What a bunch of dicks.

This blog entry is not about dictionaries you will all be devastated to know, as I'm far too interesting to limit myself to just Ugly Jesus and dicks, however pretty they may be. But this is about dickery of an all together higher quality.

Firstly, a disclaimer. Now, I read the Guardian and love its delightful mixture of indignation, absurdly pretentious clothing that only crytpo-facist bankers could afford and the fact that Comment is free forms about 25% of my job description but occasionally you despair. Oh and when they select a "wreck of the week" they choose a derelict French chateaux with only one standing wall that will only cost £123,456,789 to repair. These are all editorial decisions driven by the fact that the Manchester Guardian, once the voice of the working class, is now read by a small cult of media luvvies, guilt - ridden Londoners who want to change the world but couldn't possibly start without ensuring they had an adequate supply of Chateauneuf du Pape and other well meaning but ultimately hopeless brigands but advertising a trip to Libya seems a bit silly to me. Although, I'm sure William Hague might well have promoted his adviser had someone recommended this 8 day trip rather then using the SBS to harass some local farmers.

This was on their website yesterday (14th March 2011). Brilliant. I'd like to think you could probably negotiate a handsome discount if you were to ty and book this holiday anytime soon, given the almighty fuck up that is unfolding there, despite David Cameron's best effort to come across like a man of action and not an effete bout of flatulence. And I suppose it might be targeting those who like a bit more authenticity in their holidays so that when they return to Crouch ENd they can show their daughter Zulieka the real piece of shrapnel embedded in their faces and then write into the Guardian magazine experience column saying "I went on holiday in a war zone and my ipad saved my life." It's presumably only a matter of time before the advert appears for a surfing trip to Japan. The Dolts.

Surely a more appropriate use for advertising space regarding Libya might be for the Red Cross or a link to the rebel's just giving page so that they can buy some more British made weapons so that they can not get totally fingered by ol' Gadaffi. And help save those struggling arms companies keep Britain's economy going.

A Dictionary of Science

This book is, quite frankly, a work of utter genius not in a Dave Eggers sense but the old school brilliant way. The classy, unadorned cover makes this the book equivalent of that grandfather we all have, or all should have, that shames you by wearing a tie even when asleep (and also calls the local cab driver "that giant negro fellow.") Similarly, just as ones grandfathers knowledge of all things ended in about 1955, when he retired, this book has not aged well and would doubtless lead any keen young scholar  trying to pass his eleven plus astray. Although clearly they should being to the local comp rather than succumbing to lure of the local toffery.

In fact this mighty tome probably underpinned the scientific knowledge of two of my educational nemeses while at prep school and some other silly school that rather shames my socialist leanings. Mr. Preece was a noted incompetent famed for his scientific horror stories including the famed story of the man who ate a pork scratching and ended up having all his limbs amputated (I'm not really sure what the moral of that particular story was but I've yet to eat a pork scratching for fear of ending up like a creation of Dalton Trumbo) and the dangers of carbon monoxide (you get sleepy, ever so sleepy and then ...... YOU DIE). He also managed to leave me and another young private school boy behind in the Science Museum leaving us vulnerable to the evil glances of passing Paedophiles and slack jawed yokels from passing comprehensive schools with their radical hair styles and unpolished shoes. As for Mr. Croft, you Sir got your comeuppance when that heaven sent seagull fired down that angelic shit onto your head whilst you trundled along a beach on the Isle of Wight. Never has being a 10 year old fat, gruddily ginger prep school boy been so utterly wondrous. Sadly, it all ended in tears when we managed to accidentally flood our hotel and had to leave the island under armed guard.

And just to prove how amazing this dictionary is I've included my favourite entry (well second favourite after heroic zero nought definition that is a work of art) that I'm sure will have fallen out of any contemporary dictionary of science despite it being a key part of modern civilisation. The electric bell. Amazing. Like the Dictionary of embroidery, it is this sought of basic knowledge that will put me at the forefront of post-Rapture society.