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Oh I’ve been a filk writer, for many a year.
And committed rhymes that have caused many tears.
But I now make a promise from down in my core,
That I never will filk the wild rover no more.
 
So it’s no, nay never (Improvise here)
No nay never, no more!
Well I’ll filk the wild rover, 
no never, no more.
 
The original’s useful, the rhyming scheme’s grand,
but you never will hear it where filking folks stand.
The closest you’ll get’s where the song is sworn off,
or another well themed one that’s ripped from whole cloth.
 
So it’s no, nay never (Promise I’ll not)
No nay never, no more!
Well I’ll filk the wild rover, 
no never, no more.
 
But there’s versions for Star Wars, and Battlestar G,
Potter, or Tolkien, My Little Pony.
Try for the orig’nal, And what you’ll get comes
Directly from Harry Enfield and Chums.
 
So it’s no, Nay, never (Some git shouts “ARSE”)
No nay never, no more!
Well I’ll filk the wild rover, 
no never, no more.
 
And so there’s this promise, I hope you’ll embrace.
To stop spreading this filk song all over the place.
And If this thing works, then the same trick I’ll try
for Lola, Boh Rap, and American Pie.
 
So it’s no, nay never (Music has died!)
No nay never, no more!
Well I’ll filk the wild rover, 
no never, no more.
 
(I realise I promised, and then promise broke.
But it really did not work as a one verse joke.
So I hope you’ll forgive me my sin of the song.
Don’t think I can stop your head singing along)
 
To the No, Nay, Never (This one’s the last)
No nay never, no more.
For I’ll Filk the Wild Rover.
Not ever, no more.
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 It turns out that three hours sleep turns me into a ratbag not fit for human contact.

A whiny ratbag.

I'm offline until I repair this. Have a cat gif:



Riots

Aug. 8th, 2011 10:56 pm
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Since reassurance is handy: Yes, we live quite close to where the police cordons are. Yes, we're fine, there's been nothing (touch wood) within earshot of the flat, although it would have been quicker for me to get to Manchester than back to the flat this evening.

Incidentally, Rioters. "Protesters" is a level of credit too far. Fuck The Police isn't a protest. Kicking in the windows of Footlocker isn't a protest, it's looting. And the next time a pundit condemns "Social Networking" for coordinating the riots in the opposite tone of voice they used when they were praising "Social Networking" for being a seminonymous backchannel for working against authority a few months ago, I'll... ... shout at the newscast some more.

I've got more to say on this, starting with how it felt to be walking though Hackney this evening, but for now. We're safe. Stay safe.
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 Ladies and Gentlefolk,
 
On behalf of everybody at the New Grunsford News, we would officially like to apologise without reservation or fear of distraction, for getting caught hacking your phones.
 
It was not a path we trod deliberately, or even realised we were doing it at the time, but one day one of our reporters - I forget who - phoned up a source for a story and got his messaging service and, in rage and frustration, accidentally typed in the default code that the operator uses for all people who haven't set the PIN on their messages. He then, accidentally, listened to all those messages, recorded them on a dictaphone he accidentally held distressingly close to the speaker of his phone, and then - with an absence of deliberation that he would come to regret forever - converted them to MP3 format, saved them to the company intranet, and authorised for a transcription service to turn them into text. A terrible and complete accident such as this undoubtably is, we cannot but hope, merely the striking lightning of misfortune. Such an act of inattentiveness could never befall the same company twice, you would think. Alas, that was not to be so. It was barely a week later when another reporter with such terrible luck that cannot be imagined fell victim to the same such series of events, but with the added misfortune of deleting some of the messages in the process.
 
We explain this in such depth to demonstrate the whims of misfortune and technology that we have been subjected to. I mean, who within our number hasn't fallen victim to a paper jam just when your deadline is approaching. There was no way we could possibly have known, or could be held culpable for such an act of fate. That we appeared to have put money aside to pay off the results of our actions was merely an act of accountancy we were unaware of, and the mislabelling of our church orphans roof repair fund compounded the error. We apologise for all the poor, damp orphans who are now being rained on as a result of us having to repurpose the fund.
 
In conclusion, despite the fact this was nothing but a misunderstanding done in the aid of the public interest and was good and worthwhile journalism although it was, as you see, a complete accident I couldn't have predicted and known anything about, we are humbly sorry, and will shut down the newspaper and move all the reporters to a new - but entirely different - newspaper. We hope you are sated by this public act of entirely genuine contrition.
 
Humbly yours,
 
J. Maddock esq.
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Which is also why // he actually said "you" and not // "you're" when he said it. 
 
do you remember // soldier's hammer lyrics or // where they could be found? 
 
Because I would be // totally playing an armed // archaeologist. 
 
Well, if you do, cut // up the stripe, so it doesn't // leave an extra stripe. 
 
I may very well // be in Oxford direction // for Art in Action. 
 
This aint breaking rules, // this is about attracting // and keeping players. 
 
dresses are awesome // climbs a tree and throws acorns // at Penny SQUIRREL! 
 
I don't tend to be // good at revealing how mine // works generally though. 
 
"and all their works come // to nothing and nobody // is ever HAPPY" 
 
A concrete training // round from a Tornado might // be more suitable. 
 
then I touched my arm // and it was freezing Might be // something to watch for. 
 
We're down quite a few // crew this event, I believe. // Of various kinds.
 
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So, turns out that this Saturday I am in Brighton for a conference (IATEFL).

Current plan is to head down on Friday evening and return Saturday, but would anyone be able to give me crash space on Friday evening?

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So, we've been doing a D&D4 campaign for a little over a year now, at an event a month, and I'm beginning to lose track of what's happened between sessions, so I'm going to try and remember to do writeups.

The Story So Far )
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So, the "Closest book" meme is going around again, this time "Page 56, Sentence 5", and it amused me because my current closest book is "The Wind in the Willow", and the passage it selects is actually particularly relevant to why it's close by, which is as reference material for Winter in the Willows, the larp set in a version of that universe that I've recently signed to help make happen. It's the Water Rat, on the subject of the Wild Wood:

"Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don't, as yet. I mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they've got to be known if you're small, or you'll find yourself in trouble."



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(By the combined wisdom of Maelfroth)

Tenets of Tech Support

I: Have you tried turning it off and on?
II: Are you sure it's plugged in?
III: The customer cannot be right if they are on hold.
IV: If it's on fire, call the Fire Brigade, NOT US.
V: Proverbs 1:25-28
VI: Nah, it's fucked, get a new one.
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The Moth is a thing in the states which is basically combative anecdote telling. It's quite likely, if you've met me in real life, that you will realise exactly how much this appeals to me, and I dearly wish it existed over here. Not quite enough to actually do something about it, though.

I mention it because this is an anecdote about Moth, and the reference amused me.

For a few weeks, between leaving Cambridge and moving into Reading, I was accidentally homeless for a little while. The house we were due to move into had gone off the market as we (me and S) were getting the deposit together, and so I ended up crashing at Pol & Supermouse's house for a little while.

I hate being a houseguest. As much as not having anywhere to run to, I feel that I'm imposing on everyone. I attempt to be useful within my parameters, which generally involves making endless cups of tea for people, and otherwise be minimal impact. It is good, however, to be useful, and to enhance my feelings of usefulness, I was employed by Moth the cat.

My role in Moth's life was simple. I was her method of getting in in the morning. I was handily sleeping right where she wanted me to be, and every morning she would stand on her back legs and tap-dance on the window until I woke up enough to open the screen door. Being woken up by a tapdancing cat is, the second time, adorable. The first time, it's just confusing. Sometimes I was called upon to do additional skritching duties, but it wasn't part of my primary skill-set, so generally I was only employed for my door opening skills.

It's good to be useful, occasionally.

Moth was put to sleep this morning, aged 15. Were I a more spiritual or perhaps just more soppy being, I'd put something here about "tap dancing on the door to heaven" or some pass on the oft-mocked Rainbow Bridge theory.

Instead I'll just say Moth will be missed.

Moth will be missed
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(It is occasionally remarked to me that I spend more effort on one-line jokes and things like roleplay group reminder notices than on anything else. I deny this quite often.

As an example, this month's roleplay reminder )
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So, we've now replaced most of the central parts of the boiler, except the electronics box (which Vlad The Installer assures me is the thing that usually dies).

The current broken part - down from the entire boiler, to the casserole dish thing, to the regulator - is reduced to a single sproingy spring that is part of the bit the hot water is heated in that doesn't give as much good sproing like a good spring should sproing, and which he is going to attempt to track down and install for us early this week.

The heating works after a fashion (The radiators heat up, but don't stay hot), but the act of turning on a hot tap cuts out the gas due to the unsproingy spring.

This post is brought to you by the number of days without hot water, which is 43, and the word "Sproingy".
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Day 40 since the hot water went off.

Hot Water still not working. Heating works for a little while.

Have been promised plumber has the part and is coming around to repair the boiler this afternoon.

Not holding my breath.

OOTS Book

Jan. 2nd, 2011 10:19 am
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Hello,

At some point in the past couple of years, I lent out my copy of OOTS book zero, "On the Origin of PCs".

In fact, as I recall, I was returned a set of them, and then someone said "I haven't read that one" and I said "Well, would you like to borrow it, then?".

I have entirely forgotten who this "someone" was. So, if you have my copy of OOTS zero, could you comment here or send me an email or something? I don't mind, but I'd like to read it again :-D

On a related note, if you have lent me something and I have failed to return it, please comment here and I shall endeavour to fix this. My brain occasionally doesn't work, and it is entirely likely I have forgotten.

Comments are screened.
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 The heating has been off for two weeks as of yesterday.

I fixed the world being too cold by buying a heater on Saturday.

So I woke up this morning

and the water is off.

Yay.

aquarion: (Default)

via [personal profile] apiphile 
 

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Do you trust your friends?

Do you trust all the people they trust?

And those people, the people your friends trust, the people that they trust? Do you trust them?

Online Communities, even large ones, have connection lines anywhere and everywhere

Your locked post isn't locked. Your private rant is logged.

And the person you hate, who ruined your life, who stole your cupcake?

Somebody, somewhere, loves them.
aquarion: (Default)
Bread is a god to all people, from the upper crust down to those who have the very yeast, he sees all in his leavenly light. Every flour, every tree. He sees every knead you have, but does not feel the need to prove himself to you. Some say that Hovis' time has passed, but no. Bread will rise again.
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