Tag Archives: postaweek2011

Jul 09 2011
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General

An update on PostAWeek2011

I’m not entirely sure how many regular readers I have. Encouragingly, I’ve got a good few subscribers and seem to get the odd re-tweet. Therefore, if you’ve been here before and are not my mum, my fiancee, my mate Jeff or me, thanks for coming back.

Right or wrong, clever or stupid, I decided to participate in WordPress’s PostAWeek2011 challenge back in January. The premise for which is simple – write something every week and post it on your blog. Easy, yeah?

Originally, I had a crack at PostADay2011. If you imagine PostAWeek2011 being a kickabout in the local park, its more frequent sibling is akin to playing against the current Barcelona team. On your own. Naked. Tied to an old man.

It’s hard.

So, obviously, I gave up.

Posting something every week has actually turned out to be a little easier than I thought. The briefest of conversations, a second-long glance at a situation… even biscuits. Inspiration is literally everywhere.

For that reason, I recommend that you give this a go. It doesn’t matter how confident you are at writing, or if you’re speling is as bad as mine – trust me, you will feel better for letting it all out occasionally.

As WordPress say – express yourself. Start a blog. The world is a better place with more words.

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Jul 01 2011
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Film

Brumming brilliant

I’m going to admit something which might be a little controversial – particularly if you’re an avid listener of Wittertainment on Radio 5 Live and laugh along to Mark Kermode’s rants.

Here goes…

I liked the first Michael Bay Transformers movie.

Why? Well, mainly because I lost a transformer somewhere in Northampton when I was about six. To this day, it’s one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. Some bastard has probably still got it and is no doubt ‘brumming’ it across his living room floor, every swipe across the carpet accompanied by a wry smile in my direction. It’s mine. But he’s got it and he’s going to keep playing with it until his arm falls off.

I loved Transformers as a kid. They were as big a part of my childhood as Sensible Soccer, giant gob stoppers and Panini stickers. Seeing them come to life in an all-guns-blazing live action film brought out the little boy in me.

As a director, Michael Bay isn’t Francis Ford Coppola. He isn’t even Thor Freudenthal who, despite a supersonically cool name, directed Hotel For Dogs. Which is about a hotel. And dogs. And that’s it.

No, Michael Bay makes films that rear up to your face and shout incoherently at it for at least two and a half hours while simultaneously stabbing you in the ear with a pointy sound wave. Expect anything which could be loosely described as ‘cultured’ and you’ll be sorely disappointed.

Last night, I went to see Transformers 3 and, after the utter tripe that was Transformers 2, wasn’t expecting much. I didn’t get much, either.

It starts off – as 99% of all American films do – with a little bit of creative history rewriting. Remember the moon landing? Well, it all definitely happened, but apparently we didn’t see the bit where they found a big Decepticon spaceship and a dead robot. No, while that was happening, they played us some fake footage instead so that we thought everything was fine. Unbeknownst to us, everything had gone dreadfully wrong and during their return home parade the astronauts were secretly harbouring the sickening realisation that, one day, we were all going to be killed to death with lasers and pointy things by massive alien robots.

The film then fast forwards a bit and we join Sam, played by the eminently vacuous Shia Labeouf. This boy, whilst possessing a name which suggests he might be some kind of ninja frenchman, could bore an inanimate object to death. I could have performed better than him and I’m very rubbish at acting.

Sam is mates with the Autobots (are you keeping up?) who are still really hard but more cuddly than the Decepticons and are intent on keeping peace on Earth. Everyone’s happy (apart from those astronauts, who have presumably been trembling behind their sofas for the last sixty years).

Then, everything goes very wrong indeed and the mother of all fights breaks out. Robots punch each other continuously in the face and generally make a terrible mess of Chicago.

But what’s it like, you ask? Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ve long since gone to another part of the web. Never mind.

For those that are still with me, let’s start with the overweight elephant in the room which is the film’s rather odd stab at humour. It simply doesn’t work. This is mainly because you can’t hear a word anyone is saying. Take the two little Laurel and Hardy robots – they are clearly there for comic effect, but because their voices simply sound like a collection of clicking and bleeping noises, you simply don’t get to hear the start, middle or punch line of any of their jokes. You’d have more of a laugh listening to the inner workings of your watch.

In fact, you can’t hear anything in this movie apart from eardrum-shattering noises. I watched an IMAX screening which appeared to have The Rolling Stones’ PA hidden behind the screen. I’ve never heard quite so much subsonic material in a movie. They were the kind of sub 30z rumbles which either make you feel physically sick or poo yourself. They were, indeed, brilliant.

I was also disappointed by Optimus Prime’s trailer which for all intents and purposes looked like an oversized Oliver Adams sandwich van. I didn’t notice this in the first film, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it last night; its corrugated silver cover shining in the film’s ever-present sunlight and promising warm sausage rolls, cans of diet coke and over-priced sandwiches.

But, you know what? I enjoyed it. I can’t remember any of it, or what it was about, but I enjoyed it.

Mark Kermode detests these films. ‘It’s just robots hitting robots,’ he said. He’s right – it is, but that’s exactly what I did with my toy robots on the living room floor and there was nothing wrong with that.

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Jun 23 2011
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General

More biscuits, vicar?

I bought some HobNobs yesterday. While it’s tempting to leave this post there, it was for a very good reason: a vicar was on the way to our house for a pre-wedding meeting.

I figured we’d need lots of tea and loads of biscuits. This was on the basis that all previous meetings I’d held with vicars involved tea and biscuits. The latter seemed of primary importance at these meetings (alright, there’s only been one) and were displayed with Michelin star precision. I wanted us to impress. Like we knew what we were doing when it came to biscuits and, obviously, God, and stuff. I’d needed to visit the shop for other items, but the biscuits were top of the list. They were that important.

Our lady vicar duly turned up and, after the usual pleasantries and tripping over of the dog, we settled down in the living room.

‘Tea?’ I asked.

‘Yes please. No sugar, just milk,’ she replied.

The first catastrophic holy hospitality failure happened when I couldn’t find a clean teaspoon. The only one which could be described as marginally clean was already in the dish washer, resting against the fork I’d used to prepare the dogs dinner and encrusted with beef, liver and all the chewy bits they extract from cows which are only fit for dogs.

I retrieved the spoon, checked she wasn’t watching (and offered a quick glance above to ensure He wasn’t, either) and wiped off the bits of intestine with the tea towel.

Then, I discovered we’d run out of sensible mugs. The only ones we had left were Sponge Bob Square Pants, Pink Floyd’s The Wall and one ‘proudly’ displaying a cheesy photo of Lindsey and myself on the London Eye. None were suitable for a priest. Thankfully, I managed to find a couple of normal ones but had to plump for the Pink Floyd one myself. It was least offensive, after all.

We didn’t know what to expect from the meeting. My best man had informed me that we would be made to sit through a video depicting the perfect marriage and how we should treat each other in years to come. You know, how we should not get divorced, ensure we go to church and definitely have two children called Jack and Sophia.

I had already devised a plan for this. Our DVD player, I would say, is fucked. Well, maybe not in those exact words, but I would make it quite clear that it would not do the job for which it is intended and that we have absolutely no other means of displaying said video. I even considered bashing the DVD player up a bit with a hammer to give my bare-faced lie some credibility but conceded He might be taking note.

Thankfully, the DVD did not appear. A CD fell out of her bag at one point and while its double sidedness gave me a sudden glimmer of hope that it might, in fact, be The Wall and therefore give us some common ground on which to muse (and provide material for her little talk at the wedding ceremony – you know: ‘I’ve been getting to know Mark and Lindsey over the last few weeks and was delighted to discover that Mark and I share a common love of Pink Floyd’s post-Barrett work’), I realised it was more likely a hymn collection. Or possibly a Michael Bolton double album, which is essentially the same thing.

I’m not sure why I was so anxious about the arrival of a priest at our house. We’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not against religion. I wasn’t alone in my unease, either. At the eleventh hour, Lindsey had suggested we need something resembling a cross in our living room and asked if I could ‘fashion something out of some wood from the garden’. The only wood we have in the garden is decking and the resulting cross would therefore be an exact scale replica of the very one Jesus was nailed to. That would look a little odd wedged in our living room.

Our dog, Eddie, didn’t appear to be quite so apprehensive. The first thing he did on her entering the room was fart and then, as we were halfway through discussing the order of service, decided to sit on the vicar’s notebook, his bum resting neatly on our choice of hymns.

After a while, she left. I headed back to the kitchen and stopped dead. My heart sank. There, on the top of the fridge were the biscuits. Unopened. Un-shared. Wasted.

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Jun 17 2011
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General

Don’t shoot the vegetarian

“What can you do for vegetarians?” asked my fiancée.

“Vegetarians?” The chef, who would cook eighty meals for  our wedding guests in three months time, mulled over the question.

He’ll say soup, I thought. That’s the easy answer. Or some kind of salad. Pine nut, maybe.

“I’d have them all shot,” he said, folding his arms.

No pine nuts, then.

He hadn’t thought to check if either of us were vegetarians (we’re not) but then, he probably didn’t care. I wouldn’t have argued with him, either. He was built like an aircraft carrier and, had I been a vegetarian and taken offence to his suggestion that we should all be dead, would probably have punched me in the face immediately and without hesitation.

It was a minor hiccup during our menu tasting but I’ve noticed that our dealings with the reception venue have been littered with similar hiccups. Silly things. Things you probably think I’m a bit of an arse for highlighting. But I couldn’t care less. As someone who spends his entire working life ensuring every piece of communication, whether it be written or spoken, is the best it can be, such disregard for the most basic of requirements really makes me very cross indeed. So cross, that I’ve decided to write about it.

I’m not perfect. In fact, quite often, I get it wrong. Take the time I called a prospective customer Brian. That would have been fine, only his name was Bernard and he was quick to point out that, because I got it wrong, I was not allowed to continue breathing any more. Thankfully, this exchange happened over email, but I felt pretty bad about it, regardless.

It surprises me, therefore, that other people don’t take similar pride in their jobs and the firms they work for. Our chef friend, for example, should perhaps have thought before opening his mouth. Similarly, the events manager neglected to shake either of our hands after our meeting. As far as I’m concerned, that means the meeting is still very much taking place, only I’m writing this three days later and there’s no sign of her. Perhaps she’s gone to harvest the coffee beans for the drinks we weren’t offered.

There was one thing which really got my goat, though. A couple of weeks ago, we received some documentation from the venue stating that I was marrying Gemma Allen. I’m not sure who Gemma is, and I think she’d be equally surprised to find out she’s getting married to me in three month’s time – as would my fiancée, Lindsey. I politely pointed out the mistake and asked them to ensure such an error wouldn’t happen on the day, because that would resemble more a scene from Friends than our dream day. They apologised profusely. It wouldn’t happen again, we were told.

This week, we sat down to our menu tasting and were handed a form on which to make notes about the food. At the top, Lindsey’s surname was spelt ‘Allan’.

It’s spelt Allen.

“Oh, silly me. That’s obviously me typing too quickly!” Exclaimed our wedding coordinator. I would have been dying inside. She didn’t appear to be.

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Jun 07 2011
5 Comments
Apple, In the news, iPad, iPhone, Technology

A cloudy day in PC world

WWDC 2011 - time for Apple to add a few more things they forgot at the outset

I got drunk a couple of years ago and signed up to MobileMe. It was a sixty day free trial so I figured there was little to lose.

Two months later, I got drunk again and forgot to cancel the subscription. Steve Jobs duly buried his hand into my trouser pocket and took £59. I couldn’t complain or ask for it back because I’d agreed to let him do so sixty days prior. I’d simply forgotten to cancel the trial and had chosen the expiry date to go out for a few beers. iWhoops.

He did the same thing a year later, although that time I was sober and had just resigned myself to the fact that he’d come along and relieve me of my hard earned every twelve months. Disclaimer: as much as I love Apple products, that is not a euphemism.

Then, a further year on, he didn’t bother. Instead, he took to a stage so large it could house three symphony orchestras to proclaim, quite simply, that MobileMe was in fact, utterly, totally, irreversibly shite.

And that was it. No ‘sorry’, or ‘here, have your £118 back’. Just a rare admission from the man who continues to reinvent everything (only to later add the important bits that were missing at the start via a series of updates) that one of their reinventions was ‘not our finest hour’.

I agree. It wasn’t even their finest fifteen minutes. MobileMe was, in principle, a good idea, if not a new one. It was expensive, though, and I am forever asking myself what I’m getting for £59. I have email, calendars and contacts synced between my various devices. I also have a 20GB iDisk which I occasionally put 40KB PDF files on. I used to have all that elsewhere and for free.

Still, MobileMe had cool graphics and the James Bond-like Find My iPhone which even featured a radar for the icon (that’s cool, right? Radars are definitely cool). Obviously, it wouldn’t find your iPhone – it would simply highlight a 20 mile radius in which it might be located. That’s not very useful. I could probably do the same thing myself just by thinking about it. But Find My iPhone had a green radar thing that swung around and beeped. So that made it all fine.

Anyway, I digress. Now we have iCloud which is free and a more rounded solution. But, as cool as it looks, that’s not what I want to talk about.

There was one word which seemed to permeate through the entire keynote address. It wasn’t preceded by an ‘i’, nor was it followed by the interminably irritating ‘it’s just beauuuutiful’ – a phrase Apple has even used to describe an email client’s reading pane.

The word was ‘PC’. Steve Jobs will occasionally point and laugh at this silly little acronym. In the past, he’s received a muffled guffaw from his adoring crowd as he highlights just how rubbish PCs are. How they have missed the point of personal computing entirely and continue to make each of our lives a living hell through their wrong approach to multi-tasking, wrong approach to security, poor hardware and for sleeping with our partners behind our backs.

Obviously, this is nonsense. PCs do work. They might not have the same pretty animations that Mac OS X has mastered so beauuuutifully, but they do a job and will continue to for the vast majority of home and business users on the planet Only, now, we’re being told that we can cut ourselves free of the PC. Snip through the digital umbilical cord, if you like. Apple even had a little icon for this.

Principally, they are referring to iOS 5 which includes the ability to wirelessly sync with iTunes and setup iOS devices without connecting them to a computer.

Of course, by ‘PC’ and the newly coined phrase ‘Post PC’, they are also referring to Macs (we’re not stupid, Steve) and it was encouraging to hear them ‘demote’ all devices – iPads, iPhones, laptops, desktops – to just that: devices. Bits of metal which can be setup independently and display all of the stuff we store on the cloud. Viewing panes into our remote, digital world. Nothing more. I like that.

I predict that, eventually, this will make complex operating systems a thing of the past. As Jobs noted, file systems are cumbersome and difficult for novices to get their heads around, yet they are the one thing we rely on almost every day. Why not let applications and web servers do the work? This premise is put to fantastic use in iOS.

I also predict, as I have noted to people in the past, that OS X will continue to turn into iOS. It’s happening already with Lion; full screen apps and Launchpad (iOS-esque app organisation) were present at yesterday’s demo. Those that need more functionality (and by that, I mean principally developers and bedroom tweakers [no laughing at the back]) will continue to have the tools they need to do their jobs via SDKs. But us, the everyday user? Cutting the link between ourselves, our devices and our desktop machines is just the start. I think the people at Apple gave us quite a significant glance into the future yesterday.

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Jun 01 2011
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Football, General, In the news

Thanks for the inspiration, Blatter

Struggling for postaweek2011 inspiration, I considered finally turning to the WordPress Post A Week blog to get the creative juices flowing.

Unfortunately, I picked a day when they suggested I write about my least favourite school teacher. Don’t get me wrong – there’s plenty to go on – but I could only recall one teacher worth writing about and the only story worth recalling was when, having been asked to draw my interpretation of God, I put a monutmental amount of effort into reproducing a pixel-perfect version of the Street Fighter II character, Dhalsim.

If you didn’t spend an inordinate amount of your childhood button-bashing the SNES classic, this is what Dhalsim looks like:

Dhalsim

Suffice to say, she wasn’t particularly impressed. Nor is that a very interesting story (although it has given me an excuse to post a picture of Dhalsim on this blog, which probably won’t happen again).

Thankfully, inspiration came this afternoon from my friend and top football journo, Jefferson Lake (@jeffersonlake). What’s more, the blog it has inspired requires very little effort from me, as just a few words and a picture upload will suffice.

So, here we go.

Go on, pick one.

If a more pointless amount of time by a more pointless collection of people in a more pointless room has ever been spent, I’d like to hear about it.

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May 26 2011
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General

Get lost.

The Firs, NorthamptonSo, last night, I decided to try and get lost. Nothing serious, just an attempt to find myself in mild but slightly enjoyable peril.

The venue was the local jungle. Alright, forest. Alright, collection of trees opposite Harlestone garden centre. Anyway, minor details aside, I set off with my four-legged friend, eager to tread new ground, forge footpaths and generally pretend I was in search of my imaginary comrades in a remake of Platoon.

I’ll tell you this. It’s near impossible to actually get lost. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t manage it. And I did try very hard.

There were moments of hope. Finding myself in an unfamiliar clearing surrounded by tall trees, I headed – not for the manmade footpath, oh no – but for what looked like a path smashed into place naturally by fallen branches and large bits of tree. What would it lead me to? A forgotten land? Narnia?

It took my just a few yards to realise that what I’d actually entered was not the work of mother nature but a carefully constructed route for the transportation of fallen wood to the giant timber merchant. Which was just around the corner.

In fact, I couldn’t escape from civilisation. Later on, I headed deeper and deeper into the wood. Further than I’d ever been before. The trees overhead grew more dense and, in turn, the ambient light faded, as did the background sound of the A45. At last I was in with a chance of being lost. I began to spook myself out by thinking about the Blair Witch Project; the distant sound of crying babies and snotty-nosed, whimpering monologues. I got my compass out and quickly realised I had no idea how to use it. That didn’t matter. In fact, it helped. I had no idea which way to go.

A quick glance at my phone yielded yet more eerie pleasure. Moments before, I had a very un-Ray-Mears-like access to a full 3G signal (I think there may even have been a WIFI hotspot available) and the entire world in the palm of my hand but now, it simply read ‘No service’. No phone. No texts. No Facebook status update notifications.

I was alone. Cut off from the rest of the world.

Lost.

“Come on, Thomas. Keep up!” A family of three – mum, dad and small boy clattered past on their post school stroll.

I can’t remember that happening in Predator.

To make up for this crushing dose of reality, I briefly considered wandering aimlessly across an adjacent field but conceded I’d simply end up at the local Co-op which I knew was just over the horizon.

It was time to give up.

So I went home.

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May 19 2011
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General

An upcoming area, fallen

Both women were fat. Both bent awkwardly over their pushchairs, snotty-nosed babies looking as miserable as the house from which they had vacated.

Our crossing of paths was brief; I, walking the dog during a short lunchtime break from the confines of the office, they, walking, presumably, to fetch their giro. Yet in that briefest moment of shared airspace I learned about an impending court case and Shane, who had apparently ‘not fucking stopped ringing all fucking night, the twat.’ I’m not sure who came out with that last comment, but it might have been one of the kids.

Then, they were gone. And I stepped in some dog poo.

We moved into the Northampton area of Semilong five years ago. It was our first home and we were lured there under the pretence that it was an ‘upcoming area’ with houses that offered a lot for their modest purchase prices.

The latter, certainly, was true. High ceilings, good sized rooms and bomb-proof builds are what you get with Victorian terraced properties and ours is no different. It’s lovely, in fact, and suited two excited new homeowners perfectly.

It could also be argued that, back then, it was indeed an upcoming area. Whatever that means. If it means first time buyers like ourselves commandeering an area, that’s exactly what it was. We bought during the property boom and houses were being snapped up across the estate by like-minded individuals. Great, we thought, we’ve discovered a little gem, here.

Then, something went horribly wrong. I can’t pinpoint when or what it was, but the area simply nosedived. Litter and dog muck flooded the streets, illegal immigrants moved in (one set even took residence – and eventually became squatters – in the rented property next door to us).

Every single time I step out into the street I see something that I can only greet with a sigh. Whether it’s the two aforementioned fat ladies (or similar), discarded mattresses, drunkards, smashed bottles, junkies asking for change or the guy who looks like he would definitely kill you for absolutely no reason at all, it’s there. It’s there all the time and it’s a fucking shame.

Thankfully, we’ll be off soon, but if you’re from the Northamptonshire County Council and you’re reading this, you should be ashamed. The area that could have blossomed into what it presumably had been years ago – a proper community – is now slowly decaying.

As if to make matters worse, you have also turned the street light off outside my house in order to save some electricity. Might I suggest you turn it back on and switch your attentions to the far more glaring problem that is Semilong itself. I’ll pay the bill for the fucking light.

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May 03 2011
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General

Man up. Start a fire.

Fire. Man. Fire. Grr.

Fire. Man. Fire. Grr.

There are several things you can do to make yourself feel more of a man. Read up on tanks. Tighten something with a monkey wrench. Watch Any Given Sunday. Reload a gun. Pretend you understand cricket. Walk down the power tool isle in B&Q, stroking each piece of machinery and pretending you know exactly what they all do. Pull off in 2nd gear rather than 1st. Use the phrase ‘bastard wouldn’t budge, but I got there in the end’ regularly. Buy the Racing Post. Set fire to something.

The only problem is, unless you’re Chuck Norris, all of those things are either painful, confusing or just plain difficult. Particularly the latter. I found out just how hard setting fire to something is when I bought a chimenea at the weekend.

Before Saturday, I didn’t even know what one was. However, that evening, we attended a BBQ at a friend’s house, and he knew exactly what a chimenea was. It stood proudly in the centre of their garden, heat fiercely rippling the air above its chimney. Flames whipped up an intense heat in the gaping furnace as it chewed up everything that was thrown at it. Admittedly, it was a small child chucking things into it, and it was highly likely the pieces of paper he’d found were our friend’s insurance documents or car service history. But that didn’t matter. This marvellous contraption was producing man-made fire and I immediately decided that I needed one.

The next day I went for it. Plumping for a slightly smaller clay unit, I immediately felt a bit of a fraud. But that didn’t matter either. I would still be able to create fire in this thing. That evening, I would become a real man.

If you’ve bought a chimenea, you’ll know that they need ‘conditioning’. This involves slowly burning kindling and paper two or three times in order to… ok, I have no idea why, but if you don’t your lovely piece of garden pottery will apparently crack into three billion pieces.

You are instructed to add a little bit of kindling (if you know what that is – I had to look it up) and some rolled up newspaper. So I did. And tried to set fire to it. And absolutely nothing happened. Last week’s Chronicle and Echo lit briefly before dying into a smouldering grey mess. The kindling wood sat at the bottom of the furnace on the bed of sand I’d kindly laid out for it, grinning and clearly very, very cold.

Thankfully, no one was watching. My lack of testosterone wasn’t on display. I briefly considered making the most of the opportunity of solidarity and crying a bit but then decided to consult Google instead.

That didn’t help either. Every ‘how to start a fire’ article assumes you are Ray Mears. They talk of unseasoned wood and lava stones. One even states that you’ll require ‘fire-starting materials’. The only ‘fire-starting materials’ I’m aware of are matches and the hobs on my oven. The latter would have obviously been a logistical and insurance-claim-inducing nightmare, therefore I opted for the matches.

Only, I got through an entire box just trying (and failing) to light one lousy newspaper.

I won’t lie. It took me a good hour to get the thing going. But get going it did. Flames I had made were suddenly dancing around my little fiery cavern and smoke billowed effortlessly from the chimney.

A little over-excited, I decided to do what people in films do when they’re making fires in jungles: blow on it. I knew the introduction of more oxygen, or something, meant the flames would grow more intense and, as I blew, that’s exactly what happened. Only, the sudden gust of man-made wind also sent thousands of burnt bits of the Chronicle out of the chimney and into next door’s pearl white washing swinging on their line, creating a speckled pattern of what was once the Sunday football results on Mr and Mrs Jones’ underwear.

Concluding I was suddenly deep into unchartered man territory and consequently a little out of my depth, I retreated back into the house, and let the fire die out.

Oh, and if this story isn’t enough to convince you to buy a chimenea, before you consider other ways of increasing your manliness, just remember, someone this weekend blew the game out of the water when he aimed his gun at Bin Laden and shot him in the face. I’m not sure that can be topped.

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Apr 27 2011
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Apple, In the news, iPhone, Technology

It’s ok to be complacent when technology is involved… isn’t it?

Image representing iPhone as depicted in Crunc...

iPhone. What's going on behind that screen?

BOOM! Apple are monitoring your movements. They’re tracking your every move and they possess a detailed history of every place you’ve ever visited with your iPhone.

Headlines similar to the scare-mongering guff above rang out from media outlets across the globe and, while most of the focus was on the sudden ability for spouses to discover where their other halves had been playing away, the presenters, columnists and bloggers all shared one emotion in their reporting of this event: absolute, unadulterated panic.

How could this happen? Why are Apple and Google tracking us? What do they want? Who do they think they are? What right do they have to keep an eye on us at all times? They’ve already taken our money, what more do they want? They don’t need to know I nipped to Tescos last night. Why would they ever need to know that? I only went to buy a ready meal and some washing detergent.  My kids! Oh my GOD, my kids. They know where my kids are all of the time. Why?

Today, Apple released a press statement. It confirmed that the database file discovered by someone friendless enough to find it is, in fact, there for the user’s benefit. It keeps a detailed track of wifi hotspots and mobile phone masts in order to quickly locate the phone at the user’s request. Use the maps app to find your way around unfamiliar towns? This file helps you out. Particularly if you’re indoors or mid-way through a tunnel. The aforementioned hotspots and masts could be hundreds of meters away from the actual phone’s location. Therefore, the database is simply keeping a record of the location of inanimate objects, not you or your bit-on-the-side’s gaff.

Whether you believe them or not (and their admission that “we plan to cease backing up this cache [the database file in question] in a software update coming soon” seems rather conveniently timed) it does prove that the media appear to drop all rules of good, accurate journalism when it comes to a technology story. Why? Because technology is magic and mystical. It’s made by geeks who have brain power capable of knocking the Earth off its axis. It is unknown territory, much like the afterlife and the dark side of the moon. What goes on inside a computer, phone, TV or engine management system is beyond comprehension.

Only, it isn’t. Anything can be explained. Particularly technology, which is so dumb it can only follow instructions made up of 1s and 0s. If these journos had taken just a few moments to investigate ‘locationgate’ a bit further, they might have found the answer before Apple’s announcement today. But no, there has to be a conspiracy. There has to be wrongdoing involved.

Sony’s Playstation Network disaster aside, why don’t we just step back a bit, calm down and wait for the facts, eh, Fleet Street?

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