Posts from 9th November 2005

Nov 05

Is all Science Teaching in the US this crap?

Proven By SciencePost a comment • 280 views

bbc news natch

Teachers have been ordered to tell pupils that Darwin’s theory of evolution is unproven, and that the universe is so complex that it may have been created by a higher power. … certain evolutionary explanations “are not based on direct observations… and often reflect… inferences from indirect or circumstantial evidence”

Why pick on Darwin’s theory as unproven and containing explanations based on indirect observations? What about the theory that we all have great grandparents? What do you mean you have photos??? Call that direct observation, give me REAL evidence. A-and what do you mean the Earth isn’t hollow – SHOW ME THE PROOF – not graphs of sound bouncing off strata, what does that prove, eh? EH? ANd the back of my head??? MIRRORS, MIRRORS what’s DIRECT about MIRRORS you FUCKING IMBECILE.

Surely it’s just as likely that the centre of the earth and the back of my head are too complicated to understand and may have been made by, er, well anything. They COULD have been made by CRAZED SCIENTISTS wearing disco-wigs. A-and maybe they were only actually made hours ago and made to look like they’ve been that way for ages…


The whole ID thing just has me at an absolute loss sometimes and i drop into predictable sarcasm – i don’t think there’s any other appropriate response. As has been said more soberly elsewhere: SHOW US THE FUCKING SCIENCE..

Day 53: The Great Barrier REEF

I Hate MusicPost a comment • 242 views

Turns out I was a dab hand at the surfing business. It was not that hard when you think about it, it is just standing up after all whilst the world around you tips and yaws wildly. Not unlike navigating my way home after a night out on the Bombay Sapphire in the more exclusive bars of Soho. Without the violent need to vomit at the same time.

Anyway, I had no desire to find myself back on Echo Beach someday. So instead, given half the chance I managed to steer my purloined surfboard a bit further out to sea. There seem to be a cluster of dwellings parked on the sea itself which, with a bit of skilful navigation I made it too.

A remarkable place I had found myself in. An exclusive hotel parked in the middle of an ocean. My initial thought was that it must be some form of cruise liner, a latter day Titanic, hopefully without the Celine Dion theme tune. Was she rubbing it in telling me that her heart will go on? Not if I have anything to do with it.

“The Grand Oceanic Hotel” was the name of this unique venture, and I could not see how it was moored. It was no cruise liner, that much I could see. I was initially crestfallen, cruise liners mean down on their luck eighties bands that I could mock. However I soon realised that a hotel meant one thing. HOTEL BAR. I ran straight down to the bizarre bar. Underwater, there were massive port-holes where the sealife teamed around some sort of nobbly stuff – clearly these were the foundations of the hotel. I quickly ordered a triple G&T and got chatting with barman with a lop-sided face.

“Pray tell me why this hotel is out in the Ocean life this.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“I’m here for the bouze.”
“Ah most people come here for the Reef.”
He managed to say Great Barrier before I went screaming from the bar. A fucking huge barrier is what I would need if Reef were about.


What did we do to deserve Reef? Straggly haired Cornish types playing some sort of foghorn blues. We had dispatched Free twenty years before, when the British public had come to their senses and realised that it was not All Right Now. So why on earth would the GBP want what was to all intents and purposes a Free Tribute Band, so much so that their name was an anagram.

Place Your Hands: a song so dire than it made me want to place my hands, in a throttling grip, around their necks. Sophistication, charm, debonair bon vivant flair, these are all concepts which are so alien to the members of Reef that it would be more likely to see a single celled organism displaying them than a member of Reef. They surfed too, you know. British surfers, is there anything worse. Oh yes: British surfers who are in Reef.

To bring up the Chris Evans connection would be unfair to Reef, and certainly it does not do any more to prove their utter wretchedness. Suffice to say that hear “Its Your Letters” bellowed out by the band every week should have been humiliation enough for them. It would if the words “Its Your Letters” were not a startling improvement on the lyrics they had penned themselves.

I am not sure where Reef are now, and hope the have disbanded and are now running poorly stocked surf shacks on beaches without waves. Nevertheless I always thought it was apt that the most unpleasant of the alcopops was named after them. Aurally they were very much the equivalent of a Kiwi Fruit and Cranberry Cooler.

Crap inventions corner

Proven By SciencePost a comment • 1,198 views

What is left to invent? I am sure there are plenty of potential inventors out there sitting around, moping, thinking that there is nothing left for them to devise. Anyone who feels they could have come up with, say, the radio must be a bit annoyed that knowledge of highly complex solid state electronics is needed to invent anything of import anymore.

Well, any flick through the TV shopping channels of today will prove that this is not true. Why, even on Channel U – the unsigned (for a reason) music channel on Sky brings up new, exciting inventions. And of course, the best way to present said inventions is via a short drama which could be a slice of life from any house in the UK.

A girl, a bit rushed off her feet, is scrabbling together some breakfast. Then, OH NO, orange juice goes tumbling all over her brothers trucker hat. He’s not happy, and as she promises to by him a new bit of Von Dutch tat you can tell that she is spending the last of her savings to make good. If only there was a way of cleaning that cap.

WELL THERE IS! Go to if you don’t believe me. A rigid plastic frame to put your cap in, which can then be put in the washing machine or EVEN the dishwasher. Its so good the advert hubristically suggests YOU MAY NEVER NEED TO BUY ANOTHER CAP AGAIN!

Why did John Logie Baird muck about with cathode ray tubes eh?

True Meaning Of Chri$tma$

Blog 7Post a comment • 407 views

Many a CARPER likes to have a good old WHINE about the commercialisation of Wobs and how it starts earlier every year etc etc. Yeah yeah stop your YAPPING, we went down to Brighton on Saturday and decided on a bit of early Xmas shopping but we could hardly even find an Advent Calendar and certainly not a nice one. COME ON – it’s the first weekend of November, the feast of MAMMON should totally be in full swing.

Also it’s an Advent Calendar! If there’s one bit of Xmas tat which it is totally justifiable, in fact NECESSARY to get on sale before Dec 1 then it’s the A.C.


Baileys Brand Extensions!!!!

Pumpkin PublogPost a comment • 930 views

We here at Freakytrigger have always kept a close eye at brand extensions. And the brand we most like to see extended poorly is Baileys. The sickly Irish Cream which is nominally likened to vanilla ice cream is a drink which has tried and failed a few times to extend the ways in which its sickeningly vile liquid can force itself down your throat. In the past your writer has forced the odd Bailey’s Glide down his throat in the interest of research: and accidentally discovered that this stab at a Baileys alcopop actually tasted better when diluted with vinegar. Putting the drink on a par with cockles.

But not put off by the complete failure of the Glide, the good people at Baileys have tried a new wheeze. Why not extend the flavours Baileys comes in? You know, like Coke with a twist of Vanilla? So advertised, and free sampling (thank god) at the airport were the two new flavours of Baileys: Chocolate Mint Baileys & Crème Caramel Baileys.

I don’t know if you have ever mixed Baileys with a bit of Crème de Menthe. I have. It also had some Tabasco in it and I believe a twist of Taboo. It was made for me on the day I finished my finals. I knocked it back in one and proceeded to eat a cigar. So in as much as the Chocolate Mint Baileys would reduce by one the number of ingredients required to make this cocktail is a good thing. The fact that this cocktail should never be repeated again is not.

The Crème Caramel version confused me a touch, in as much as it was a more vanilla flavoured version of Baileys. Considering I had always assumed Baileys was vanilla flavoured it came as a bit of a shock. Not a particularly pleasant shock. Possibly akin to believing Spike Milligan in Curry and Chips was an accurate portrayal of an Indian immigrant, and then meeting a real one. The whole affair was rather embarrassing, which is much like ordering or drinking Baileys anyway. Hanging around the “Baileys Bar” in Gatwick was doing nothing for my street (airport) cred. Yet again, Baileys tries to extend its brand only to overextend it.

Trust me on This

The Brown WedgePost a comment • 353 views

You can tell that republicans are in the white house and borgies are making mad bank, because people are spending batshit money at auctions, esp. the american impressionist, modern and post war–but not the crazy conceptual stuff.

From the Corkindrill’s Mouth!

The Brown WedgePost a comment • 255 views

Re. Monday’s post.

“The Wart did not know what Merlyn was talking about, but he liked him to talk. He did not like the grown-ups who talked down to him, but the ones who went on talking in their usual way, leaving him to leap along in their wake, jumping at meanings, guessing, clutching at known words, and chuckling at complicated jokes as they suddenly dawned. He had the glee of the porpoise then, pouring and leaping through strange seas.”

Fair enough then!

It Wouldn’t Happen To A Seabrooks

Pumpkin PublogPost a comment • 201 views

Num Num. Rich vein of quirkies today on the ‘Nova, even if food science strongly suggests that the item may have got into the crisps by means other than chance.

Good Booked

TMFDPost a comment • 199 views

Football hardman finds God, loses edge – game toned down on orders of the big Gaffer in the sky. Great story though I’m not sure of the theology – God may disapprove of fouls, but His position on handballs suggests that this is hardly clear-cut.

Whats the Matter with Normal

The Brown WedgePost a comment • 298 views

I have been of late reading monographs from famous transgressive photographers—Essays on Mapplethorpe, Nan Goldin’s I Will Be Your Mirror, Arbus’ Revelations, Wolfgang Tilman and a few others, and the work that chills/excites/moves/ me are not the ones that are supposed to, the nudists, the circus freaks, the fisting, the heroin addicts and the hard cocks—what is supposed to transgress has become boring.

Desire escapes, a limpid balloon on a line, and I want something else. The pictures that transgress for me, are the throw away shots, the super commercial work, the formal work, the photographs that are the closest to normal.

Mapplethorpe’s portraits from the 70s, including Patti Smith’s Horses, the sly and wise Ianna Sonnabend, Louis Bourgeois holding a phallus with a grin. All of the ones that look like they should be on the back page of disposable Catalogs, the well light and well designed skill of a Parson design graduate is soft, lapidary, exquisite, and much better then any man with his elbow up somebody’s arse. Or a scant 6 pages in the Nan Goldin volume, a two page spread of black trees and green grass taken out of a train window, on the way to Berlin and two shots broken horizontally, across a single page. One of fog bound skyscrapers in Kyoto and a medium close up of pink blossoms. The Arbus photos are the formal and well posed work with her husband at Vogue. Clear, concise, ripping away the rococo silliness of 50s pop, in black and white. Wolfgang Tilliman’s oranges, squash, tomatoes, on the window sill.

Think of it this way—each of these photographers have a public personae that assumes total honesty; an emotional frankness. They take pictures that are voyeuristic. But they are not honest, and they are not voyeuristic, they are carefully composed, surgically constructed to slice taboos, but the cleanness of the photos and blandness of something that is not supposed to be bland betrays. Think of the photos mentioned in the previous paragraph. They are commercial work, intended for other people, or tourist shots meant to pad a book, or playing with another genre. They are at a point, where the photographer says something that is unrelated to the construction of personae. Considering how rare that is, its surprising that they are not written about more often.

(Think about AA Breakfast by Tillman’s and what he really ate for breakfast. AA Breakfast is a sex act photographed high above the earth, on the way to England. It’s a nice penis. It is a well-composed shot, well light, with excellent tendencies towards colour. It’s also exactly the kind of photograph expected by consumers of Tillman’s and it is the work that got him famous. It is unrelated to the everyday, quotidian practice that marks the strength of the best work. The best work is another breakfast, one of muesli, yogurt, fruit, well light, and so close to a still life, not quite Northern.)