POEBIS day

Traditionally Friday is POETS day. I guess it's just possible there's someone out there who doesn't know what the heck I'm going on about, so just for you: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday.

Today I have an alternative slant on the tradition. Piss Off Early Because I'm Sick. Yes, with infinitely perfect timing, right before I take two weeks leave and with only 5 days left until Christmas, I've picked up a chest infection. Or an URTI to be more accurate. If I didn't have extra evidence I'd have to guess that I met the little blighter at one of the two Christmas dos I was at last Friday and Saturday, but since about three-quarters of Nikki's office are down with it too, I think we'll have to conclude it was this one.

So I've struggled manfully on (which by some strange coincidence I've just noticed is an anagram of man-flu-ly. Don't say a word) to finish the piece of work that absolutely had to be done today, and attend the voice conferences I absolutely had to attend, and now I've collapsed, panting, in a soggy, hacking, headachy heap here in front of my PC. The irony isn't lost on me. I wouldn't mind if the do had been especially brilliant, but had I known I'd contract lurgius expectorensis I'd have been more than happy to give it a miss.

Happy bloody Christmas. (Don't worry, I'll be better by then) (he bluffed)

I *really* need Series Link

Switched into "archive" mode on the PVR last night to delete the thing that had just recorded (that we'd watched live) and by some quirk I spotted that the episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles that had just started recording was *finishing* rather than starting.

Huh?

Checking the schedules revealed that Virgin1 had moved it back an hour to the 9-10pm slot.

Oh-oh. How long has this been going on?

I checked earlier weeks' recordings and gave up after the second one back. If I've missed three weeks I might as well delete the lot. Bummer.

There's an add-on for my PVR that provides an equivalent of Sky+'s "series link" and which I'd "been meaning to install" for some months. There's that old procrastination, biting me on the bum again.

Big ideas and grandiose plans

Yesterday's horoscope made me smile:
"Big ideas and grandiose plans come naturally to you, yet today's detail-oriented Virgo Moon requires you to place limits on yourself. No one else is going to do this for you; it has to come from within. Instead of looking out at every distant horizon and thinking you can go there, try concentrating on what's directly in front of you."

Haha. That's always been my problem. If I can be said to have *one* problem. Concentrating on what's in front of me. The task at hand. I'm a great starter. Not such a great finisher. When I was a kid, I'd lie on my back on the summer grass, staring up at the sky for hours, wondering where it went. What was out there? Every distant horizon has always held a dangerous fascination for me. They call it wanderlust, in all those many horoscopes I've read over the years, and they tell me it's a strong trait of Sagittarians. Tell me it's all bollocks. No, don't. You don't have to. But I do have it. That wanderlust. Sometimes.

Mainly when there's a mundane, tedious, mind-sapping task sat right in front of me requiring my concentration and with a rapidly approaching deadline. OK, OK, I'll do it. Fergawdsake. But I'd rather be out there. Staring at the sky.

Reality check

I heard on the radio a couple of days ago - while listening to a programme about sustainable food, the impact of supermarkets on health, and that kind of thing - a startling statistic.

That cities take up 2% of the Earth's habitable surface, but their inhabitants are responsible for using up 75% of the world's annual resources.

It wasn't so long ago - a couple of hundred years or so - that cities didn't exist. The Industrial Revolution began the lemming-like rush of populations into urban environments and it's really only in this century that urban populations have exceeded rural ones. But the city as it was envisaged in the late 18th century is no longer a sustainable model. A city the size of London - with ~10 million inhabitants - masticates its way through 30 million meals a day and the vast majority of those millions of people neither know nor care where the food comes from.

As if we didn't have enough to worry about, we now need to work out what "city life" or "country life" will look like in 100 years' time. "Unrecognisable" is probably the answer.

Emeralds are a boy's best friend

I gave blood yesterday. I was hoping to pick up one of those natty slate coasters that (as I found out after my last donation) they've started handing out to anyone who gives three times in one year. Sadly, they'd run out. They said they'd arrange to have one posted to me.

But in discussions over the obligatory post-bloodletting tea and biscuits I discovered the NHSBT have introduced a higher award. Still some years away for me - I'm still aiming for my gold pin for 50 donations - but until today I'd thought that would be it. The final goal. 50 and you're out (although I would have carried on giving until I couldn't climb up onto the table any longer).

No. They have a new award. Well... I'm not sure how new it is, but I didn't know about it. The Emerald Award. For 75 donations. An engraved glass plate - apparently - and an invitation to a gala dinner with other 75-pinters.

Part of me thinks that would be very nice, thank you. Recognition for a lifetime's support of the Blood Transfusion Service (as it used to be known). Another part of me thinks, hang on. To have given 75 times you're gonna have to be quite old. Why would I want to have dinner with a load of old people with whom the only thing I have in common is that we're blood donors? What are we going to talk about? Our best bruise? Our fastest donation? How the choice of biscuits is much better now than it was in 1977? And they'd be bound to serve black pudding.

It's at least nine years away for me, but already I'm thinking I'll probably give it a miss.

Do what you can

Our neighbour Linda who lost her husband in the summer has been getting a lot of support from family and neighbours. The kind of tea-and-sympathy support a woman needs (sorry if that sounds patronising, but you know what I mean) which is, in short, not the kind of support we're very good at.

We're more "grit your teeth and get on with it" kind of people, not given to navel contemplation, rerunning old conversations, or group therapy.

Which makes you feel kind of useless in a situation where that's the kind of help that's required. So it was with a mixture of relief and gratitude - having said at the time that she only had to ask if she wanted our help with anything - that we greeted her recent request for help on a more practical level. She's recently bought a new TV and had no idea how to put it all together. At last! Something I *can* do.

So we trotted off round there yesterday afternoon and, with a great deal of "help" from the kids (both indigenous and local), and also some slightly more practical help with the lifting from another neighbour, spent two or three hours assembling the stand, fitting the bracket, mounting the TV, cabling up and performing the final installation.

It reminded me of an old Spiritualist tenet. To do what you can. Don't worry about what you can't do, but if a chance arises to help in some way - however trivial it may seem - take it. Never underestimate the impact you can have on someone's life, even though to you it is the easiest of tasks. To us, it was only two hours out of our Sunday afternoon. Nothing at all. To Linda and the kids, it meant being able to settle down in front of their shiny new telly without having had to fork out the exorbitant installation charge from the supplier. It's a win-win! Smiles and cheers all round.

Tis the season to be merry - #2

Nikki's works' do migrated, as it does, to a different hotel this year, only this time to one we'd used before, three years ago: the Worsley Marriott. We were quite happy with this, as it's barely a 20-minute drive from home and we remembered how good the breakfasts are there. A strange thing to concentrate on when you're supposedly going there for a Christmas do, you might think, and I couldn't possibly comment. Except to say that Christmas dos are all too often much of a muchness, but a good breakfast is beyond price.

Anyway we had a relaxed start to the day - two pots of coffee and lots of 'puter time - and took a leisurely drive over there after a late breakfast, arriving around 3pm, checking in and making our way to the Chimney Bar.

Since our last visit the rooms have all been refurbished and are now very comfortably appointed, with a massive bed, good choice of TV channels and a well-equipped bathroom. Nice touch that the room's lobby had a motion-activated light too, which came on as soon as we opened the door and remained on long enough to find the other light switches.

A couple of Nikki's colleagues were already waiting for us in the bar so we treated ourselves to a sandwich lunch and a couple of beers, soaking up the atmosphere and generally relaxing. Soon it was time to return to the room and put on our posh duds, joining the rest of the company for a pre-dinner drink before walking through to the main restaurant area for dinner.

It's impressive how a hotel restaurant can serve up several hundred meals and not only have them all still hot when they reach the table, but also looking appealing and appetising. It's not always the case, but the Marriott did us proud. Tomato soup with roasted red pepper, turkey dinner with all the usual trimmings, and Christmas pud in brandy sauce for me, while Nikki had the same, but branched out to the chocolate mousse for dessert. If I was being uber-picky I'd say the roast potatoes were a bit on the hard side (Nikki reckoned they'd been roasted in advance and then microwaved too long), but other than that in mass catering terms the meal was very nice.

We spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to dodge the result of the X Factor final - the DJ insisting that he would bring us news as soon as he got it! Eek! - before retiring to bed at a far too sensible 11.30pm. Don't know whether the credit crunch is biting, or there's been a general realisation that it's crazy to stay up until the small hours getting drunk at hotel bar prices, but the party area was distinctly less busy when we went to bed than in previous years.

Having retired early and only consumed 4 or 5 drinks each, we were (as usual) awake long before dawn, and hence the first to arrive for breakfast almost on the dot of 7am. The breakfast staff concealed their surprise very well at seeing someone awake at that hour after a Christmas party, and the egg chef cooked me up two perfect fried eggs to go with the excellent sausage, hash browns, beans, fried slice, juice, coffee and toast, after which we checked out and arrived back home around quarter to nine! Very civilised and a perfect time to make another pot of coffee and settle back to watch our unspoiled recording of the X Factor. It was a close call, but we made it!

Tis the season to be merry - #1

No, I didn't mean jolly. Although I started off jolly as I left to drive into town yesterday morning just before lunch to meet up with an old team of mine for the first of several Christmas "dos", the last one of which won't take place until January 28th. Don't ask.

I had intended to catch the bus, thereby giving myself maximum flexibility to get bladdered or not, as the fancy took me, and depending on how the party panned out. You know how it is. Sometimes the sparks fly and you're really enjoying the mood, other times you can't wait to get home. A combination of another bitterly cold day and the probability of rain made me realise (a) I didn't really fancy the 20-minute walk from Piccadilly and (b) I wasn't really that bothered about having a lot to drink. That, and the fact that the restaurant I was heading for is surrounded by a multi-storey car park, meant the car was the obvious option.

This particular do was the "VME" Christmas party, so named because it's organised by, and ostensibly for, those people who are still working on VME. Many years ago, and for many years, I was one of those people. I still know a lot of them quite well, but more to the point their senior PA is also the lady who ran our office when 40 of us, followed shortly by another 40, branched out into the scary new world of Microsoft technologies a little over 12 years ago. That team is no longer together either, but since many of us came originally from the VME team, we share a history, and therefore a Christmas do. For most of us it's the only day of the year when we get together, because the majority of the original members (of either team) have moved to other companies, other parts of the same company, or retired, and even those who now work in the same building don't see each other very often owing to the overly paranoid security locks on all the internal doors, which admit staff only to the floor for their own department.

Today's meal took place at the modestly named "Glamorous" on Oldham Road, an establishment which I had visited on a couple of previous occasions and which can usually be guaranteed to provide mass catering on a huge scale and at extremely high quality.

Has it changed hands I wonder? Or chefs? Or is the credit crunch biting? I certainly don't remember the Christmas meal being this piss-poor in previous years. Two small scoops of chicken and sweetcorn soup, followed by some sad looking dim sum (paper wrapped prawns, spring rolls and ribs). OK, the ribs were excellent, but the rest didn't do much for me. Little did I know it was about to get worse.

Aromatic crispy duck was optional on the menu at an additional charge of £3.50, and owing to having a minimum requirement of two diners (per table), it had been left to us on the day to organise. Regular readers will know I'm an ardent lover of crispy duck. I'd be happy if that was the ONLY thing on the menu. So I was fortunate - I thought - to find four other duckophiles on my table. So we coughed up our £19.30 (10% service charge mandatory) and awaited our pancakes. 13 sad, cold, dry little pancakes between 5 of us. Two tiny plates of shredded leek and cucumber, and less than half a duck. Clearly, having left the ordering until the day, the restaurant had been caught on the hop by the popularity and run out. Instead of coming clean and saying "we've run out, sorry" they decided to fleece us of our £3.50s and spread what they had between all of us.

The mains were a disappointment too. No large, steaming bowl of rice for each table. No. A cold plate, with a handful of tepid rice (which was cold by the time the food was served).

That's another place to strike off my list of acceptable eateries at Christmas. But! All was not lost, for it's a truism that if the only thing you're going to a Christmas do for is the food, you're bound to be disappointed. The company is the thing! The craic! And boy, did we have some craic on our table.

After lunch we decanted to the Crown & Kettle for a pint. No offence, but what a dismal little hole this is. Sadly, what few sparks were flying at this party were extinguished as soon as we set foot through its dingy door onto its bare, dirty floorboards. I cracked an inward smile at the irony of the drink I ordered - a pint of Flat Cap - quaffed it as quickly as I could and beat a hasty retreat. Sincere apologies to those luvverly people I was sharing space with. Had the food been better, the watering hole more comfortable, and the weather warm enough to walk, I would have loved to stay longer. Next year, maybe?

Postman on the Pony Express

It's been a week for commenting on the news, but frankly it's been a while since there were so many stories in the media that beggar belief. Yesterday's was the story of our national postmen (and women) being told they would have to walk their rounds at an average of 4 mph once some new fangled satellite tracking / round estimating / computerised wizardry is introduced.

Up until now they've gone out, delivered a few letters and come back again. But mail volumes are rising and budgets are tightening and increasingly the delivery chaps (and chapesses) are returning to the depot with some of their rubber-band-bound-bundles undelivered(*). Yes, that's right. You may not have known this, but once the shift is up, postie stops work, whether or not the round is complete. Anything left over has to wait for the next day. So much for "come rain, or wind, hail or sleet, ..." etc.

Things have got so bad that even the managers have to go out on deliveries some days.

So they're introducing this new system. Never before has the walking pace of the British postie been subject to such scrutiny. But wait a minute. Where has the figure of 4 mph come from? Just plucked out of the air by some junior managerial type I shouldn't wonder. One of those who doesn't know his arse from his elbow. You must have met one. "Well, 4 mph is a pretty fair average," I hear you say. And you'd be close. 3 mph is actually closer to the average walking speed, but over what distance? Bear in mind that this speed - this average speed - has to be maintained over a three-and-a-half hour shift. Bear in mind that, while maintaining this average speed, the postie has to push a cart, or carry a heavy bag of post. Bear in mind that the average must be maintained on all surfaces, inclines and in all weathers.

Remember too that there are gates to be opened, slippery paths to negotiate, dogs to avoid, and that a percentage of all deliveries will be "attendance" calls. That is, visits where the recipient is required to sign for the package. So postie has to ring the bell, wait for the bell to be answered, collect the signature, and hand over the package. Possibly even pass the time of day with the punter in order to maintain the semblance of customer service for the good old Royal Mail. Or, if the recipient is out, he (or she) has to write out one of those little chitties that tell you the exact 5-minute period you're allocated to visit the sorting office and collect the undelivered item for yourself.

That's a lot of standing around for a man (or woman) who has to maintain an average speed of 4 mph. Remember also that Internet shopping is on the rise. We're all eBaying and Amazoning and play.comming much more than we ever have before. So the 3-4% estimate of "attendance calls" is actually more like 7-8% these days, and rising. Even more standing around. Much more of this and the nation's posties (and postesses) will have to be jogging between houses. They'll have no breath to spare for passing the time of day.

Oh, and did I mention Belgium has a similar system? Yes. Only their postpeople are only expected to achieve an average speed of 2.3 mph.

(*)I know the bundles are bound with rubber bands, because we find one on our front path almost every morning. Red ones, they are. And we're not alone. Our neighbours find them too, as do many of my colleagues. I wonder what proportion of each first-class stamp goes on buying new rubber bands to replace the ones cast on our paths willy-nilly? Surely it wouldn't add many picoseconds to the average round to actually put them in your pocket, mister postie? And... you know... reuse them? In these times of scarce Earth resources and global warming and all that?

A bugger's muddle

From the moment we're born - no, from the very moment we're conceived - there is only one thing that is absolutely certain about our lives: that they will end. Yes, death is the only certainty.

So why do we find it so hard to talk about? And more to the point, in the week where two high-profile cases of assisted suicide hit the news, why do we find it so hard to treat it rationally, sensitively, and humanely?

The case of Daniel James, who broke his neck in a rugby scrum and was paralysed from the chest down, and the more public (by virtue of it being the subject of a TV documentary that actually filmed and broadcast the moment of his death) but no less harrowing case of Craig Ewert, a sufferer from motor neurone disease who was not much older than me, have opened a tentative debate on the subject of a person's right to decide the time and manner of their death. Which at least in the latter case, was something the poor man had hoped to do.

So when is this fine, upstanding nation (allegedly) going to grasp this particular nettle and put an end to the typically British bugger's muddle that the law finds itself in at the moment? A situation where anyone who helps another to die risks prosecution and lengthy imprisonment (up to 14 years, as I understand it), and yet where increasing numbers of people are dragging themselves off to Switzerland, where a company called Dignitas are (legally) prepared to let them fulfil their wish to die. A situation where the CPS will examine each case on its merits, and in a majority of cases will elect NOT to prosecute, and yet where the threat of that prosecution hangs over the heads of all involved, and results in at least as many people deciding it's not worth the risk (it is estimated) as decide they will throw the dice and help their loved ones out of the terrible situation they find themselves in.

Situations like Daniel's. An energetic, athletic young man staring down the long dark tunnel of 40, 50, 60 years spent having someone else take care of him in the most intimate way, while he remained incapable of taking part in any of the activities that gave his life meaning. Or like Craig's. Facing the certain erosion of his ability to control his own movements until he reached the point where he would be completely unable to do anything for himself, including committing suicide.

Why are such people, already in desperate straits, forced to travel to another country to achieve their wish? Would it not be more fitting to allow them to die in familiar circumstances? At home, where as many family, friends and neighbours as they wish can be on hand to say that final farewell, where the surroundings are comforting rather than clinical, and where the absence of sufficient means to finance the final journey will not present yet another insurmountable barrier to their goal.

Yes, there are risks of abuse, coercion, of it becoming the expected thing. Yes, there are safeguards that must be put in place. But let's at least have the debate, and the maturity to realise that in the end, if no-one has the right to dictate how someone else lives, then no-one has the right to dictate how they die.

Choke on it

In the news yesterday, aside from the death of Oliver Postgate, the Tobacco Manufacturer's Association's response to government moves to ban the open display of tobacco in shops in England and Wales.

The idea is that moving tobacco products "under the counter" will discourage young people from starting in the first place, and evidence from other countries supports this thinking. In Iceland removing displays led to a 10% drop in the numbers of young people smoking.

Smoking research also suggests that people who start smoking between the ages of 11 and 15 are three times more likely to die prematurely compared with someone who starts at the age of 20, and they are also more likely to be hooked for life.

In opposing the display ban, the Tobacco Manufacturers' Association expressed a worry that the move might fuel the sale of illicit tobacco and could damage the income of smaller shops that rely heavily on tobacco sales.

So it's alright to condemn kids to a lifetime of addiction to a proven carcinogen as long as we protect the income of both the tobacco manufacturers and the retailers? Tell that to my mother, who after smoking since the age of 12 now has to fight for every breath, and cannot walk from the kitchen to the dining room without spending the next 20 minutes recovering. In fact why not replace the cigarette displays with looped footage of my mother and people like her?

There's a special place in Hell reserved for tobacco manufacturers, where they are forced to sit like laboratory beagles and inhale their products until their lungs are burnt out. Then a demon comes along and replaces their lungs with a set from another lifetime smoker, and the process is repeated. Ad infinitum.

So farewell then, Oliver Postgate

News broke this morning of the death of Oliver Postgate. I'm not sure how far his fame spread outside the UK, but here he was beloved by several generations of children as the creator and narrator of a whole host of classic television shows, including Bagpuss (once voted Britain's best-loved children's television character), The Clangers, Ivor the Engine and Pingwings, that had been going since the 1950s.

He died at a nursing home near his home in Broadstairs, Kent, yesterday at the age of 83.

While younger audiences, such as those who voted for Bagpuss, are familiar with his more recent work, to me he will always be the voice of Noggin the Nog (pictured here). Noggin, his friend Thor Nogson, and his wicked uncle Nogbad the Bad was Postgate's second foray into telly, from the disused cowshed near Canterbury where he first set up Smallfilms with the artist and puppeteer Peter Firmin.

The fact that such a wealth of brilliant storytelling could come from such humble surroundings is a story repeated several times in British television, especially television for children which was always treated as a poor relation (think of Gerry Anderson). But Postgate's real magic, for me, was in his wonderful narration. At once calm and measured, but also filled with expressive wonder and delight. The perfect package for young children. "Listen to me and I will tell you the story of Noggin the Nog, as it was told in the days of old..."

[Here's my obit for him on TV Scoop]

Mulled but not dulled

Our traditional mulled wine party was graced with family this year, as not only my elder daughter but also my cousin and her husband came over for the occasion.

So we had a kind of ante-party from about 5pm onwards, with a lot of delightful chat, catching up, and few sandwiches and nibbles before I set about mulling the wine shortly after 7pm. Things were slightly more confused than usual, since over the years we have gradually accumulated three varieties of mulling spices, each with their own discrete instructions. The first, and the one we've used in each of the last two years, requires a bottle of wine to half a bottle of water (only we use three bottles of wine to get the party started, naturally, and top up throughout the evening as the guests arrive with another bottle or eight).

The second box of spices, which we expected to have to break into this year, suggests a bottle of wine to a third of a bottle of water (75/25cl). And finally the box which we procured last year from the Northwest Fine Food Festival and are not expecting to have to use until next year, suggests using no water whatever.

Now I'm in the habit of refilling everyone's cup/mug/glass as soon as they become empty, so I opted for the first (i.e. the tried and trusted) recipe. I like to see my guests merry, but I don't want to impose a raging red-wine headache on anyone!

As last year, the first guests arrived at 8.10, and a handful of others drifted in between then and 9.30, by which time I was beginning to feel a little disappointed at the turnout. We'd had notice of no-shows from two couples, and fully expected one other couple to turn up in halves, as they have very young children to look after, but as for the rest...? I'd almost decided it wasn't worth lighting the oven - there was no way we could get through 100 hot Indian party nibbles with the numbers we'd had up to then - when virtually the whole of the rest of the street turned up in the space of 15 minutes.

Just goes to show you never need to worry about parties. They always turn out alright. Especially round here, where mulled wine evening is a well-established part of the social calendar.

Just one further thing to mention. I was discussing the party earlier this evening with a friend, explaining how I'd kept the wine flowing and we'd all had a great time chilling out, chatting, exchanging anecdotes and just generally enjoying the ambience and the company of good friends. She said: "That sounds sooooo John Beresford!" And you know what? She's right. I *do* like to be the enabler of good times for people I love.

A hive of activity

It's amazing what you can get done when there's a party in the offing.

We're holding our annual mulled wine evening tonight, so we've been busy since about 8am this morning:

• putting the finishing touches to the tree (i.e. hanging the red and gold beads, setting the timer, and fixing the skirt)
• erecting the small sparkly fibre-optic tree in the lounge
• boiling the eggs for sandwiches
• vacuuming absolutely everywhere
• opening up the conservatory, turning up its radiators and removing the dead flies
  
• preparing the mulling equipment
• cleaning absolutely everywhere that hasn't been vacuumed
• hanging the last few decorations
• fetching an uplighter so those in the conservatory can see each other
• fixing a hook for the towel in the downstairs cloakroom
• hanging the windchime (that's been sitting in a bag in the front porch for two years)
• putting up the Christmas cards (two so far)
• refilling all the tea-light holders
• plumping cushions
• generally tidying up and putting away of boxes
  

Four-and-a-half hours later and there's almost nothing left to do. Except have a shower.

And make the sandwiches.

And mull the wine (but that comes later).

A stain on your character

I'm thinking bloodstain. With DNA. On a database.

The European Court of Human Rights declared yesterday that it's illegal for UK police to hold on file the DNA signatures of people who have been arrested but subsequently either not charged with an offence, or acquitted. Apparently (and surprisingly, I feel) there were approaching a million of these records - out of the 4.5 million in total - of which 40,000 were for children. DNA from people who as far as the legal system is concerned are guilty of absolutely nothing at all, but whose DNA the police were hanging onto "just in case."

The case was brought by a couple of guys from Sheffield - one who was charged with an offence but where the charges were dropped a few months later, and another who was tried for attempted robbery and subsequently acquitted - who didn't fancy having their records on file for all time. And who can blame them? For me, this case raises a number of profound questions:

• It seemed fairly obvious to me, way before the verdict, that this represented a breach of human rights. Yet the case went before the House of Lords and was thrown out. So that presumably means either the Law Lords are incompetent at interpreting Human Rights legislation, or they were party to, and their judgement affected by, the government's approach to DNA fingerprinting...
• ...which appears to be the establishment by stealth of a national DNA database, populated with DNA from anyone the police don't like the look of. That may sound alarmist, but if the only criterion for storing your DNA is that you've been arrested for something, and the police can arrest anyone they like (and they can), then it's a fact. Let's be clear, I don't have a problem with holding the DNA of known (i.e. tried and convicted) criminals. With reoffending rates as high as they are, it would be madness not to. And we're not talking here about holding unmatched DNA from crime scenes. Those records will continue to be held, offering the chance of a match with someone arrested later for any offence anywhere else in the country. Such cases have already occurred. But innocent people do not deserve to be tainted by having their DNA on record when they've done nothing.
• Whether or not you believe in the benefit of a national DNA database (and I do, as it happens), its purpose must be clearly articulated, debated by parliament in the usual way, and probably, for a change as far-reaching as this, subject to a referendum. Either record everyone, or no-one. However, that said, this government (or any government come to that) has proved time and again that they simply do not have the competence to handle large volumes of sensitive data. Until they have demonstrated such competence, with data of a less personal nature, no-one should trust them with their DNA records. And that's before we get into any debate about the potential for misuse.
  
• A rather over-excited article in the Telegraph (still, what do you expect from them?) states: "Deleting the records could mean that thousands of rapists, murderers and other criminals are not caught." What utter nonsense. Despite a huge increase in the number of DNA profiles on record, crime solving rates have hardly changed. Scotland already deletes DNA records where suspects are not charged, or are acquitted. Is Scotland therefore full of "thousands" of uncaught rapists and murderers? Good grief.
  
• On a more general note, what is the point of the House of Lords when their rulings can be thrown out by a higher court? What used to be the highest legal authority in the country is now effectively reduced to the level of a magistrate's court. Only there to provide a filter for the more powerful European Court, and handle the easy cases. But this means that cases like the one I'm discussing here are subject to interminable delay. Those two Sheffield lads started this legal journey in 2001! EIGHT years they've been waiting for yesterday's result. We may as well do away with the legal responsibilities of the Lords and fund a European court that is resourced well enough to handle all the cases across the whole EU. At least we'd be assured of getting to the real, final answer a sight quicker than we do at the moment, and at a much reduced cost.

Makes me seethe (©1994 Mr. Angry)

Every cloud dumps on the struggling artist

As if it wasn't hard enough trying to break into the literary market, news reaches me today of another dire effect of the credit crunch. According to Writersmarket, now is not a good time to be a struggling author, as publishing houses tighten their belts and rely (even more) on trusted names and stories within an ill-defined "comfort zone."

So basically, unless you're Bill Bryson or Ian Rankin, (which clearly I'm not), you may as well look forward to a few more months of rejections, whether or not your ms is any good. Still, look on the bright side, eh? As we all know, writers write because they have to, not because they need the money or the recognition or anything. ;-;