I spoke to the butcher today about trying a different cut of lamb, mostly in an ongoing attempt to find happiness at mealtimes. Turns out the new cut of lamb would be very similar to the old cut, but with less bread sauce.
Oh well.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The Prioress's Tale
I wrote this many moons ago for a BBC Competition that required entrants to adapt The Canterbury Tales for a modern age. I found it while rooting through some old files, and thought I would share. Hope you enjoy!
EDIT: Hm, the apostrophies appear to have borked. Sorry about that.
With all his heart, the boy sang to her, and with all her heart she wept with joy. Masum was the gift that her husband had left to her when he died, and this gift was special in so many ways. Sadia never stopped smiling when she was with him.
Since before he could talk, it seemed, Masum liked to sing. His every word that flowed from his mouth had a rhythmic quality that sailed through the air like a feather floating to the floor, and when he read passages from the Koran to his mother, Masum brought the words of Mohammad alive. Though as much as she enjoyed listening to him speak, she loved to hear him sing, and as he sang to her now, tears of joy rolled down her cheeks.
Even at seven years of age, Masum did not know any tunes, let alone the lyrics that may go with them. Instead, he sang whatever felt right to him, and to Sadia, her son’s songs were better than any which had been recited in the past thousand years. Masum sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace. He sang of birds that flew, and fish that swam, but mostly he sang the praises of Allah, and all the while his mother cried at the beautiful music. She was forever proud of his gift, of her gift, of her son.
Masum stopped singing when the noisy-smelly man from next door clapped and grinned at him, then showed his dirty toothy smile to Sadia. The noisy-smelly man was poking his crooked face over at them from the other side of the fence. Sadia didn’t know that he had been listening; she had wanted to keep Masum’s gift all to herself – Masum was, after all, her gift given to her by Miraj before he left to lay so very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. She knew that others didn’t always like his songs – sometimes they didn’t understand them, and sometimes they didn’t want to listen.
Masum, on the other hand, was happy that someone else wanted to listen to him – he liked to sing for anyone, for everyone. He too, knew that not everyone wanted to hear him though, and was glad when anyone appeared to show such enthusiasm.
The noisy-smelly man beckoned the boy over to him, and asked him to hold out his hand, and close his eyes. The noisy-smelly man loved to hear Masum’s songs. He didn’t pretend to always understand them, but they always warmed his heart. For years, it seemed to him, he had been covertly listening through walls and fences at the wonderful words, and was happy at last to see the boy sing them up close.
Masum felt something cold in his hand, and then heard the noisy-smelly man clap again. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was now holding a small collection of shiny coins – more money than he had ever held in his life. He looked up at the noisy-smelly man, who was giving him his dirty-toothed grin.
The noisy-smelly man whispered in Masum’s ear – he told him to waste the money on sweets and toys. The boy was to spend it all, he said, to spend it all on drinks that went ‘fizz’ and chocolate that melted in the hand.
Masum looked to his mother, who was smiling nervously. For a moment, he thought that she was going to take his present away. He was relieved when she nodded her acceptance.
Without squandering any precious chocolate moments, he ran from his mother and the noisy-smelly man towards the shops. He ran down the dark path between the old houses, the path with rubbish of every sort which littered its sides; the path with the barking dogs; the path with the bigger boys that sat on the wall.
The path his mother told him to never follow.
Just this once wouldn’t hurt, he thought to himself. It was much quicker this way, and at the end of the path, Masum could see the tiny corner store.
At the end of the path between Masum and the shop was the dirty grey wall, on which the bigger boys sometimes sat. They were there now, drinking from gold and silver cans, and they smiled as he passed them, but said nothing.
He cheerfully crossed the road, and went into the shop, immediately eyeing up everything he fancied, from ice cream to sherbet lemons and fizzy drinks. He had more than enough money for everything he desired. But every time he reached for something he wanted, a pain inside him told him his mother would like to share his present from the noisy-smelly man. Eventually, Masum compromised with his conscience, leaving with only the bare necessities: a chocolate bar that was so large it would last him a week, and a can of orange fizzy drink. He hoped that he wouldn’t upset the noisy-smelly man by not wasting it all like he promised.
He began to sing to himself as he walked home, and as he turned towards the path between the houses, he felt happier than he ever had.
Then somebody else laughed behind him, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. Masum fell quiet as soon as he heard it - it was a mean laugh, a sort of guttural groan that made his heart sink. It was a laugh meant to mock him.
Masum turned to see that five of the bigger boys stood just a few feet away – he hadn’t seen them on the wall as he had walked back, and wasn’t sure if they had been following him the whole time. They smiled wide smiles as they begged him to sing for them, but for the first time he could remember, Masum didn’t want to. Then they walked towards him, calling him strange names he didn’t understand, or names he knew were not his. They said they knew what his father did, and that they didn’t like it.
Masum also knew what his father did, and he didn’t like it either – his father laid very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. He wondered where these other boys’ fathers were.
Once more, they asked him to sing for them, poking him in the ribs. Another walked behind him, and before he knew, his filthy hand was deep in Masum’s pockets, and out again: he had taken all his mothers money. He tried to snatch it back, but yet another boy pushed him away. They started calling him horrid names, laughing at him, joking about the songs they did not understand. They pushed him to the floor, saying untruths about his mother, and lies about his father. The chocolate in his hand was sticky, and he dropped it to the floor as one by one the boys began to circle him. One of them kicked him, and he cried out a little as he fell down. He was surprised when almost immediately the boys stopped, apparently surprised that what they were doing hurt him.
It was the last he would see of his money, he knew, and Masum kept as quiet as his mother had always told him to be with others. He no longer wanted the drinks that went ‘fizz’ – all he wanted was to be safe, to be with his mother again. He slowly stood up and kept walking toward his home. They called out after him, each cry a thousand horrible lies of things they did not understand. Under his breath, he began to sing to himself again. He found that the song gave him a little more happiness, and a little more hope.
But then the boys began to walk toward him again. Masum knew that he could not run to the end of the path before they caught him. It was too far home, and he had too few friends that were too far away.
And as time passed, the sun sailed across the sky.
It had been several hours since Masum had left for the shop, and he had never been this late before. Sadia knew that she should have gone with him, but now as she paced the hall of their home, she also knew he would be back soon, and that everything would be fine again. The noisy-smelly man from next door was out looking for Masum, and within a few minutes, perhaps less, he would knock on the door and bring her son home to her.
But as if out of her mind, she countered every one of these rational thoughts with the irrational and began to panic, looking through every place in her home where Masum could be hidden. He had to be playing a game - she knew she would find him, if only she kept looking.
Her ears ringing with worry, Sadia barely heard the knocking at the front door. But within moments she was downstairs, and fumbling with the locks to open it up and greet her son home. At the doorway stood the noisy-smelly neighbour, carrying Masum in his arms. The neighbour looked worse than usual, Sadia thought. His hair was greasy, as if he had been running for miles and even his dirty, toothy grin had vanished.
Sadia didn’t look at the lifeless body of Masum. She already knew. Instead, she simply cried as she fell against the wall, and the noisy-smelly man laid the child on the floor.
The police came, and made plenty of notes as they looked around her house, around Masum’s things, asking her questions. Eventually, they left, but she never knew at what time – the whole day was beginning to flow from one moment the next with such rapid succession that she wasn’t even sure if it was the same day anymore. They left her with promises she barely believed would be fulfilled, and with an aching heart.
The funeral came quickly – far too quickly for Sadia. It still felt like only minutes had passed since she had been sat in the garden, listening to her son sing to her. But the funeral came, speeches were made, and sympathies were offered. Men that Sadia didn’t know came to her, and made genuine offers of help and support, but she turned them all away. Today she wanted little more than to be with Masum again, though she knew she never would.
The noisy-smelly man from next door walked to her, and whispered in her ear to go home, and get some rest. As he did, she felt him slip something in her pocket.
As the sun set in the sky, Sadia went home alone while the men took Masum away to lay him very still six feet under English mud, not so far away, but yet somehow a hundred thousand miles from home. Just before she closed her front door behind her, she heard a police siren as a car sped into the estate. Tomorrow she would hope that they had come to find those who were responsible; that they had come to punish the guilty. But right now, Sadia was tired, so very tired.
She sat on her favourite chair, and put her hands in her pockets to keep them warm. To her surprise, she felt something cool and round in one of them, and took it out: she was holding a gleaming white pearl. But as she examined its beauty, she realised she could stay awake no longer, and began to drift away where she sat. As she closed her eyes she fell away to another world, a world where the boy was singing to her again with all his heart. He sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace, though mostly he sang the praises of Allah. And with all her heart she wept.
EDIT: Hm, the apostrophies appear to have borked. Sorry about that.
With all his heart, the boy sang to her, and with all her heart she wept with joy. Masum was the gift that her husband had left to her when he died, and this gift was special in so many ways. Sadia never stopped smiling when she was with him.
Since before he could talk, it seemed, Masum liked to sing. His every word that flowed from his mouth had a rhythmic quality that sailed through the air like a feather floating to the floor, and when he read passages from the Koran to his mother, Masum brought the words of Mohammad alive. Though as much as she enjoyed listening to him speak, she loved to hear him sing, and as he sang to her now, tears of joy rolled down her cheeks.
Even at seven years of age, Masum did not know any tunes, let alone the lyrics that may go with them. Instead, he sang whatever felt right to him, and to Sadia, her son’s songs were better than any which had been recited in the past thousand years. Masum sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace. He sang of birds that flew, and fish that swam, but mostly he sang the praises of Allah, and all the while his mother cried at the beautiful music. She was forever proud of his gift, of her gift, of her son.
Masum stopped singing when the noisy-smelly man from next door clapped and grinned at him, then showed his dirty toothy smile to Sadia. The noisy-smelly man was poking his crooked face over at them from the other side of the fence. Sadia didn’t know that he had been listening; she had wanted to keep Masum’s gift all to herself – Masum was, after all, her gift given to her by Miraj before he left to lay so very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. She knew that others didn’t always like his songs – sometimes they didn’t understand them, and sometimes they didn’t want to listen.
Masum, on the other hand, was happy that someone else wanted to listen to him – he liked to sing for anyone, for everyone. He too, knew that not everyone wanted to hear him though, and was glad when anyone appeared to show such enthusiasm.
The noisy-smelly man beckoned the boy over to him, and asked him to hold out his hand, and close his eyes. The noisy-smelly man loved to hear Masum’s songs. He didn’t pretend to always understand them, but they always warmed his heart. For years, it seemed to him, he had been covertly listening through walls and fences at the wonderful words, and was happy at last to see the boy sing them up close.
Masum felt something cold in his hand, and then heard the noisy-smelly man clap again. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was now holding a small collection of shiny coins – more money than he had ever held in his life. He looked up at the noisy-smelly man, who was giving him his dirty-toothed grin.
The noisy-smelly man whispered in Masum’s ear – he told him to waste the money on sweets and toys. The boy was to spend it all, he said, to spend it all on drinks that went ‘fizz’ and chocolate that melted in the hand.
Masum looked to his mother, who was smiling nervously. For a moment, he thought that she was going to take his present away. He was relieved when she nodded her acceptance.
Without squandering any precious chocolate moments, he ran from his mother and the noisy-smelly man towards the shops. He ran down the dark path between the old houses, the path with rubbish of every sort which littered its sides; the path with the barking dogs; the path with the bigger boys that sat on the wall.
The path his mother told him to never follow.
Just this once wouldn’t hurt, he thought to himself. It was much quicker this way, and at the end of the path, Masum could see the tiny corner store.
At the end of the path between Masum and the shop was the dirty grey wall, on which the bigger boys sometimes sat. They were there now, drinking from gold and silver cans, and they smiled as he passed them, but said nothing.
He cheerfully crossed the road, and went into the shop, immediately eyeing up everything he fancied, from ice cream to sherbet lemons and fizzy drinks. He had more than enough money for everything he desired. But every time he reached for something he wanted, a pain inside him told him his mother would like to share his present from the noisy-smelly man. Eventually, Masum compromised with his conscience, leaving with only the bare necessities: a chocolate bar that was so large it would last him a week, and a can of orange fizzy drink. He hoped that he wouldn’t upset the noisy-smelly man by not wasting it all like he promised.
He began to sing to himself as he walked home, and as he turned towards the path between the houses, he felt happier than he ever had.
Then somebody else laughed behind him, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. Masum fell quiet as soon as he heard it - it was a mean laugh, a sort of guttural groan that made his heart sink. It was a laugh meant to mock him.
Masum turned to see that five of the bigger boys stood just a few feet away – he hadn’t seen them on the wall as he had walked back, and wasn’t sure if they had been following him the whole time. They smiled wide smiles as they begged him to sing for them, but for the first time he could remember, Masum didn’t want to. Then they walked towards him, calling him strange names he didn’t understand, or names he knew were not his. They said they knew what his father did, and that they didn’t like it.
Masum also knew what his father did, and he didn’t like it either – his father laid very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. He wondered where these other boys’ fathers were.
Once more, they asked him to sing for them, poking him in the ribs. Another walked behind him, and before he knew, his filthy hand was deep in Masum’s pockets, and out again: he had taken all his mothers money. He tried to snatch it back, but yet another boy pushed him away. They started calling him horrid names, laughing at him, joking about the songs they did not understand. They pushed him to the floor, saying untruths about his mother, and lies about his father. The chocolate in his hand was sticky, and he dropped it to the floor as one by one the boys began to circle him. One of them kicked him, and he cried out a little as he fell down. He was surprised when almost immediately the boys stopped, apparently surprised that what they were doing hurt him.
It was the last he would see of his money, he knew, and Masum kept as quiet as his mother had always told him to be with others. He no longer wanted the drinks that went ‘fizz’ – all he wanted was to be safe, to be with his mother again. He slowly stood up and kept walking toward his home. They called out after him, each cry a thousand horrible lies of things they did not understand. Under his breath, he began to sing to himself again. He found that the song gave him a little more happiness, and a little more hope.
But then the boys began to walk toward him again. Masum knew that he could not run to the end of the path before they caught him. It was too far home, and he had too few friends that were too far away.
And as time passed, the sun sailed across the sky.
It had been several hours since Masum had left for the shop, and he had never been this late before. Sadia knew that she should have gone with him, but now as she paced the hall of their home, she also knew he would be back soon, and that everything would be fine again. The noisy-smelly man from next door was out looking for Masum, and within a few minutes, perhaps less, he would knock on the door and bring her son home to her.
But as if out of her mind, she countered every one of these rational thoughts with the irrational and began to panic, looking through every place in her home where Masum could be hidden. He had to be playing a game - she knew she would find him, if only she kept looking.
Her ears ringing with worry, Sadia barely heard the knocking at the front door. But within moments she was downstairs, and fumbling with the locks to open it up and greet her son home. At the doorway stood the noisy-smelly neighbour, carrying Masum in his arms. The neighbour looked worse than usual, Sadia thought. His hair was greasy, as if he had been running for miles and even his dirty, toothy grin had vanished.
Sadia didn’t look at the lifeless body of Masum. She already knew. Instead, she simply cried as she fell against the wall, and the noisy-smelly man laid the child on the floor.
The police came, and made plenty of notes as they looked around her house, around Masum’s things, asking her questions. Eventually, they left, but she never knew at what time – the whole day was beginning to flow from one moment the next with such rapid succession that she wasn’t even sure if it was the same day anymore. They left her with promises she barely believed would be fulfilled, and with an aching heart.
The funeral came quickly – far too quickly for Sadia. It still felt like only minutes had passed since she had been sat in the garden, listening to her son sing to her. But the funeral came, speeches were made, and sympathies were offered. Men that Sadia didn’t know came to her, and made genuine offers of help and support, but she turned them all away. Today she wanted little more than to be with Masum again, though she knew she never would.
The noisy-smelly man from next door walked to her, and whispered in her ear to go home, and get some rest. As he did, she felt him slip something in her pocket.
As the sun set in the sky, Sadia went home alone while the men took Masum away to lay him very still six feet under English mud, not so far away, but yet somehow a hundred thousand miles from home. Just before she closed her front door behind her, she heard a police siren as a car sped into the estate. Tomorrow she would hope that they had come to find those who were responsible; that they had come to punish the guilty. But right now, Sadia was tired, so very tired.
She sat on her favourite chair, and put her hands in her pockets to keep them warm. To her surprise, she felt something cool and round in one of them, and took it out: she was holding a gleaming white pearl. But as she examined its beauty, she realised she could stay awake no longer, and began to drift away where she sat. As she closed her eyes she fell away to another world, a world where the boy was singing to her again with all his heart. He sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace, though mostly he sang the praises of Allah. And with all her heart she wept.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Alarmed. Again.
Those of you that have been blessed with the good fortune to have visited Kourosington Manor will know that there is a village store across the road, within a stones throw of the bathroom window in fact*.
Turns out the alarm in the shop decided to set itself off this morning. The alarm sounds somewhat similar to a vacuum cleaner and so it was quite a while before anyone decided to investigate. About half an hour, in fact.
At half past four in the morning I was fed up and went to look if there was a number I could call to let the manager know, coincidentally just as she turned up. Worried that this would make me look suspicious, I hid in my porch. Not that that would make me look even more suspicious or anything if she saw me, which I think she did. Bugger.
And now I'm wide awake. Bugger again. If anyone needs me, I'll be in chat.
* May or may not have tried this.
Turns out the alarm in the shop decided to set itself off this morning. The alarm sounds somewhat similar to a vacuum cleaner and so it was quite a while before anyone decided to investigate. About half an hour, in fact.
At half past four in the morning I was fed up and went to look if there was a number I could call to let the manager know, coincidentally just as she turned up. Worried that this would make me look suspicious, I hid in my porch. Not that that would make me look even more suspicious or anything if she saw me, which I think she did. Bugger.
And now I'm wide awake. Bugger again. If anyone needs me, I'll be in chat.
* May or may not have tried this.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
The Calm After the Storm.
Inbetween this post and my last one, there exists another. You can't read it, at least not yet. I think if anyone at w**k found it I would be liable to be sacked.
It is a lengthy diatribe about my w**k and the pointlessness thereof. I was (and am) sick of being put upon, and, well, it's time to move on. It's time that I found myself some purpose in life, and did something I am proud of.
It's time I grew up.
I'm going to start looking for something to make me fulfilled, not just a "I think I can do that" type of job, but something I really want to do. More than that though I need to decide what I want to do first. I need to decide who I am.
So I looked down my list on 43Things and made a few choices.
And then I added a few. Things I really want to see myself doing over the course of my lifetime, and perhaps more importantly, things I would like to do now. I'm going to take each goal in babysteps, and see where it takes me. These aren't career-making decisions, but steps towards being me.
First off is Never Eating at Macdonalds Again. Chosen because it seems simple enough, it's really a biggie. I'm not a huge MaccieD fan, but every once in a while I get a hankering for it, and then feel sick after I've eaten it. It goes against everything I believe in regarding food - badly sourced, badly prepared, badly served, bad food.
It represents everything that is wrong with my life at the moment - petty things that I carry on doing even though I hate them usually because it's the easy way out in the short term.
I haven't had a MacDonalds for some weeks now, and I've not really thought about it in the interim. Now I write this though, I really want a Cheeseburger. Or perhaps two.
Can I go without for the rest of my life? Because that's what this challenge means: Never eating there again. I half want to say probably not, but that's being overly pessimistic. I half want to say Yes! but I know that if I do have one I'll feel that I have failed. And if I fail at this effectively basic task that reflects a feeling I hold true anyway, how can I succeed at turning my life around?
I guess all I can go with is We'll See. This is a baby step decision that I can make from the comfort of my study, but the real challenges are going to come about when I step out into the real world... if I can face a little challenge each week maybe I can make it add up to something amazing.
Just maybe.
It is a lengthy diatribe about my w**k and the pointlessness thereof. I was (and am) sick of being put upon, and, well, it's time to move on. It's time that I found myself some purpose in life, and did something I am proud of.
It's time I grew up.
I'm going to start looking for something to make me fulfilled, not just a "I think I can do that" type of job, but something I really want to do. More than that though I need to decide what I want to do first. I need to decide who I am.
So I looked down my list on 43Things and made a few choices.
- Do I really want to be an editor? I don't know... so off the list it comes (for now at least).
- Do I really want to make a kite camera? Hell yes! It won't give me an annual wage, but it'll be cool! I left that one on there.
- Do I really want to watch the Lord of the Rings extended versions in one sitting? I wouldn't mind, but it's not something to aspire to. Off that one came too.
And then I added a few. Things I really want to see myself doing over the course of my lifetime, and perhaps more importantly, things I would like to do now. I'm going to take each goal in babysteps, and see where it takes me. These aren't career-making decisions, but steps towards being me.
First off is Never Eating at Macdonalds Again. Chosen because it seems simple enough, it's really a biggie. I'm not a huge MaccieD fan, but every once in a while I get a hankering for it, and then feel sick after I've eaten it. It goes against everything I believe in regarding food - badly sourced, badly prepared, badly served, bad food.
It represents everything that is wrong with my life at the moment - petty things that I carry on doing even though I hate them usually because it's the easy way out in the short term.
I haven't had a MacDonalds for some weeks now, and I've not really thought about it in the interim. Now I write this though, I really want a Cheeseburger. Or perhaps two.
Can I go without for the rest of my life? Because that's what this challenge means: Never eating there again. I half want to say probably not, but that's being overly pessimistic. I half want to say Yes! but I know that if I do have one I'll feel that I have failed. And if I fail at this effectively basic task that reflects a feeling I hold true anyway, how can I succeed at turning my life around?
I guess all I can go with is We'll See. This is a baby step decision that I can make from the comfort of my study, but the real challenges are going to come about when I step out into the real world... if I can face a little challenge each week maybe I can make it add up to something amazing.
Just maybe.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Morons.
I hate to blog just to post a funny link, but if you don't care, skip to the bottom, otherwise here follows a brief whinge about w**k. If you'ce had no experience of Microsoft's Great Plains, skip to the end. This will be dull.
Microsoft Great Plains is the biggest piece of monkey that I have ever had the misfortune to use. Normally I am willing to forgive software for various failings - software is software and I don't think anything is infallible. Least of all me.
BUT...
A (hypothetical) O with the "OK" button indicates that by pressing alt+O in a screen will automatically select the same said OK button. All well and groovy. An equally hypothetical N given with the "Next" button means that a new document will be opened. The whole program gies priority to all alt functions to the menu bar - fair enough. But it still hands out the same alt functions willy nilly to other windows, seemingly at random.
You cannot look at more than one order at a time. This is really useful when you are editing a very large order and your boss phones wanting to know how the order for XYZ is doing...
You can't close an order, although no information has been entered. You can't delete the order because you don't have enough privileges. You can void the order, but it won't let you as you haven't entered the order type, the order ID and created a master number.
You cannot close an enquiry window if the item enquired about does not exist. You must first delete the line and then close it. Similarly if an item in an order does not exist, you cannot void the order.
There is no such thing as "Fuzzy" searches. You have to type in exactly what you are looking for, from left to right. No wildcards either. This is really useful when customer do not know what they are looking for, only the author, part of an ISBN or part of a title.
Anyway... this made me chuckle.
Microsoft Great Plains is the biggest piece of monkey that I have ever had the misfortune to use. Normally I am willing to forgive software for various failings - software is software and I don't think anything is infallible. Least of all me.
BUT...
A (hypothetical) O with the "OK" button indicates that by pressing alt+O in a screen will automatically select the same said OK button. All well and groovy. An equally hypothetical N given with the "Next" button means that a new document will be opened. The whole program gies priority to all alt functions to the menu bar - fair enough. But it still hands out the same alt functions willy nilly to other windows, seemingly at random.
You cannot look at more than one order at a time. This is really useful when you are editing a very large order and your boss phones wanting to know how the order for XYZ is doing...
You can't close an order, although no information has been entered. You can't delete the order because you don't have enough privileges. You can void the order, but it won't let you as you haven't entered the order type, the order ID and created a master number.
You cannot close an enquiry window if the item enquired about does not exist. You must first delete the line and then close it. Similarly if an item in an order does not exist, you cannot void the order.
There is no such thing as "Fuzzy" searches. You have to type in exactly what you are looking for, from left to right. No wildcards either. This is really useful when customer do not know what they are looking for, only the author, part of an ISBN or part of a title.
Anyway... this made me chuckle.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Conversation.
In response to Stu's Blog, I had the (mis)fortune of having a brief discussion with a spammer the other day, and I felt I should share. I don't really know why, but it does give an insight into the mindset.
The original email arrived on my work server. It was your standard pyramid spam affair about sending a nominal amount (£3) to the person at the top of the list, removing their name and adding yourself to the bottom before forwarding on to everyone you know and any random emails you can come up with. I had been having a bad day and decided to respond - I know the vast majority of the time spammers use fake addresses and ID but just this once it seemed to be a genuine soul.
If you don't like bad language, stop reading now, otherwise the rest of the conversation went as follows:
To: pb1971@ntlworld.com
Don't be a cock.
I like to keep things to the point. As I suggested above, I was pissed off (not least at having my time wasted) and so vented my anger. I was somewhat surprised when he responded...
pb1971@ntlworld.com Tue, Jul 12, 2005 at 2:39 PM
Peter,
Tried this 3 times £6,400 first time, £8,800 second time and £6,900 last time!!!!!
Don't mind been a cock if I can earn £22,000+ in 2 months for doing nothing!!!!!
Anyway must get back to watching the cricket with a few beers in my back garden.
Enjoy your day in the office.
Kindest Regards!
This really annoyed me, not least because he was treating scamming people out of their money as a good thing (regardless of the individual value). But the fact that he truly felt he was on to a good thing yet causing annoyance to others somehow irked me - was this jealousy? Maybe, but I replied...
To: "pb1971@ntlworld.com"
Ok, I'm going to be blunt here... in the UK, pyramid schemes are illegal. Your email promoted a pyramid scheme which you are evidently a part of. You already know this, so I'll move on.
Have you thought about the person at the bottom of the pyramid? The one paying out the £3 (however "low-risk") but still losing out? I bet you haven't.
Do you stop to consider the impact that the mass daily deluge of spam (of which your original email was a part) has on mail servers? If you think I'm joking, read this link.
But I'll bet you don't care about that either.
Have you considered that the scheme you are promoting is against Paypals Terms and Conditions? I quote: "You may not use PayPal to send or receive payments for any form of multi-level marketing programs (including online payment randomizers), as well as matrix, pyramid and Ponzi schemes, "get rich quick" scheme, or other similar ventures."
No? No care about that? Have you earned that money, or have you stolen it through fraud and deception? Can you 100% guarantee that everything you promise in that email will come to fruition?
As I said before, you are a cock. But I will clarify: You are a selfish, self indulgent, mal-informed piece of filth. I quite seriously, and without a quiver in my heart hope that someone pissed in your beer.
I will, and do enjoy my day in the office. A long term investment, which I know is within the ethics of the norms of society.
Yours,
Peter Bancroft
OK, so I lied about enjoying my work, but even still I eagerly await his next reply, though I fear I may be left hanging.
The original email arrived on my work server. It was your standard pyramid spam affair about sending a nominal amount (£3) to the person at the top of the list, removing their name and adding yourself to the bottom before forwarding on to everyone you know and any random emails you can come up with. I had been having a bad day and decided to respond - I know the vast majority of the time spammers use fake addresses and ID but just this once it seemed to be a genuine soul.
If you don't like bad language, stop reading now, otherwise the rest of the conversation went as follows:
To: pb1971@ntlworld.com
Don't be a cock.
I like to keep things to the point. As I suggested above, I was pissed off (not least at having my time wasted) and so vented my anger. I was somewhat surprised when he responded...
pb1971@ntlworld.com
Peter,
Tried this 3 times £6,400 first time, £8,800 second time and £6,900 last time!!!!!
Don't mind been a cock if I can earn £22,000+ in 2 months for doing nothing!!!!!
Anyway must get back to watching the cricket with a few beers in my back garden.
Enjoy your day in the office.
Kindest Regards!
This really annoyed me, not least because he was treating scamming people out of their money as a good thing (regardless of the individual value). But the fact that he truly felt he was on to a good thing yet causing annoyance to others somehow irked me - was this jealousy? Maybe, but I replied...
To: "pb1971@ntlworld.com"
Ok, I'm going to be blunt here... in the UK, pyramid schemes are illegal. Your email promoted a pyramid scheme which you are evidently a part of. You already know this, so I'll move on.
Have you thought about the person at the bottom of the pyramid? The one paying out the £3 (however "low-risk") but still losing out? I bet you haven't.
Do you stop to consider the impact that the mass daily deluge of spam (of which your original email was a part) has on mail servers? If you think I'm joking, read this link.
But I'll bet you don't care about that either.
Have you considered that the scheme you are promoting is against Paypals Terms and Conditions? I quote: "You may not use PayPal to send or receive payments for any form of multi-level marketing programs (including online payment randomizers), as well as matrix, pyramid and Ponzi schemes, "get rich quick" scheme, or other similar ventures."
No? No care about that? Have you earned that money, or have you stolen it through fraud and deception? Can you 100% guarantee that everything you promise in that email will come to fruition?
As I said before, you are a cock. But I will clarify: You are a selfish, self indulgent, mal-informed piece of filth. I quite seriously, and without a quiver in my heart hope that someone pissed in your beer.
I will, and do enjoy my day in the office. A long term investment, which I know is within the ethics of the norms of society.
Yours,
Peter Bancroft
OK, so I lied about enjoying my work, but even still I eagerly await his next reply, though I fear I may be left hanging.
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