up, and to the dozen people that already have, welcome! But I really didn’t mean to invite (for example) the resort in California where we went on holiday, everybody who’s ever bought anything off of me on ebay, and the online editor of the Guardian, who I had a short discussion with a year or so ago. To those people in particular, yes, I am a goof.