Archive for November, 2002

A secret

Monday, November 18th, 2002

is something you only tell to one person at a time, right? And this blog is such a minority taste that publishing here is, on average, telling fewer than one person at a time. So I’m not really about to break a promise …


One pacifist argument

Saturday, November 16th, 2002

You never considered comes from Todd Strandberg:


hanging on

Saturday, November 16th, 2002

I was drinking with Francis in the Pillars of Hercules, as an act of piety to all the underpaid writers who drank there long before us. He’s writing a book about technology, and I had just come from wrapping my radio programme about the Church of England. It had brought back a suppressed memory of the time I decided I would never write another religious news story: I had typed on my laptop in some railway waiting room — there was no time to get to London — the words “the Church of England” and promptly fell asleep for some minutes. “Ah, yes”, he said, “in the mobile phone chapter I walk a slack rope of interest across the bottomless pit of boredom; sometimes I fall off.”

whaddya mean, 5?

Monday, November 11th, 2002

There are 242 of them! Even Edouard Geulincx, famous for erm philosophy, is there.

Well I’ll be blown!

Sunday, November 10th, 2002

This comes from a review in the Telegraph of Barry Humphries’ latest memoirs:


one person

Saturday, November 9th, 2002

in the entire world is unfailingly funny about computers.

An antidote to despair

Thursday, November 7th, 2002

A perfectly wonderful essay by Teresa Nielsen Hayden, about the mid-term elections. It shows that quality of practical, tough-minded optimism which is probably the one thing I love most about America.


Tuesday, November 5th, 2002

— the 419 scams actually make money — $100m a year, according to Slate. No wonder the offers just keep coming.

But in a world where a young man fresh out of jail can win

Another hero round the bend

Monday, November 4th, 2002

Validimir Bukovsky is a man of unimpeachable heroism, great energy, and a hobnailed liver, as I know to my cost after a long night drinking with him on a ferry somewhere near Tallinn. So why is he turning into Bufton Tuftonski?

Poor old Biggles

Monday, November 4th, 2002

It must have been terrible for Iain Duncan Smith to read his own obituary in the Sunday Telegraph but this morning’s Times is even worse. When Rees-Mogg writes to prove you must survive, you know you’re as dead as the gold standard.