The premise behind Atari’s new game, Act of War, is that at some point in the future rising fuel prices have kicked off civil disobedience, which has allowed terrorists (TM) to take advantage of the insecurity and attack the world.

Not so implausible, you think. But wait. Rising fuel prices? Surely they must have risen a very long way to make this possible.

$7 a gallon, Atari reckons.

Well, there are 4.54609 litres in a gallon the AA, my book here and Google calculator.

And how much does a litre of petrol cost? According to the AA it was 80p a litre here in the south last month. Do a quick bit of maths and that’s

As we already close in on the end of the second month of the year, I’ve just finished my fifth and sixth books of 2005. Something of a ready frenzy has come over me this year. I don’t know why. Or how. I suspect things are about to slow down, though, as I’ve just started An Ordinary Guy by Mona Simpson. She’s Steve Jobs’ biological sister, and it’s said to be a thinly veiled portrait of his life, so I feel it’s a bit of a call of duty read.

Very well written – I ploughed through the first 26 pages on the train this evening – but looks like it’s going to get hard going. I feel I really ought to persevere, though, as my last two reads were very light and flimsy and it took ages to track it down. I eventually got it second hand on Amazon for a bargain 10p. A price that was well outweighed by the cost of delivery.

Bill Bryson is always a rewarding read. This one, in particular, was full of extraordinary facts about the sheer size and scale of Australia. To a little islander like any UK reader, the distances involved are beyond comprehension. He really puts things into perspective in the first couple of chapters when he relates the widely-believed story that the same cult that released Sarin gas on the Tokyo subway had originally been plotting to use a nuclear weapon, and in fact exploded a test device in the middle of the Australian desert. So remote was that spot in the desert that nobody knew about the experiment for years.

He of course runs through the long list of lethal animals and plants – as everyone who has ever written about Australia seems to do – but then, of course, takes things further, as he is prone to do, and explains some of the nasty effects those lethal specimins can have on you. The most terrifying is the story of the swimmer stung by a particular kind of jellyfish. The pain was so great that even when they had knocked him out with anaesthetic he was still screaming, and screaming and screaming.

He died.

For anyone who plans on reading A Short History of Nearly Everything, Down Under (or In a Sunburned Country as it’s called in other countries) would be a good introduction, since it comes to an end in one of the key geographical spots of that more scientific history book. Still, though, I’m not sure I would necessarily recommend some of the weightier tracks of Short History to a general audience, as some of the bits you ‘need’ to read to get a fuller picture, are actually quite a chore.

World War II for Beginners was an attempt to get myself better educated about world history. I bought it in Borders, where the sales assistant smirked at the title and asked me if it was a self help book to help me start my own personal second world war. It all stemmed from a discussion we had in the office – not about the second world war, but the first – and I was surprised about how much I remembered from a book I’d read on the subject three or four years ago. I still have it, so went back and flicked through it again, and decided it was only right to read up on what went next.

Unfortunately, though, there seems to be something of a dearth of accessible and not over-long second world war books on the shelves, and this one seemed to offer the best balance of comprehensive information and brevity. On getting into it, though, I think it played too much on the brevity front, and so skipped through a lot of important stuff. The failed assassination of Hitler was dispensed with in little more than a page, when actually it was one of the most interesting points of the war.

To give it its credit, though, it does seem to be fairly balanced and gives equal time to the Allies and Axis forces, as well as explaining the motivations behind each side’s actions. It’s also refreshingly matter-of-fact when it comes to the American involvement.

So, one book to add to the recommend pile, I think, and one… perhaps not.

The Guardian reckons Hunter S Thompson said it:

The Independent, on the other hand, thinks it was Nixon who was doing the talking:

The BBC agrees with the Guardian, and reckons that contrary to what the Independent seems to believe it was Thompson who was slagging off Nixon:

Yet the Evening Standard agrees with the Independent. It definately thinks it was Nixon that was doing the slagging, and Thompson that was the subject of his ridicule:

So who did say what about whom? And what, exactly, is ‘venal’?

Est-ce-que Skype va etre la prochaine choix pour une nouveau generation des personnes qui envoient le spam? Au moment, je choisis ‘Skype me’ toujours quand Skype est actif sur mon ordinateur pour que des autres utilisateurs pouvent m’appeler sans authorisation. Quelquefois je recois un bon appel de l’autre face du monde. Le Brasil aujourd’hui par example. Quelquefois c’est plus proche de chez moi. La dernier soir un homme en Pologne veut savoir si le permis de conduire anglais est la meme que c’est en son pays. (Apparement c’est.)

Mais cette apres-midi ma telephone du Skype sonnet quatre, six, huit fois… Ce fut un appel de conference avec quatre personnes – hommes et femmes – qui je ne sais pas. Je le rejetai. Ca sonnet encore. Je le rejetai encore. Apres la sixieme fois, je reponds.

La personne qui commenca l’appel, fut discuter la religion avec un autre personne sur la ligne. Dans quelques instants, il m’dire au meme sujet et je raccroches. Cinq ou six secondes plus tard, il m’appelet encore et je le rejetai mais il essaye un autre fois. Ce fois je reponds, et mets la telephone sur un baffle de mon ordinateur avec la musique tres fort.

Ca s’noye la conference avec les autres personnes, ainsi il raccrochet. Je le rappeler tres vite et jouer la musique une autre fois, et encore il raccrochet. Apres ca derniere fois, il me blocus.

Je ne pense pas que il m’appellera encore. Faites vous?

I really really really hope this is a joke:

Cumming, the Fragrance

Il y a une grande probleme avec la compagnie qui dirige les trains en ma ligne: la communication. Quelque-fois c’est quand nous sommes s’asseyions sur le train au centre de nulle part et le conducteur nous dis qu’il ne sais pas pourquoi. Une autre-fois c’est peut-etre sur les voies quand l’ecran lit ‘System Fault’. Hier ca fut au fenetre des billets.

‘J’ai un billet “weekender”. Ou peux j’aller demain,’ je demande. ‘Norwich? Peterborough?’ Paul est encore en Gran Canaria avec Trevor, Jon et les autres, ainsi je voulus aller au cite, ou peut-etre la plage. Bien sur elle sera froid, mais j’ai une grande blouson et j’aime regarder le mer sur les roches quand il n’y a personne autour.

‘Seulement Londres,’ dit la femme en l’autre face de verre.

‘Londres?’ je dis. ‘Mais je peux aller au Clacton et Ipswich avant la change d’organisation qui dirige les trains.’

‘Oui,’ elle dit. ‘C’est vrai, mais maintenant c’est toute different.’

‘Pourquoi?’ je demande.

‘Un moment,’ elle dis, et appele leur surveillante. Les deux parlent pour un moment, et la surveillante s’penche vers la fenetre.

‘Nous ne savons pas,’ elle dit. ‘Avant la change, vous pouvez aller partout sue le reseau, mais maintenant nous sommes en contester avec nos departement de marche. Ils ne peut pas decide si vous etes peremettre de voyager au des places qui vous ne pouvez pas aller avec le billet qui vous utilisez toujours pour aller a Londres.’

‘Si que dois je faire?’ je demande. ‘Peux j’aller au plage ce weekend?’

‘Je ne sais pas,’ elle admet. ‘Vous pouvez encore demander demain matain…’

Je quitte a ce point.

Donc je ne suis pas au plage aujourd’hui, mais ce n’est pas necessaire mauvais. Beaucoup des papiers au sujet de mon emprunt-logement arrive ce matin et je dois ces lire. Peut-etre je vais marcher au centre ville pour une cafe et je peux les lire en confort.

Plus de confort qu’il y a sur les trains ou a une plage froid, toute facon.

‘Do you want the trousers, or just the coat?’ asked the man from the navy. He was holding up a heavy-looking set of waterproof clothes. Above us, a gunmetal sky. All around, the Thames, looking like cold and very poorly-made tea.

‘I think I’ll take the trousers,’ I said. ‘It might rain.’

They were the world’s biggest trousers. They had built-in braces that stretched up over your shoulders, and the waistband was higher than your elbows. Trousers of which Simon Cowell could be proud. Trousers on, they fed us into life jackets, and then onto small fast boats moored on the edge of a rocking pontoon.

I’m glad I said yes. Not for the rain, but the cold. Two pairs of trousers, a shirt, a jumper and two coats. Chunky socks and a pair of shoes and I was still cold, and that was before they’d even started the engine.

This must have taken a lot of arranging. On the extras of The World is Not Enough, where they show you how they made the boat chase sequence than opens the film, they say you’re not allowed to go more than 5mph on the Thames. Yet as we pushed off into the middle of the flow we quickly picked up speed, until moments later we were skipping across the wake of the plodding tourist boats cruising under Tower Bridge.

Our flotilla of nine small black boats ate up the water, passing under the bridges, past the London Assembley, and the Eye, and on up to Parliament at 20 knots. It felt fantastically fast, being so low to the water, with nothing around you to stop the spray leaping in, and the wind tearing at your hair and ears. The choppy water threw us up in the air, and we slapped down with a thud every time we passed a bridge or buoy or the side of another boat, and then we did a wide, lazy arc just before reaching MI5, and regrouped to pass back down the river.

Every time we sped under a bridge, people walking by overhead stopped and leant over the side to wave, but most of the time, as we once again picked up speed, we were hanging on too tight to wave back. And besides, by this point my frozen fingers had all stopped working.

Once clear of Parliament, our driver gunned the engine so that we were now going far faster than before. 45 knots, according to the GPS computer, which he said was equivalent to 55mph. We raced along to the Docklands, barely touching the water, and up alongside the immense office towers. Canary Wharf doesn’t slowly grow when you’re going this fast: it rockets up out of nowhere like it’s been launched from a pad on the ground, and in an instant is stretching up way above you, looking far taller than ever before because on the water, of course, you’ve never been so low.

‘Hold on,’ shouted our driver, taking just a moment to check over his shoulder that we were all still there before pulling hard on the wheel and cutting us deep into the water. We were almost on one side as we took a sharp turn, and if boats can be said to skid then that’s precisely what we did, as the whole of London pivoted around us and suddenly, inexplicably, we found ourselves facing back upstream towards the pontoon.

We’d been out on the water an hour. My legs ached. My fingers were ready to fall off, but I’d had a fantastic time.

And yes, it was actually work. We were testing waterproof cameras.

Regardez! Will a publier son nouveau blog: Random Thought Management. Il dit que ce n’est pas un blog, mais des objets qu’il trouvez sur l’internet. Ce ressembles un blog a moi, mais… pfft. C’est amusant.

Aujourd’hui, je travailles chez moi. C’est probablement bon: hier matin j’eus une grande accident dans le cuisine du bureau. Il y a une cuisine sur chaque etage et parce-que la cuisine de notre etage est entre MacUser et PC Pro beaucoup de personnes peuvent voir toute qui se passe. Pas bon.

Les cuisines n’est pas tres grande, et chaque est dans une petite mur qui, parce-que chaque arette sous le taille de votres epaules, vous pouvez entendre vos bras. Ils ont toujours anime at hier matin je ne peux pas arette dans la cuisine du troisieme etage quand je verse mon cafe. Donc je prends la carafe et, apres verse deus taisses, elle passe au-dessus du mur. Mas elle n’est passe du toute au-dessus du mur, parce-que je reussis a se briser sur le coin du mur. Il y a une grande coup et toute des personnes pres de la cuisine me regardent.

Au meme fois, le cafe dans la carafe esplose partout. Sur les murs, les plackards, le machine d’eau, le grille-pain… Par terre, sur la micro-onde… Sur pull d’homme qui etre tenir a cote de moi et sur son petit-dejuner… Partout. Absolument partout. Et parce-que nous sommes au centre d’etage, tout le monde virent.

Ce prit longtemps de nettoyer. Trop longtemps.

Je dis encore… c’est probablement bon que je travailles chez moi aujourd’hui.

Je dois m’excuser pour ecriver ce message en francais. Je decides que si je voudrais d’essayer et ameliorer mon comprehension du langue francais, j’aurais essayer d’ecriver plus en francais. Voila. C’est pas bon, mais c’est plus bon que rien!

I spent 45 minutes looking for a book in the big Waterstones over by the University at lunchtime, and eventually found it tucked away in an obscure spot on a bottom shelf in an empty room off to one side of the second floor. No wonder I couldn’t spot it.

Coming back to the tills to pay for it, though, there was this awful overpowering smell of gas. Everyone did that sniffing the air but pretending not to smell it thing so we wouldn’t have to talk to each other, until one of the staffers came along and threw us out, and I had to abandon the book on a shelf about spiders, or dictators or Esperanto or something.

The attitudes of some people in London – after all these years – still amaze me. As we were streaming out of the shop, and milling around on the pavement, a man in a hat and a long buttoned-up coat barged through the crowds, pushing us to one side so he could get into the gas-filled shop.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the assistant blocking the door. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had to evacuate the shop.’

‘Well, honestly,’ he said, and have him the nastiest look I’ve seen for a long, long time, then grumbled something or other about taking his custom elsewhere.

Londoners are just plain rude.

Sun so hot I’ve had the windows open. Then snow. Then hail. Then sun. Then snow. Now wind that sounds like it’s going to tear the roof off the house. We’ve had every weather you could imagine today. Apart from thunder.

I’ve kept myself wrapped up warm inside, slowly trudging through that enormous crate of photos, scanning them into the archive. The total now stands at 10,121 photos taking up 16.8GB of disk space.

16.8GB sounds rather pathetic for so many pictures.

So. Hmmm… A while since I’ve written anything. Thursday was spent working at home, as I said. Much as I enjoy that, it was good to be back in the office with everyone else on Friday morning, especially as it made it feel like such a short week. Out with Will and Co Friday night to discuss ‘things’, starting in the Royal George, which I’d always avoided with a quicker-than-strickly-necessary stride. Turns out it’s actually very nice. From the outside it looks like a traditional punch-up pub, but through the doors there all sorts of low-level seating to fall-over, and ‘character’ literally dripping off the walls.

Vinnie just happened to be standing by the door as I went in. Purely by chance – she wasn’t part of our group – but it was nice to know someone there in spite of being first.

It wasn’t a good place to talk ‘things’, though, so we decamped to the Hamburger Union, navigated their needlessly convoluted ordering routine and ate sausage burgers that we all agreed tasted suspiciously too good to be real vegetarian sausage.

Perhaps it was made of vegetarians, rather than for them.

Which brings us to yesterday afternoon. Mark T’s annual tossing ceremony. The pancake party.

As usual, much mess was made. Fortunately, this year, he’d had the forethought to put down some old bedding before we arrived, so the splats of hot flying batter had somewhere to land. Was very disappointed that Mark P’s legendary Mask-of-Scream pancake design didn’t put in a repeat appearance, or indeed that he didn’t retain the record of getting more tossed pancakes on the floor than back in the pan.

But then he did come second – after an eight year old who had never thrown a pancake before in his life.

All in all, I think we did rather well considering we were making them in a wok on a tiny two-ring cooker.

As might be expected, Mark T already had seven of this year’s Eurovision entries. Not spotted a winner yet, but I feel fairly safe predicting humiliating defeat for Poland this time around.