In my boredom, I attempted to fold a CD in half. I think I was expecting it to bend and snap cleanly, like a credit card. Fortunately I turned my face away as a precaution, as it shattered into pieces, spreading shards of plastic and slivers of aluminium foil across my desk.
My boredom was not satiated though, so I decided now was the time to experience first hand the CD-in-microwave phenomenon.
Pioneer 10’s power source has finally decayed to the point that we probably won’t be receiving any more signals from it, so off it goes, spiralling into the black void (read all about it).
I wonder what will happen when it gets discovered by aliens, which we all know are real and exist somewhere and communicate by telepathy.
Maybe they will think that Pioneer 10 is an old crippled human warrior, lost on his way home from battle. And they will be able to trace its source, and will be surprised when they arrive on Earth to find that the dominant species (and I use this term very carefully, reserving the right to change it at a later date) are carbon-based.
Or maybe they will just say “Wow, how DO those Earthlings manage to pick up such a weak signal? Evidently they must know that we are here, and this craft is clearly a declaration of their technological superiority, and a prelude to war. Quick! Pre-emptive strike!”
And so the aliens will rush over to Earth, all tooled up and ready for a ruck, only to find that we have all been killed already, because some guy with a hard-on for fighting managed to get into power.
This is a game that Robert Palmer introduced me to when we used to buy petrol at the same garage. It’s very simple.
A cheque fell out of an envelope this morning. £70, from my grandmother. Attached was a letter, fully addressed, signed and dated. The words were to the effect of “Here’s the outstanding balance on your Christmas present – sorry it took so long.”
I paused, and attempted to figure out… well, anything. I suspect that she has heard from my sister that I have no money, and has taken it upon herself to send a donation. If this is the case, then I don’t really want to accept it (damn my foolish pride), but I feel that it would be rude to metaphorically throw it back in her face. What to do?
On another note, I had my first dream in ages last night. It involved a popular high street bookshop and a copy of a cartoon kama sutra starring a black man with a 24″ penis. And yet, surprisingly I am totally unconcerned about the state of my psyche.
“Hi, I’m in a bit of a peculiar situation. I’ve arranged to meet a group of total strangers at this pub tonight, and I don’t know what any of them look like. Seeing as you are a group of total strangers, I wonder if you are the group of total strangers that I am looking for?”
“No, sorry.”
“Ah, never mind.”
“Try downstairs.”
“Oh, there’s a downstairs? Splendid, I’ll give that a try.”
I remember the first series of 24. At the time I was totally hooked, but in retrospect I felt a lack of enthusiasm, and it plopped promptly from my mind. I attribute this to being totally daunted by the concept of ever watching it again.
After all, if I were to watch one episode again, I’d have to watch all 24, and that would be just too big a chunk of my life to lose on a repeat.
So I haven’t really been awfully excited by the arrival of the new series on these shores. The concept itself is no longer original, and the plot threatens to be a rehash. Yet I watched it last night, and unsurprisingly I didn’t feel the buzz of excitement which I did at the end of series one, episode one. However, I can be sure that I will be watching next week.
I wonder how many times Kim will get kidnapped. Oh, and I’m glad that Kiefer had a shave. After one hour of that fluffy golden West Country-stylee beard, my nerves were starting to wear raw.
And while I am being picky, what the hell is it with all those identikit-blondes? I can’t tell them apart, though maybe that is intentional on the part of the scriptwriters.