You have the right to remain silent

Internet forums. They are great. Where else could you read pure, unadulterated bile?

So, Ted Kennedy died. It's been coming for a while. It's not a shock to anyone. It is, however, a form of catharsis for those people who disagreed with him to be able to express their disagreement in a public place, the internet forum.

I went on the Fox News website (it likes to refer to itself as Fox Nation, oh so many issues...) to see what it made of the death of someone who is the opposite of everything it stands for. And, well, the news coverage was dignified.

The comments from the public were not. I saw vile, disgusting comments that can only serve as an act of transference. I saw comments from people who, whilst not defending Kennedy, were at least suggesting a little respect was due. And consequently bile poured onto them. Mind you, not all of the counter comments were particularly well thought out.

So as not to thrash away at the members of the Fox Nation (because they just don't like the one they've already got), I read the comments on the Guardian's website.

It was more of the same only with more comments related to Northern Ireland.

Now, I realise there is a pot/kettle/black scenario here but the internet has really given a voice to some of the most disgusting views. It allows them to be written down, to be given a sense of permanence, a sense of perceived importance. After all, education system constant espouse the importance of literacy as the principal form of intelligence. Without proficiency in reading and writing there is no success in education. If someone has the opportunity to write something where others can see it, it must be important and worthwhile.

Good job no one reads this but then it isn't attached to a news organisation's website.

There comes a time when saying nothing is more than enough, when internet forums should be substituted for genuine human interaction. If you want to hear more, give me a ring.

Advice for those in HR

Firstly, even if you do receive "over thirty applications" and it does take two days to shortlist, do not tell those who did not make the shortlist.

It may help you to pad out an otherwise awkward letter, it may even help you to justify what you've done but it just sounds patronising.

Of course, if it did take two days to shortlist from "over thirty applications", you're not doing it correctly.

Secondly, when firing someone do not fall into the trap of "this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do" type comments and certainly do not commit then to print. It is undeniably a difficult thing for some to do but at least you still have a job. Bleating about it in a national newspaper, especially in a section that contains job adverts is just slightly on the bad side of sadistic.

And yes, the newspaper itself is culpable but that's a whole other issue for those of us on the receiving end of the type of letter referred to earlier.

Facebook, the final frontier

It's not much of a secret. I didn't really enjoy school. I'm lazy, what did you expect?
The other side is that I wasn't the most rounded of individuals. I don't remember myself at that age with any affection. And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Consequently, there are no people from school that I'd regard as friends. Facebook hasn't really changed that. I have two "friends" on there from secondary school. One lives in Canada, the other in New Zealand.
There are others on there from my school although they are not there in their legions.
The thing that strikes me about seeing people from twenty years ago, having not seen them in the meantime, is just how old they look. And how much they've filled out.
That's not to say I don't or I haven't but I can hardly be surprised by the way I look. But I am surprised by the way others look. It's not what I'd imagined. No one is what I'd imagined.
Perhaps my imagination, like my appearance, is not what it was.

I second that emulsion

In 1997, I spent the first day of the Edgbaston Test Match painting my parent's dining room. I painted it pretty badly but that's not the point of the story.

That day, England bowled Australia out for 118. England went on to win the match but lose the series.

Today, I painted my bathroom. Badly as it turned out, but that's not the point of the story.

England were bowled out by Australia for 102. England will probably go on to lose the match. And the series.

After all, it's just a coincidence rather than the cause.

As a footnote, the game in 1997 also marked the test debut of Mark Butcher (see below). All the more reason to fall under the spell of one of society's cheap psychological tricks and feel incredibly old and worthless.

And age shall weary them

Today marks the funeral of Harry Patch, the last British survivor of the trench warfare of the so-called Great War.

I have my own, admittedly selfish, reasons for feeling aged today.

When I was younger, I played cricket. When I was younger still I was reasonably ok at cricket. Like many other people who are young and ok at cricket I represented my local area, in this case Croydon.

Like some of those other people, once things got a little bit hard, I tended to put less effort in, not more and as a result, after the age of about 13 I stopped being picked. The last game I remember playing in was against on the day of the 1985 FA Cup Final. I opened the batting and scored somewhere between 0 and 3 (which is my way of saying I can't remember how many it was but it certainly wasn't more than 3 runs.

I think I flattered myself with the thought that the ball that bowled me kept low but I seem to remember batting for quite some time and missing a lot of the deliveries that came my way.

I first started to feel the age factor when one member of the Croydon schools team, Jamie Moralee, became a professional footballer. On a Wednesday night in March 1992, I saw him play for Crystal Palace at Southampton and, aged 19, stated to feel my age.

Today, the boy who by far the best player in the Croydon schools team retired from professional cricket. Mark Butcher of Surrey and England has retired at the age of 36. I sometimes glibly throw into conversations that I have opened the batting with someone who played 71 test matches for England. I didn't open with him very often. But it did happen and now I wish I'd pay more attention.

There's a line in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy that goes something like:
It's at time like that I wish I'd listened to what my mother said.
Why, what did she say?
I don't know, I didn't listen.

I think I was so scared that I was out of my depth that I didn't pay much attention to what was going on around me.

Anyway, he's retired from cricket now. And I feel incredibly old.

The one saving grace is Alistair Brown. Two years older than me, he played with my brother. He's still playing professional cricket for Nottinghamshire. As long as he holds in there for a bit longer, I'll be all right.

Interior design gone mad.

Quoth the Simpsons:

Lisa: Okay, I'd like 25 copies in canary, 25 in goldenrod, 25 in saffron, and 25 in paella.
Clerk: OK, 100 yellow.

In order to forget the disastrous attempts at following my dad's gambling habits (following them would have brought success, my arsed attempts brought penury), I am rejuvenating myself and the house with a bit of do-it-yourself and gardening.

Having plumbed, drilled, shelved and weeded, I have moved on to the most pointless task in history, choosing between several different shades of the same colour.

This would be all well and good if the shades were of the light and dark variety but I know that the living room is going to end up a light shade of yellow. It may come down to a choice between Dulux's "lemon tropics" and "lemon pie".

And what is the difference between the two?

I have no idea. And I suspect no one else does either.

It's a far better thing I do now...

I could have been at home on the sofa cheering home a 25-1 Mark Johnston winner at Goodwood and each and every Australian wicket that fell.

Instead I was touring National Trust properties with my mother.

Although I felt a sharp pain and had the temptation to let out a cry of anguish on finding out that Laa Rayb had won the big mile handicap (damn you Corals for not putting odds up before 9:30), it was only a brief lapse.

It was a good day with good company and in very pleasant surroundings. That's all that matters.

Right, where's the form book gone...