The Babel orifice

Again, another of those things that spawned from a peculiar dream. It was about wings, cultists and killing people. And lights, I think.
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Time are changing, the population is growing. While we're getting by these days, the future may tell a different story.
In the early months of 2059, a worldwide initiative began. In order to make more room for housing, areas of beauty and historic interest would be remodelled into cheap apartment blocks. The original articles would be recreated using the latest virtual reality technology, allowing the world to experience them in the utmost comfort and convenience.
One of the last areas to be destroyed was Barden tower, North Yorkshire. A simple enough job, just run a wrecking ball through the base and watch as the upper half of the tower slid out of sight...
Wait, what?
Experts travelled from around the globe to witness and study this apparently natural phenomenon; a hole in reality, about 200 feet across hung in the sky supported by nothing. It didn't even appear to be doing anything interesting. No unspeakable horrors burst forth from it, nothing fell out, it was just a hole. Early scouting operations revealed that it lead to a curious land, a place where the sky was a perpetual, unbroken blue and the ground consisted entirely of what appeared to be discarded plastic, metal and rubber waste, spotlessly clean but damaged and bent beyond all use or recognition.
A few things happened. As word got out, the army were the first to take action, deciding to conquer this new land in the name of the crown. They set up small base camps, small strategic areas were fortified, others were destroyed. This achieved next to nothing. The army withdrew a few months after their initial occupation, leaving the site free for all manner of oddness to enter it.
The first civilians were the adventurers. People leading expeditions, trying to discover anything of interest. The regular explorers soon realised that it was rubbish all the way across. A neverending landscape of waste roughly three quarters the size of our Earth but lacking any water. Digging machines were deployed, most by wealthy oil tycoons attempting to cash in on an untapped landscpae. This revealed, several broken machines later, that it was garbage all the way down, too, but some of the metals were composed of an alloy unlike anything known to us. It could be bent slightly but seemed completely resistant to any attempts to pierce or otherwise damage it.
Second to enter was the media. For a few weeks, the news was filled with helicopter footage live from what had been dubbed "the Babel orifice". This lead to the occasional dogfight between rival sky-bound news reporters, but casualties remained minimal.
Soon after came the free spirits, thinkers and outcasts. Some were using this hole as final proof of the existence of God (or gods) almighty and would argue long into the night. Some saw it as the universe extending us a warm greeting, welcoming us to a new plane of existence, believing it to be a utopia, free from air pollution and commerce. Many believed the hole to be a god in itself and formed a number of cults.
Science, however, stood in the background. It observed all the little people flitting around the hole and it waited. Waited for them to lose interest. Science constructed a rocket. It would discover the source of this madness once and for all.
As the mighty space rocket Chronicle was rolled up to the launch structure, the assorted men, women and crazies looked on in interest. Men in severe white suits with clipboards who weren't even interested about what was in there, they were just building barricades and erecting a missile of some sort, all in complete, eerily professional silence. The rocket was built, the call went out to our world's fittest and bravest individuals and fully trained, suited and booted, they took their supplies and boarded the Chronicle, bidding a tearful farewell to their families. A flash of fire, a rush of smoke and the rocket took off, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake through the endless cerulean skies.
Up it went. Instruments and crystal clear broadcasting equipment from the rocket told the world how far they went.
10km
30km
65km (jettison the primary fuel tank
70km (the primary fuel tank fell to Earth with a thud, taking out the launching apparatus)
90km
The world looked on in awe. Another minute was all they had before they ran out of fuel and had to eject, but the sky showed no signs of ever ending. Onward they flew, ever upward, ever towards shining blue oblivion.
And then it vanished.

The rocket stood, suspended by some unseen force but still trying to spend its fuel payload. This ran out and was ejected, but the rocket rmained suspended gaining no further altitude. Instruments indicated an atmosphere was still somehow present, so cautiously they opened the airlock and peered out. Peered out at two large towers exerting some kind of invible force, holding them steady. In the near distance, a small city and below them a crowd of humans. A man broke off from the pack and addressed them through a loudhailer.
"Well howdy! Took you long enough to find us, guys."
After a long discussion, the crew of the Chronicle learned what had happened. The Bermuda triangle and almost every area fabled for causing people to vanish were actually freaks of nature. Holes that opened up onto a parallel world. People had spilled through slowly but surely into an alternate world, almost identical to ours but lacking any civilisation. Since the only people to find this place were generally explorers, thrillseekers and people looking to debunk urban myths, the population was made up of, generally, brave and learned citizens, causing technology to advance at an alarming rate. This world had already cured cancer and developed an AIDS vaccine, but was unable to return home.
"It's the holes, y'see" said their leader as the rode the train towards the city. "They're like... kinda like valves, right? Stuff goes through 'em one way but it can't go back, so people fall into this world all the time but damned if we can open the doors again. We owe you pretty big for that."
"You do?"
"Yeah! We learned how to detect dormant holes a couple decades back. We've been building the force towers around each of them now hoping to trap and object in there to keep the portals active, if you see what we mean. Kinda like a vacuum cleaner salesman jammin' his foot in your front door."
Slowly, a tunnel was built. A huge tube that was expanded to increase the size of the hole then extended to the surface where the Babel orifice lay. The constant stream of media and military attention had been enough to hold our hole open for around 16 months, since its discovery, so coming back was no trouble.

Some years later, the reason for all the waste in the garbage dimension was discovered. A hole on the other side of the world from our portal opened periodically, spewed out some waste and closed within moments. An attempt at communication was made by firing a message capsule through (sending a manned craft was impossible, the hole opened barely wider than was reuired to unleash its heavy payload then closed again). After a week, they wrote back. This world was a celestial rubbish tip, the dumping ground of the gods (or some sufficiently advanced race, at least), and while they were interested to know that people were living on their tip, they had no wish to communicate with us further.
They did note, however, that we were very lucky to have chosen to live on their non-biodegradable waste site. Apparently the celestial compost heap unleashed an odour so powerful that its strength could be measured in newtons.

Let's add yet another weight loss blog post to the Internet!

I've always had problems with weight loss.  I had it cracked a while back, when I was working in a 4 man support team and got a lot of exercise walking from building to building.  Admittedly having a dirt cheap company gym helped.  I remember most of my struggles, though.

It probably started in middle school.  I went from being a skinny, sickly kid to a pretty vastly overweight one.  I think the worst of it was at around 16 when I hit 16 stone.  Health reasons aside, being the fat kid in high school isn't really great for your self esteem, but whatever.  I think I maintained this for a few years but I'm not sure, I've always had the ability to completely block out things that might distress me, so I guess I just didn't pay any attention to my weight until I was... 21?  Yeah.

The big day was coming and I was offered a sky diving experience by my mum who, until then, was sure I was afraid of heights.  This was based on a bad experience on a large slide in Nottingham.  In reality I didn't care at all, agreed to it and probably removed a good 5 year's from my mum's life for which I apologise.  She is morbidly afraid of heights.  Her and my dad burned through all the camera exposures before my chute even deployed.

But I digress.

One of the requirements was that I needed to be below 200lbs.  14 stone 4.  Don't ask me for kilos.  I spent a few months exercising, building up from 2 sessions a week to 3.  That seemed to do the trick, but I did have kind of a physical job which no doubt helped and I reached my goal with time to spare.  One of the best things I've ever done.

I put some weight back on during my last year of university (I think better when I eat.  Always have, it reduces my mental fatigue and improves my attention span).  I graduated, got my degree and settled into a nice, easy 3 months of unemployment.  I looked for jobs, attended interviews and played Team Fortress 2.  However, my dad transferred his gym membership over to me, so with nothing else to do with my day I'd spend a happy hour and a half every other day working out.  It was the most structured, organised fitness regime I've ever adhered to and motivation wasn't a problem, I was unemployed, apart from going for a 5 minute trip to the dole office I really had nothing better to do than mail out CVs.

I don't know how much I lost.  I reached 13 stone 10 (186lbs, I guess) and for the first time in my own memory I was starting to become happy with how I looked.  Sappy, ain't it?

I got a job, moved out and started to live alone.  Again, wonderful experience and I learned a lot, but I wasn't managing my meals well (I found out what 6 months of not eating fibre is like.  Protip: don't ever attempt this) and I was working overtime at a desk job.  I was under the impression that I didn't have time for the gym, seeing as I was working from 9 'til sometimes half 6.  I'd go home, cook, surf the Internet for 2 or 3 hours and sleep.  Not surprisingly, I gained about 2.5 stone up to 16'6.

So I guess that's where I was at the start of this year.  I dabbled with a gym after work but couldn't really commit.  I made too many excuses to not go, I think.  However, somehow I've managed to convince a wonderful woman to actually marry me and now the wedding plans are actually beginning so I think, like sky diving, I've got a decent goal in mind.  I need to be able to wear a suit without looking like some kind of bearded penguin.

Plus the palpitations at night were getting to be kind of a drag.

It's strange though, 7 weeks later and I'm still feeling good about slimming down.  It's not often that I can commit to a diet for this long and still feel good about it.  Much as I hate to admit it (I prefer to think I can do these things on willpower alone), a tangible goal does seem to have lit a very welcome fire under my arse.

Started this year at, I think, 105 kilos.  I've realised since that my scales do lbs and they do kilos, but the lbs are measures out wrong.  I'm now, 8 weeks into the year, down by 6 kilos.  Not fantastically fast loss but it doesn't need to be, just so long as it stays off.

I spent a bit of time today looking up weight loss inspiration and came to the conclusion that what other people use for inspiration is a bit too pink and fluffy for me.  I don't want to join a club that'll support me, I don't need to see pictures of artistically arranged aubergines (alliteration's awesome, aye?) and I really don't need motivational pictures assuring me that I can do it.  I can, yes.  Part of the problem is that I ususally, for whatever reason, resist that kind of encouragement.  I can motivate myself, but unless I'm feeling genuinely defeated, hearing other people trying to encourage me sometimes feels really patronising and I do realise that this is a terrible approach, especially when people are being genuinely supportive, but it's not a deliberate thing.

Although if people wanna tell me I look fabulous today then that's fine, because fabulous is a great word and we should all say it more often.

I'm keeping an eye on the scales every morning.  I know people say you shouldn't, but I like to make sure that I'm not slipping and I like to consider the day a success if I've at least maintained.

So a weight loss blog?  It's not original, that's for sure, but if I do somehow succeed then it'd be nice to look back some day, see how well I did, how I did it and such.  If it helps anyone else then sure, that's great.  And I mean that with no hint of sarcasm.  However, if I do lose weight, it's going to be for me and my partner, not for anybody else.  Unless I do some kind of sponsored slim.

No goals in particular.  Once I'm happy with how I look, I'll take it easier on the diet but keep up the exercise, I think.  Seems sensible.

I'll post sometime later, perhaps.  Fridays might be good.  Silly things, the exercise I'm doing, foods I'm eating, motivational stuff that I've got going on... y'know, that fluffy encouragement stuff that I've said I don't like.

I never said I wasn't a hypocrite.  Hopefully I can at least be a skinny hypocrite.

Serious business

I'm a software developer.  I work in one of the world's more technical and futuristic roles, beating data into submission until it bends to my will.  Like many developers, I'm sometimes a curmudgeon when it comes to new technologies.  The Wii-U?  I've no idea why we need that.  Ipod nano?  I'm afraid I'll swallow it.  Wi-fi?  I love my nest of cables, thanks.
I do, however, despise our society's apparent need to adhere to mindless tradition.  This is tough sometimes, being an Englishman, as I live in a country with many, many time honoured traditions.  If they're fun and optional things, that's fine, but it's when they start to impact my life that I get a little miffed.  The olympic torch, for example, which is basically guaranteed to congest the hell out of the cities so that people (suffering through a recession) can see a gaudy golden club that's on fire.  That fire has been flown around the world at great expense.  People are having interviews with it, they're competing to be able to hold it, they're taking hundreds of photos of it.  It baffles me.  The ceremony is impressive in it's way and heaven only knows how much effort goes into keeping that one flame going but I think the symbolism is lost on me.
I've never been of an artistic persuasion.
I'm never bothered more about traditions than in a corporate setting.  I've seen a lot of corporate imagery over the years (especially when I was job hunting) and I've noticed a few themes that tend to crop up time and again that I'd like to discuss.
Discuss while spewing bile and hatred.

The Handshake:  You want to show that you're a company who does business and does it well.  You make good decisions, your contacts trust you and you get the job done.  What seals the deal better than a firm handshake?
Now I've nothing against shaking hands.  I do it a lot.  I object if I'm carrying a pint, because then I'm just going to make your hand all cold and clammy, but I guess that's your problem and not mine 'cause hey, I'm holding the pint.  However, I don't know why businesses like to slap pictures of handshakes taken up close all over their websites and pamphlets.  What's that really saying?  You communicated with this one guy that one time and you shook hands when you met?  I mean, almost everybody does it, it's not exactly a profound thing.  I read somewhere that shaking hands was a way for you to show that you meant no harm to the other person by showing them your hand without a weapon in it.  It's like bowing, by leaving yourself openly vulnerable, you express your friendly intentions.
Never have I feared being stabbed in the office.  Not once.  And I've deserved it a time or two.
Bonus points if you have a picture of a black man shaking hands with a white man, which also conveys "we won't discriminate against your culture, even though that's kind of illegal anyway".

The Race:  You're number one.  You want your clients to feel like they'll be big winners by joining you.  Or perhaps you're all pulling together as a team and you want to convey a sense of spirit and comeraderie.  Why not hire some actors to wear nicely tailored suits and jump over hurdles?
This one really confuses me.  I've tried running in sensible shoes.  Admittedly I'm not graceful, possessing all the poise and freedom of movement of a transit van, but if I run in running shoes, I'll... do passably well.  If I run in my work shoes, I look like an asthmatic penguin with sore feet and I'll need a little sit down.  Running in a suit is a sure way to make your suit smell a little funky.  I don't think being faster than your nearest competitor has lead to the signing of too many contracts, though.
Bonus points if you can see a woman in high heels running too!

The Model Workforce:  You're a serious company employing hard working teams.  You're not afraid to be fun, but you always have your eyes set on the bigger picture.  Why not show a friendly, smiling call centre operative or some people sat in rapt attention, smiling and nodding to a presentation?
I've been in a few offices around the country.  If someone is smiling at you like they want to be your friend, they're A) probably not talking to you on the phone, B) probably not talking business or C) trying to sell you something or to welcome you to the workforce.  I find myself smiling with a surprising lack of regularity at work, because while doing my job can be satisfying, exciting and rewarding, it's not often that I smile when I'm really concentrating.  Thoughtful poker faces, I've seen those in their hundreds but not so many cheerful grins (except during the daily hellos and goodbyes as people leave and arrive).
I've never seen anybody appear to be enthralled by a meeting.  Not even in interesting and important meetings.  People just look... well, serious, really.
Bonus points if one of the members of the workforce in the background of your picture is clearly aware of the camera and is smiling at it.


When I start my own company, BioCorp Global Security Solutions, I'm going to include a lot of pictures of people at their desks with towers of plastic coffee cups, post it notes in weird places, photos on desks of smiling kids and people slouched over eating chocolate bars, staring at screens.  These are the things I associate with productive workforces.

Project 42 - week 2 (War of attrition and the diet)

Current weight: 15'10.5 (220.5)
Progress: -1.5 from last week.

Well, that could have been worse. It's been a shaky start for a few reasons:
1. I didn't realise exactly how much I loved freedom of choice in my meals. I love convenience food. It's a BIG problem for me. Boiling water, frozen chicken piece in the oven, pasta in the pot and it's done. When I can't get a hold of these things because they're not low in fat or in calorie, I start to crave them a bit.
2. Fast food. Only recently become a problem, but I've been going out a lot more than I ever did, so time's a bit of a rare commodity. And pizza's so handy when I'm playing D&D...
3. I'm a carb and cheese junkie. Pasta, rice, bread...
4. Portions. Even with things that are good for me, I don't have much concept of how much food is "enough" when I cook alone. I've ended up with giant salads at work this week, followed by gas (I'm not sure why I eat cucumbers, they don't like me at all) and stomach cramps. Oh well.

So it looks like a few lifestyle changes are in order. I've got a diet of sorts, it's working pretty well.
Breakfast - 3 little slices of brown seeded loaf with cottage cheese. It's really quite small bread.
Elevenses - 1/2 oranges and a banana
Lunch - salad. Lettuce, tomato, cucumber, peppers, celery, sometimes some onion. Crunchy and makes me pee like a racehorse. I've got a better idea of portion sizes now.
Dinner - if I'm out, a sandwich or some sushi, maybe cereal when I get home. In, it's some sort of base component (1 bt of breaded chicken, a small pie, some quorn) with a lot of veg. Easy on the potatoes.

Sometimes dinner will become pasta and a chicken kiev if I've been to the gym and want to replace carbs.

Time's the problem, but nothing new there. Anyways, I reckon 1lb per week should be both sustainable, but will keep me taking this seriously.
Next week... eh, maybe the exercise regime.

And for something to write on... alright, this has been bugging me. You know those washer tabs? The little liquid pouches with the green stuff in them that are water soluble? Why don't they melt fromt the inside? I mean, is that stuff oil based?

Project 42 - week 1 (hope and glory)

A big change looms on the horizon. Marriage. I never thought I'd be typing there, but there we go.
It's struck me that this may be the best, certainly the most memorable, day of my life. It also strikes me that there will be a lot of photos taken. I've had issues with my weight and appearance ever since I was... probably 12? I mean, I used to be a skinny little bugger.
But then, I used to get ill quite a lot, too.
I plan on using this blog for 2 things. I'm going to try to write something every week about something that amuses me, that's not a problem, but I'm also going to write about losing weight. Time for a few lifestyle changes, methinks. More gym, no more sandwich shop for lunch, only one takeout a week and a bit more care about what I'm buying. It shouldn't be too hard. I've managed to lose 36lbs in the past (of which I seem to have regained 24 since I started my last year of university) so I don't see why it can't be done now that I have a real incentive. And given that I tend to cook during my weekends with said incentive, getting bored shouldn't be a problem.
As I write this, after a day at work, breakfast and lunch at around 8 in the evening, I weighed in at 15'12. Weighing day will be on Wednesday mornings. May as well start now and all. I think the lightest I've been as an adult was 13'10, so I'll aim for... 12'12 would be good. That makes it 42 lbs, which is nicely geeky. If I can lose at the very least 1lb per week (and keep it off), this shouldn't be a problem. I may even make a spreadsheet, because I like spreadsheets.
This means I'll have to learn to use this copy of openoffice I got.
Damn.

Milestones will be important. Let's use...
15'7 (15.5 stone)
15'0 (15 stone)
14'4 (200lbs)
13'10 (the old best)
12'12

After that, I'll just try to maintain my fitness levels.
No target dates. We're about to enter a holiday season, so there'll be another 5 lbs coming back.

So, something to write about. Well, I've realised today that my weight only really went up when I started working and stopped going to the gym 3 times a week for an hour just because I had nothing else to do apart from job interviews. I've unfortunately retained the "I don't care what I eat, I exercise a lot" attitude without the actual exercise. While work has made me more organised in some ways, it's had some strange effects on my physical health and has made me insane.
Example.
My company pays overtime in 30 minute increments, 1.5x for weekdays and Saturday, 2x for bank holidays and Sundays. The amount we are allowed to do is not limited. My brain, having played a few too many RPGs, has decided that this is a way of level grinding my bank balance. The thought process goes as follows:
"So I can get in 30 minutes early, get another £7. That's good, 30 minutes is NOTHING and they add up fast. But if I arrive an HOUR early, I get a parking space, saving me 5 minutes walk to and from the car park. That's like... only another 20 minutes overall, which is less than 30, which is nothing. Which is... less than nothing.
Now if I do half an hour at the end of the day too, that's nothing too. I've made £21 from nothing. Let's just plug all this into my claims sheet and look at the total... damn, 3 hours off of a round number. Well, let's try to work another half hour over on Wednesdays..."
And somehow I've ended up doing a 10 hour day, manage to get in at 8:30 and just about have time for dinner and a shower. Which means I make dinner after an hour of Internet, elect to skip the shower and go to be at midnight. I've also comitted to doing weekends.

I think I've figured out why I don't go to the gym much. I wonder if this is unhealthy...

It seems to me that getting in early is fine, but a person should leave work no later than 6pm if they have ANYTHING they want to do that evening that doesn't involve taking care of a basic human need like bathing or eating. I need to get some sort of consistent structure in place, perhaps. Yeah.

Well, here's to the start of a long and frustrating journey.

The longest journey

It's dark outside. It nearly always is but I never fail to notice it. I like the night. It's a wonderful travelling companion on this, my long and lonesome mission.
Taking what few provisions I'll need, I step cautiously out from the warmth and safety of my home into the orange-painted wilderness. I must travel light, I cannot afford to be hindered as a foul mumbling, a meaningless gibber emanates from somewhere beyond my field of vision; that constant reminder of how fragile I am in this environment, a stranger in a strange land. I pay the sound no heed, I only pray that I never have to meet its source. I quickly cross the inky black moat surrounding my home and board my ever trusty vessel, a perfect vision in cornflower blue. Only it can afford me safe passage through the ceaseless ebony ocean.
Quickly I depart from the orange wastes into the light country. I know not of where the lights lead, only that they pick out countless routes, surely hundreds of winding paths. Each one important to someone but of no use to me for to deviate from my path is to become forever lost in an endless expanse, to travel to the furthest reaches of the black ocean and never to return. Seldom do I travel to the heart of the ocean, never deliberately, and rarely do I return the same man as I left.
As I travel to the end of light country, a noble kingdom opens before me. Endless, sweeping landscapes covered in tiny pinpricks of light, the most perfect and splendid areas of the land I have left behind. I have yet to visit them and I do not wish to do so. I have but one goal in mind, to travel to the heart of this kingdom and steal from it its one and only worthy treasure, the princess of this land. Locals are ever watchful from all angles but they do not suspect my intentions, they merely watch or ignore this newcomer. He is of little interest.
I arrive at the gates to my princess' stronghold, but they offer little resistance.

And then yeah, I usually get back in my car and drive home down the 62 towards my flat. I'm usually kind of tired after that trip.

Modern thinking

We live in a strange, overly politically correct world. Now I don't condone discrimination, sure, but I don't feel that it's necessarily necessary (ha, that flows well) to rewrite things like "Baa baa black sheep". I mean, it's "have you any wool" not "how's life on the cotton farm".
But you know what? Why stop there? Let's take a trip into yesteryear and look at how we could improve old rhymes and songs to better reflect today's nanny culture.

London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London bridge is falling down, Gordon Brown has increased our terrorist alert level to red, has sealed off access to all adjacent tube stations and closed all major roads around the area. An investigation is being mounted.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill filed an accident and injury claim against the local council, stating that the steep, slippery hill was clearly an unmarked hazard. She was awarded £15000 in compensation which they used to dig a well closer to their village.
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn't know what to do. But given that shoes don't fall into any council tax brackets, she was able to live nicely off of the child support benefits and eventually moved into a comically oversized terraced Nike training shoe.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye. 4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, Greenpeace began to firebomb the King's castle.
Rock a bye baby, on the treetop. Your mother has been arrested by social services for being deranged enough to hang you in a tree, because seriously man, what the hell?
Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are? Are you the result of intelligent design or simply an easily explained result of a number of chemical reactions?
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocketful of posies, atishoo! Atishoo! A national epidemic. Leaflets have been issued to tell the public how to behave when they have a cold, drugs have been stockpiled.
Georgie Peorgie, pudding and pie. Kissed the girls and was issued with an anti-social behaviour order, a restraining order and was registered as a sex offender.

If I ever have a child, I'm reading them the old fairy tales. The real ones. Ones where you expect something bad to happen to the bad people, maybe they even die. Wicked kings, brave heroes and heroines, that kind of thing. They can learn about red tape and being careful to never acknowledge any people's differences in race, age, gender or personal preferences from the rest of the world.