Category Archives: Statistics

I must make packing and ready t’other preparations to trip up North for cricket Down Under…

In a few moments we begin the thrashing over an urn just six inches high—

Sport. Cricket. 1882. One of the most famous sporting trophies, The Ashes. It was in 1882 after the bowling of "Demon" Spofforth and Boyle had bowled England out for 77 and brought off a seemingly impossible Australian victory by 7 runs, that the Ashes we
I may be a few days in the wilderness, just to be social— I have no idea as to how long— a day or two most probably but with the prospect of a long rail journey tomorrow, there’s bound to be something which catches the eye.
I always carry a pen.
I’ve a few pieces just about finished— they’re there or there abouts, so if I have time I’ll get them typed and up; I’ve tangents to fill after all and I’m not in the habit of leaving things unfinished.
It is a pity— I had hoped not to miss a day.
But in-case I do, I really would appreciate it if you didn’t go anywhere…
Thanks chaps!

It’s time for The Ashes…

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Just a little background: noise & biography…

Everyone chases after happiness, not noticing that happiness is right at their heels.

Bertolt Brecht

iuI read that and instinctly think cats. That’s biography.

I am fascinated by the heroic age of Antarctic expedition, history, education, great sex, openness, cats, cameras; the space race; sentence-structure, lexis, discourse conventions and phatic communication; cinema; the sounds of cricket and its numbers; golf swings, sortes, piropo, productivity, logical fallacies; fagottists— which leads to the double-o phoneme and coda-less syllables; falderals, nonsense; nanism— my fear of developing it and albino-clowns who already have. Ironing, long-sleeves, compound swearing, yellow pads, yoof-speak and linguistic representations— meh. Books, tea, science, feets, unnecessary plurals and corrugated-cardboard to name but a few.

It’s a pointless list because there isn’t much I’m not interested in. I like the feeling of insignificance in knowing how little I know; and how each little thing helps me know what I already know a little better.

And I still don’t know what this makes me, but it kind of works like this:

Perhaps it just makes me English since ‘England is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity … hobbies and humors.’1 Quite whether the world thinks we are small or great, but such is the context of opinion. Goethe wrote that, ‘people of uncommon abilities generally fall into eccentricities when their sphere of life is not adequate to their abilities.’ Well spheres be damned as, ‘No one can be profoundly original who does not avoid eccentricity.’2 But to what end is thought’d: ‘eccentricity in small things [is] crazy’3 and though it ‘destroys reason, [it does] not [the] wit?’4

All I’m really trying to do here is to show a little of what it’s like to be autistic— from the ground up I’ve taken my traits and applied them to certain functions within the texts: from word orders and word types, semantic variances, repetitions and rhetorical devices— even archaic syntax to the very deliberate structure I use to present things. It’s not always easy to read and it’s not meant to be, It’s supposed to be a little overwhelming at times and take the reader in circles— but it’s a desirable difficulty designed to stimulate a little over-processing, in the same way real life does to me. It’s the only way I know how to present what it’s like to me: to demonstrate it, not write about it— especially when there are a million people out there able to just describe it so much better.

I was going to just post the blueprint, but thought the meta-language would just make it pointless— like the list…

I’m not just a linguist or educator or golfer or cricket fanatic or autistic or anything for that matter—

I’m just curious…

And I guess lists should be conspiculous by its absense, but it’s really not…

1 George Santayana
2 André Maurois
3 Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton
4 Nathaniel Emmons

The psychological census, garden gnomes, wind-chimes, revenge & Russian roulette…

There is something so devilishly irrelevant about contemporary garden art—

That it cannot help failing to stimulate…

223102_10151214972906041_603918045_nThis is not always a good thing. It’s actually positively cruel in ways I am loathe to describe in too much detail, just in case my points are used for criminal purposes. There’s no doubt in my mind that some of this rubbish’s innocuousity— quite shamelessly so— could be exploited for tormenting the innocent; myself included, and I mention it only because the winds that pound my window, are also the same winds currently upsetting the wind-chime next door; belonging to a woman so grotesque, I have a mind to suggest she audition to become a garden feature— in someone elses garden.

It’s not that it’s something I could reel off a hundred objections against with ease, it’s just— well, everything about them. I fail to see anything remotely redeeming about them— it’s just my hope that someone I’m not too keen on is being creeped out too. They are made from scrap, crap and rubbish; they look like it and their sounds reflects the way they look. And just to compound the issue, the weather at present is far too intemperate to contemplate many more nights like last night.

The godawful racket wasn’t so much as reflected as it was carried off and up and around, before being thrown about with great force, seemingly sucking energies from the earth as it tried to dent my windows, my ears and my tranquillity— three things one really ought, if one does not already— hold dearly. No one need feel put upon in this way, which is what precipitated the streak of ruthless cunning with which to whisk future gales— should one reappear— perhaps one future day. Perhaps tonight?

My plans are dependant upon one unlikely event however and should it not transpire, I’ve a mind to just insert my own: the introduction of a psychological census. With the results, I could then ensure the correct noise was placed under the correct bedroom, correctly of course— in order to procure maximum nocturnal irritation. And if I couldn’t be specific and individually tailor my treats— there would always be the car-alarm— at least I’d like to think resorting to such a thing would be unnecessary: car-alarms are bastards.

My uncle is a great lover of tack: that would be inane rubbish to you or I. And were it not only his passion for buying it, but his passion for hanging it in his garden, we’d propably have more in common. A collection of twirly throws of coloured plastic whizzing back and forth are one of his more tasteless stylistic comments, in fact I’d prefer to call it a commitment. Another is a set of chimes; made from bamboo. It rather puts me in mind of ‘The Bridge On The River Kwai’ or the Vietnamese POW camp in ‘The Deer Hunter’, you want to rattle it and shout ‘Mao-mao!’ loudly, preferably within a foot from someone’s face. Though the temptation to actually put my foot in anyone’s face is rare, I believe I would make the except if next door pretended she was a gnome.

Now this is coming from someone who only saw the film— it’s rhetorical and I am not being influenced by television— but imagine if you’d actually been there and something woke you up by rattling bamboo outside your window. Imagine you have a slight incontinence problem only to wake up with a replica of the Trafalgar Square fountain floating in front of your face. Imagine being afraid and finding your fear hanging outside your bedroom window:

Perhaps it will be me, with a copy of: 

The psychological census…

And don’t get me started on gnomes…

On golf & why clubs are most certainly not trumps; wind and the 2 percenters…

There are times when retreat is the only option but no matter how hard you look for it, it cannot be found—

Quite how only-options cease to become any option at all, fits into the realm of being one’s own master, I really couldn’t say. But times will be times…

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On occasions such as these then, when options aren’t really options and the only decision to be made is, to like it or lump it, the only recourse is resignation; to accept the notion that things are not, nor are they likely to be on-the-up for the foreseeable future. Whether that future be a couple of hours, three weeks or ten minutes; thirty seconds yesterday, was quite considerable enough for my liking for things not to be on-the-up. For when all that was up was clearly feeling injured at being so ill thought of by those pukers and durrynackers at the Met Office, their recourse was to do nothing but get down. And so it was, they did. And low they must have felt, because down they came, and down and down and down. Those thirty seconds became ten minutes, then a couple of hours, until they made damn-sure it felt like three weeks.

Yesterday was a miserable day– I myself was rather splendid, toffed-up with all the other howling cheeses, knowing full well the weather would not be– quite how removed from dandy though was at the time, a mere speculation. Far from being picture perfect, the sky had a little hoarseness about it, but no clue as to the airs and graces it later let loose. At least once during warm-ups I saw enough blue to make a pair of sailors trousers, so it was more in hope than anything I’d preferred science and those learned chaps in Devon, to dock-whalloping.

It was a golf day, as was the day before, but whereas previously it’d been about practise, learning lines and the lay of the land– yesterday was competition day. I don’t play in those, I’m the caddy. I’m the guy with the numbers; the guy who plays the day before to put some of the course management scenarios to the test. I’m the guy who checks the weather statistics to determine baselines: average wind-speed and potential gusts relative to the passage of play; and whilst there’s no substitute for experience, it’s important to have certain things tucked away in the back-pocket to fall upon when the only guidance is a small red flag fluttering a hundred yards away or the tops of the trees, twenty above and five to the right. In situations like these, the nod to the gods just ain’t pie. To put it in perspective, the percentage between the distance of a short approach to a pin and the desired distance from it once settled, is at most, about 2%. Wind affects the ball considerably which is why we have our baselines and the ability to shape our balls: left to right or right to left. You might very well say that a golfer will dress according to conditions and then rummage from start to finish.

Dealing with strong winds can be a lot like eating claws for breakfast. A ball launched high into the wind will stall but invariably land softly, however this has many woes to consider. In order to get to where you’re going, you need a stronger club; the stronger the club, the harder the shot so greater therefore, is the margin for error. A ball launched lower is more penetrative so it negates the effects of the more majestic, moon-bound ball. However, it is more likely to kick after its initial contact with the ground, bringing landing areas into play and depending on your chips, to which the ball now becomes– the luck of the bounce. But you still want the ball to stop within that 2%. In some respects, the curve related to the impact of wind in relation to the difficulty of controlling distance, when plotted as a distribution of probability, mirrors the trajectory of the shot itself. Golf, played like this can be bollocks. And there was the rain.

Showers and a North-Easterly at 11mph, gusts up to 24. That was what we expected. What we got was a delightful one club wind and clear skies for about twenty minutes. But that was before the botherations. So impertinent we must have been to take the word of the finest meteorologists in the world, that when the rain’d decided to stop fannying about, it also decided to forego the drizzling, preferring something akin to dust-whapping. Indeed, with the right amount of squint, it was perfectly obvious to those of us not already blinded by them, that the droplets bore an uncanny resemblance to skillets. And then there was the wind.

By this time, even the most myopic golfer would’ve been able to hazard a guess as to where the North-East was, as the rain’s hypotenuse was something of a mathematical marvel– so remarkable was it, that Galvin Green ought to consider whether 100% waterproof is merely connotative and the 2% degree of desirability should applied to all facets of golf. The only downside there however, would be a label signifying something’s impenetrable by water, some of the time, to me anyway– lacks pizzazz.

To labour the point here would be to do injustice to the gruesomeness of the next five hours. Any sensible person would agree that to spend any longer than necessary in such conditions would be idiotic, but therein lies one of the quirks of the game. The more foul it is, the longer it generally takes to play. There are the necessary costume changes, the umbrellas, the pointless huddling under the branches of lone saplings; the misguided attempts to lull between holes in the hope that the weather will do the same– by which point, all carefully composed plans are replaced with fuck-yous to the heavens and more of a grip-it and rip-it approach. Finesse becomes futile, and what’s more, so does the caddy.

We start out as invaluable foot-lickers only to find ourselves all a-cock, reduced to sodden dull-swifts, duffered out and sole-spectators to a precision game reduced to clumps and the business of bludgeoning.

Like I said, golf played like this—

Is bollocks…

But I myself was rather splendid…