To be fair though, I was right

I deleted my Twitter account today. I deleted my Facebook account early this week so I suppose it has been coming, but I didn't see it coming. I had been merrily tweeting away just minutes before, in fact.

But I have, for a number of years now, earnestly been telling everyone who listens that I think Twitter has become something of a social problem and I'm pleased that I've finally demonstrated any kind of moral backbone. If I'm completely honest, I had only been maintaining my Twitter account because I had joined the VENERABLE MICROBLOGGING™ SITE in February 2007 and as such was something of an early adopter. It made me feel like an internet wizard.

When it came to the crunch, it was all Andrea Leadsom's fault.

Earlier in the morning I'd tweeted that Andrea Leadsom is a daft moo. John Dobson, who is well worth following if you are one of the BRAINWASHED SHEEPLE still on Twitter, replied "but... she's... a mother", which if you ask me was a pretty ribald comeback.

I replied that I had not implied she wasn't my moral superior, merely stating that she was a [lots of swearwords] moo. This obviously triggered a mechanism deep within the bowels of the Twitter engine. Irregardless of the fact I had at no point tagged Andrea Leadsom (the daft moo) anywhere, nor referenced her in the specific tweet that Twitter took umbrage at, I was naughty stepped for 12 hours.

Hmm, I thought. This seems punitive, considering that earlier this week Twitter had let Leave.EU tweet a bundle of hideous racism without so much as a query. I concluded that Twitter was, finally, broken beyond repair.

Andrea Leadsom IS a daft moo. Swearing is wrong.

So, I finally gave Twitter what it has wanted from me for 12 long years - my mobile phone number - so that I could delete the offending tweet and be redeemed, welcomed back into the bosom of society once again. But! It was my cunning plan. As soon as I was back into my unlocked account, I FUCKIN' DEACTIVATED IT! Woof. Game, set and match to me.

So anyway, that's why I'm not on Twitter any more. Or Facebook. Actually, there are different reasons for my leaving Facebook which I will not trouble you with, but needless to say I was right about that, too. If my parting has caused you unimaginable grief, you can still find me here, on Instagram or you can email me using the email address you will find on this very site.

If I like you enough, maybe we'll even become WhatsApp buddies? (Yeah, right)

My only regret is that almost everyone who actually wants to be party to this information will never see it, because I can't tweet it out. Still, I figure if you're not clever enough to have found it anyway, I almost certainly didn't want to talk to you.

This is why I fear no backlash from Andrea Leadsom, who is a daft moo.

Formula 2017

This Sunday sees the opening race of the 2017 FIA Formula 1 World Championship season. On Monday night, with this in mind, a peculiar thing happened to me: the wife said that she was getting more interested by the F1 races. This is presumably due to her continued hazardously toxic exposure to me, but whatever the reason, she said it and there are no take-backs. As a result, I plan to spend this season trying to indoctrinate her to my own poisonous ends: i.e. watching motor racing all the time.

To this end I thought I should begin with a pre-season primer, a broad sweep looking at the coming Grand Prix year and pointing out some potential areas of interest. Maybe it will work on her. Maybe it won't, but it will work on you. I hope so. Formula 1 motor racing, even when it is at its most soporiphic and tedious (which is anything up to 85% of the time), is GREAT and I love it.

THE FORMULA

Formula 1 is called "Formula" 1 because the cars are designed to a formula: that is, regulations which stipulate everything about the dimensions of the car, the specifications of the tyres it is allowed to run and the size and type of engine. If you didn't know that, I have just BLOWN YOUR MIND.

This year, the Formula has changed. Cars are now wider than they were last year, with bigger tyres which offer more grip and more downforce - 35% more downforce, in some cases - coming from the increased allowances in the size of the aerodynamics. The effect of all this is increased performance, a much needed change since the previous formula, which began in 2014, had seen the drivers forced to drive their cars below their full limitation in order to finish races in the shortest possible time. A 2017-spec Formula 1 car will probably begin the season lapping 4 to 4.5 seconds faster than its 2016 counterpart, with potential increases of up to 5 to 6 seconds per lap by the time the circus reaches Abu Dhabi in November.

The likely result of this: more spectacular cars, more physical and mental challenge for the drivers and more flat-out driving on Sunday afternoons due to more the durable redesigned Pirelli tyres. The racing cars actually being able to race each other on the circuit may prove more difficult to due increases in aerodynamic turbulence and shorter braking distances. However, the passing we do see should be purer - less based on strategic factors - than it has been in recent years.

The rules have also been tweaked. Instead of lengthy safety car periods, red flag stoppages are making a welcome return to Formula 1. Rather than countless neutralised laps behind the pace car, eating away at the total distance, races will now be stopped and the remaining competitors subject to a standing restart on the grid. It should add a little extra spice to proceedings.

Pirelli continue as the sole supplier of Formula 1 rubber. There are five compounds of dry tyre available: Ultrasoft, Supersoft, Soft, Medium and Hard. Three of these compounds will be available at each race, with drivers able to choose their own allocation of each. Drivers need to run at least two different types of tyre in each race, meaning that there will be at least one pit stop each.

Finally, over the winter there was a major change behind the scenes, as Bernie Ecclestone finally relinquished control of the sport he has dominated since the 1970s to the American company Liberty Media. Expect a brief period of harmony followed by inevitable, relentless, politics.

An racing car driver, yesterday

THE COMPETITORS

AMG MERCEDES-BENZ

Mercedes have dominated Formula 1 since the sport switched to 1.6 litre turbocharged hybrid power units for the 2014 season. Of the 59 Grands Prix of the hybrid era so far, Mercedes have won 51. Last season they won a record-breaking 19 races from the 21 events, with Nico Rosberg winning nine to snatch his first World Championship. It was a Herculean effort from Rosberg, who promptly decided that he was spent and retired from Formula 1 in the following week.

Car 44: LEWIS HAMILTON (GB)
Born: 7th January 1985, Stevenage. Age: 32
First GP: Australia 2007
Statistics: 188 races; 53 wins; 61 pole positions; 31 fastest laps; 2247 points. 2008, 2014 and 2015 World Champion.

Car 77: VALTTERI BOTTAS (SF)
Born: 28th August 1989, Nastola. Age: 27
First GP: Australia 2013
Statistics: 77 races; 2 second places; 1 fastest lap; 411 points. Best Championship: 4th (2014).

Hamilton is now driving his fourth season at Mercedes, an association which has brought him 32 Grand Prix wins in 78 starts. If the new car is on the leading pace, Lewis Hamilton is the most likely World Champion of 2017 because he is the most complete driver on the grid. This is the Lewis Hamilton-era of Grand Prix racing, whether people like it or not. Bottas moves across from Williams to replace Rosberg. 2017 will most likely prove to be the Finn's first season in a front-running car and so he has it all yet to prove. I would expect him to win his first race this year, but beating his teammate consistently will almost certainly be beyond his capabilities.

FERRARI

Ferrari have endured a fallow period since the departure of Michael Schumacher at the end of 2006. Their last championship title came in 2007 and, since the hybrid era began in 2014, the sport's most historically successful team have won just three races, all the victories coming in 2015. Pre-season testing suggests that this year's car is much improved, however and Ferrari go into this year's Championship chasing the title.

Car 5: SEBASTIAN VETTEL (D)
Born: 3rd July 1987, Heppenheim. Age: 29
First GP: United States 2007
Statistics: 178 races; 42 wins; 46 pole positions; 28 fastest laps; 2108 points. 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013 World Champion.

Car 7: KIMI RAIKKONEN (SF)
Born: 17th October 1979, Espoo. Age: 37
First GP: Australia 2001
Statistics: 252 races; 20 wins; 16 pole positions; 43 fastest laps; 1360 points. 2007 World Champion.

Vettel has won more world titles than any other active Grand Prix driver but the Hamilton domination of the hybrid era has seen rather slim pickings for the German. He failed to win a race in 2016, the second season in the last four where he came up empty handed. However, if the Ferrari is quick enough to get Vettel pole positions in 2017, expect him to win a lot of races: there is no better front-runner in the field and he could easily win a fifth world title this year. Raikkonen, the oldest driver on the grid, hasn't won a race since the Australian GP in 2013 but is one of the most consistent, reliable and canny drivers in Formula 1. Quick enough to beat Vettel over a season? Probably not, but he only just missed out last year.

RED BULL RACING-TAG HEUER

Red Bull consistently produce the most admired chassis in the field but the hybrid era has seen them hamstrung by a weak engine. Don't be fooled by the name: Red Bull are powered by a factory team-specification Renault unit. There are signs that Renault have started to make significant strides towards equalising their performance with the Mercedes and Ferrari powertrains and if they have, a tantalisingly competitive season could be in prospect.

Car 3: DANIEL RICCIARDO (AUS)
Born: 1st July 1989, Perth. Age: 27
First GP: Britain 2011
Statistics: 109 races; 4 wins; 1 pole position; 8 fastest laps; 616 points. Best Championship: 3rd (2014 and 2016)

Car 33: MAX VERSTAPPEN (NL)
Born: 30th September 1997, Hasselt (Belgium). Age: 19.
First GP: Australia 2015
Statistics: 40 races; 1 win; 1 fastest lap; 253 points. Best Championship: 5th (2016).

Red Bull boast what is perhaps the strongest driver line-up in the field. Max Verstappen arrived from the junior Toro Rosso team mid-way through last season and promptly won his first race, the youngest driver ever to win a Grand Prix. His explosive, aggressive talent makes him the hottest prospect in Formula 1. Daniel Ricciardo was the moral victor of last year's Monaco Grand Prix, his brilliant weekend's work spoilt by a tactical mistake by his team in the pits. He is the sport's most bold, daring and exciting racing driver and well capable of putting a Championship tilt together in the right car. The most likely one to wear the "future World Champion" crown? Probably Verstappen, but only on account of his age.

FORCE INDIA-MERCEDES

Force India had their best ever season in F1 last term. Aided by the superiority of their Mercedes engine and their wise decision to live within their financial means by not maintaining their own wind tunnel or building their own gearbox sees them focus their attention on the things that really matter. All of this is moot, of course, since they painted their new car pink and that became the only thing anyone noticed. But make no mistake, Force India are now a team who are capable of winning a race if things go their way.

Car 11: SERGIO PEREZ (MX)
Born: 26th January 1990, Guadalajara. Age: 27
First GP: Australia 2011
Statistics: 114 races; 2 second places; 3 fastest laps; 367 points. Best Championship: 7th (2016)

Car 31: ESTEBAN OCON (F)
Born: 17th September 1996, Evreux. Age: 21
First GP: Belgium 2016
Statistics: 9 races, no points.

Sergio Perez spent 2016 showing distinct signs of a hitherto unseen maturity. Previously, his Grand Prix performances had been lacking in consistency and alarmingly prone to wild and woolly on-track behaviour. Last season, though, he delivered two third place finishes and scored points on 16 occasions from 21 races, including in the last ten consecutive events: Perez looks like a driver coming into his prime. His new teammate, Ocon, spent half of last season racing for Manor but is a protege of Mercedes-Benz. 2017 is his first real chance to show what he can do, but the signs are very promising. His speed is allied to significant consistency: Ocon has so far finished every Grand Prix he has started.

WILLIAMS-MERCEDES

Williams are marking their 40th year as a Formula 1 constructor in 2017. They are the sport's third most successful team and the one that most neutrals root for. Their association with Mercedes-Benz has seen them pull themselves out of the doldrums to a certain degree, although last season was a little more disappointing than the two that had gone before it. Williams last won a race in 2012 and, like Force India, they will need things to go their way for that to change this year.

Car 18: LANCE STROLL (CDN)
Born: 29th October 1998, Montreal. Age: 18
New to Formula 1 this season

Car 19: FELIPE MASSA (BR)
Born: 25th April 1983, Sao Paulo. Age: 33
First GP: Australia 2002
Statistics: 250 races; 11 wins; 16 pole positions; 15 fastest laps; 1124 points. Best Championship: 2nd (2008)

Williams' driver line-up is perhaps the weakest on the grid, on paper at least. Lance Stroll, the son of a Canadian billionaire, is the field's only rookie at the start of 2017. He dominated last season's European Formula 3 championship, but there remain big question marks regarding his age, his experience, his consistency, his racecraft and his fitness for driving this new generation of more aggressive cars. Time will tell. His teammate is Felipe Massa, who was World Champion for 30 seconds in 2008 but hasn't won a race since he fractured his skull in a freak accident at the 2009 Hungarian Grand Prix. Massa's time as a top line Grand Prix driver is past, a fact of which he is sufficiently aware to have retired at the end of last season. However, Williams' main sponsor, Martini, contractually oblige the team to have one driver who is over 25 years of age (for the purposes of advertising hooch) and Massa found himself unretired again. He's a good driver, who at one point looked as though he was coming to be great, but Massa's likely benefit to Williams this season is his experience.

McLAREN-HONDA

McLaren are now presided over by American advertising guru Zac Brown, long-time president Ron Dennis - the divisive and controversial figure who had made McLaren into the second-most successful team in F1 history - having been acrimoniously deposed last year. They have also returned to running orange cars, a welcome return for the team's traditional colour after years in silver and grey. However, that is pretty much the only piece of positive news coming out of Woking, because the car is a shambles. This will be their third year with Honda engines and both companies are openly dreaming of divorce, following a disastrous pre-season where McLaren didn't manage to run a car for more than eleven consecutive laps because of reliability issues. Will Honda get there? All recent signs suggest that they probably won't. A desperate season looks to be in prospect for McLaren unless these problems can be resolved and they may even be trying to avoid the ignimony of finishing last.

Car 2: STOFFEL VANDOORNE (B)
Born: 26th March 1992, Kortrijk. Age: 24
Only GP: Bahrain 2016
Statistics: 1 race; 1 10th place; 1 point. Best Championship: 18th (2016)

Car 14: FERNANDO ALONSO (E)
Born: 29th July 1981, Oviedo. Age: 35
First GP: Australia 2001
Statistics: 273 races; 32 wins; 22 pole positions; 22 fastest laps; 1832 points. 2005 and 2006 World Champion.

One area where McLaren don't need to worry is in their driving strength. Fernando Alonso is one of the greatest Formula 1 drivers in the history of the sport but his luck (and judgement) are famously atrocious. Since his back-to-back titles with Renault and his fractious season as Lewis Hamilton's teammate in 2007, Alonso has managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with alarming consistency. He is not as adept at the politics of the sport as he perhaps thinks he is, which is a terrible pity because as a driver he is probably Hamilton's nearest rival. Since the retirement of Jenson Button, Alonso is the sport's most experienced active driver and he is starting to look royally fed up with McLaren and Honda's inability to give him what he wants, a third world title. His new teammate is the Belgian Stoffel Vandoorne. Vandoorne is highly rated thanks to a stellar and highly decorated career in the lower formulae, but more impressive yet was his drive in Bahrain last season, where sitting in for an injured Alonso he delivered a points finish in his debut Grand Prix. Paddock whispers are that Vandoorne is a potential future World Champion. But probably not in this car.

TORO ROSSO-RENAULT

Toro Rosso are Red Bull's junior team, operated out of Italy by what used to be the Minardi team. This will be their eleventh year in the sport and they have already brought through drivers like Sebastian Vettel and Max Verstappen. They have firmly established themselves as midfield runners now and are usually a good bet for picking up a lot of small points during the year. Whether or not they boast the resources or ambition to push on to challenge for podiums is open to question: often they start the season well then slide backwards as their better-funded opposition catch up. This year's neat car is also, finally, painted sufficiently differently to the Red Bull that colourblind people will be able to spot it at a glance.

Car 26: DANIIL KVYAT (RU)
Born: 26th April 1994, Ufa. Age: 22
First GP: Australia 2014
Statistics: 57 races; 1 second place; 1 fastest lap; 128 points. Best Championship: 7th (2015).

Car 55: CARLOS SAINZ JR (E)
Born: 1st September 1994, Madrid. Age: 22
First GP: Australia 2015
Statistics: 40 races; 3 sixth places; 64 points. Best Championship: 12th (2016)

Toro Rosso's brief is to provide a home for young drivers in the Red Bull program, with a view to establishing them in Formula 1. As such, it is a peculiarly brutal place, where young talents are cast aside with alarming regularity. Daniil Kvyat can count himself fairly lucky, then, to still have a seat: he was promoted to a Red Bull seat for 2015 but lost it to Max Verstappen early in 2016 after a series of high-profile accidents with Sebastian Vettel's Ferrari. It's sometimes not easy to remember that Kvyat is not yet 23 years of age, because he is fighting for his Formula 1 life. His teammate, similiarly, has a lot to prove. This will be Carlos Sainz Jr's (he is the son of the two-time World Rally Champion, Carlos Sainz) third season at Toro Rosso and that usually means: reckoning. Sainz has shown himself to be a thoroughly reliable pair of hands but there are questions about his ultimate speed. A Red Bull drive may await him if he can prove himself, though.

HAAS-FERRARI

Haas are now in their second season. They are the sport's only American team, although it is hard to guess that from the outside. Indeed, much of their powertrain is built by Ferrari and their chassis is built by Italian racing car manufacturer Dallara, so there's a peculiarly European feel. This is a pity, as Formula 1 could do with some of that Stateside glitz, glamour and showmanship. They had a decent first year, scoring a remarkable 5th place at their debut race, but after that their development curve flattened out and they were comfortably overtaken by their rivals. Second seasons are notoriously difficult for new Formula 1 teams, so we will wait and see. Testing was not particularly promising, with the car suffering from brake problems that its lead driver considered to be insurmountable until Haas finds a new supplier.

Car 8: ROMAIN GROSJEAN (F)
Born: 17th April 1986, Geneva (Switzerland). Age: 30
First GP: Europe 2009
Statistics: 103 races; 2 second places; 1 fastest lap; 316 points. Best Championship: 7th (2013)

Car 20: KEVIN MAGNUSSEN (DK)
Born: 5th October 1992, Roskilde. Age: 24
First GP: Australia 2014
Statistics: 40 races; 1 second place; 62 points. Best Championship: 11th (2014)

Haas has two pilots whose "highly-rated young driver" mantle is starting to go curly and crisp at the edges. Grosjean was fast and wild in his early years in the sport but he has matured into a fine, if not necessarily ultimately competitive, Grand Prix racing driver. Whatever the Haas car is capable of, Grosjean will deliver. Kevin Magnussen's Formula 1 career so far has been a stop-start affair: he finished 2nd in his first ever race in a McLaren that spent the remainder of the season getting slower by the race. He found refuge at Renault last year, but the car wasn't competitive enough to showcase what he can do. What can he do? We don't really know yet. Magnussen is the son of former Grand Prix driver Jan Magnussen and is one of three drivers in the field who can make a similar boast, alongside Max Verstappen (Jos) and Jolyon Palmer (Jonathan).

RENAULT

Renault's love affair with Formula 1 blows hot and cold, but when they are determined to stick around they usually win things. Last season saw fresh investment and impetus being given to the current project and the team are starting to grow again. Renault are operated by an outfit at Enstone, Oxfordshire who originally competed as Toleman and then as Benetton before Renault bought them in 2001. In their various guises, they have won three constructors and four drivers world titles. Renault seem to be on an upward trajectory again, which will be a blessed relief after a difficult 2016 which saw the team finish in the points just twice.

Car 27: NICO HULKENBERG (D)
Born: 19th August 1987, Emmerich. Age: 29
First GP: Bahrain 2010
Statistics: 115 races; 3 fourth places; 1 pole position; 2 fastest laps; 362 points. Best Championship: 9th (2014 and 2016)

Car 30: JOLYON PALMER (GB)
Born: 20th January 1991, Horsham. Age: 26
First GP: Australia 2016
Statistics: 20 races; 1 tenth place; 1 point. Best Championship: 18th (2016)

Nico Hulkenberg joins Renault this year from Force India, the first time that Hulkenberg will drive for a team with full factory support. Hulkenberg is an enormously well-respected driver who has been continually passed over by bigger teams because of concerns over his height and weight. There are few drivers in the field who are quite so reliable, however, and if Renault can give him a good car he will give the team good results. Maybe even his first ever Formula 1 podium: Hulkenberg is just 14 races shy of holding the unwanted record for the longest Formula 1 career without one. His teammate, Jolyon Palmer, was retained by Renault for a second season despite a difficult first year. This may be a smart piece of business by the team, as Palmer has consistently proved that he gets better with time. A better car this year could offer us an insight into what his potential might be.

SAUBER-FERRARI

Sauber have been in Grand Prix racing for 24 years now and are yet to shake off the suspicion that they are making up the numbers. Normally, such suggestions are greeted by an impressive season of point scoring, but Sauber now look as though they might now be in terminal decline. A 9th place at last season's chaotic Brazilian Grand Prix was their only return in a harrowing 2016 season, where they were often the slowest car in the field. However, their facilities at Hinwil, Switzerland are some of the finest in the world and last year saw fresh investment in the team, who have built a neat-looking car for 2017. Beating McLaren is not an unreasonable target, although Renault and Toro Rosso will probably prove too far ahead.

Car 9: MARCUS ERICSSON (S)
Born: 2nd September 1990, Kumla. Age: 26
First GP: Australia 2014
Statistics: 56 races; 1 eighth place; 9 points. Best Championship: 18th (2015)

Car 94: PASCAL WEHRLEIN (D)
Born: 18th October 1994, Sigmaringen. Age: 22
First GP: Australia 2016
Statistics: 21 races; 1 tenth place; 1 point. Best Championship: 18th (2016)

Pascal Wehrlein is a Mercedes-Benz development driver who was impressive in an uncompetive Manor last season. His age and lack of experience cost him, however, as Bottas got the nod ahead of him when the seat at the works team became available. He was also publically sore about Force India choosing his teammate Esteban Ocon as their second driver instead of him. Still, Sauber represent a step up for Wehrlein, who needs to discover that the only way to really make your mark in Formula 1 is by delivering results and lap times. He certainly seems to have the ability to do so. His teammate, Marcus Ericsson, really IS making up the numbers. He has much to prove and, I fear, lacks the talent to do it.

THE RULES

Grand Prix meetings are three day affairs: on Friday (or Thursday, in Monaco) there are two 90-minute free practice sessions. On Saturday morning there is an additional 90 minute free practice, before an hour-long qualifying session at lunchtime. The cars are then put away and cannot be worked on by the teams until the race on Sunday afternoon. Each driver is allocated 13 sets of dry weather tyres and 4 sets of wet weather tyres for the race meeting, no more and no less, so teams have to limit their running to ensure they have enough serviceable rubber to be competitive on Sunday.

QUALIFICATION

On Saturday afternoon, there is a one hour long session to decide the order of the grid for Sunday's race. Within the the first 18 minutes - called Q1 - all twenty cars must set a time, after which the drivers who have set the five slowest lap times will be eliminated and will line up in 16th-20th positions on Sunday. After a short break, the remaining fifteen cars must set a time during the 15-minute Q2, where the 11th-15th placed starters will be decided. The fastest 10 cars then compete in the 12-minute Q3, after which the driver who has posted the fastest time celebrates wildly because they will start the race from pole position.

Drivers who make it to the Q3 top ten shootout receive an additional set of tyres that they can use for that session only. However, there is a trade-off: those drivers must start the race on the set of tyres they used to set their fastest time in Q2. The drivers who qualify in 11th-20th positions may choose which set of tyres they start the race on. The only alteration to this is if a wet race is declared, when all drivers must change to either intermediate or full wet treaded tyres.

Any driver whose fastest time is 7% slower than the pole position time is deemed to be too slow and does not qualify for the race. However, this very infrequently happens and when it does, there are usually extenuating circumstances and the affected car will be allowed to start.

RACE DAY

Each Grand Prix race takes place over a distance of 200 miles (300 km) or two hours, depending on which occurs first (usually the former). Drivers who finish in the top 10 are awarded points and the driver with the most points at the end of the season is the World Champion. The points are awarded as follows:

Winner: 25 points; 2nd place: 18; 3rd: 15; 4th: 12; 5th: 10; 6th: 8; 7th: 6; 8th: 4; 9th: 2; 10th: 1.

The only changes to this come if the race is stopped before 75% of the distance is completed and cannot be restarted. In this scenario, half-points are awarded: 12.5 for the winner, 9 for second, 7.5 for third, and so on. Drivers must also complete at least 90% of the race winner's distance to be eligible to score points.

FLAGS

You will see flags and lights displayed all over the place during the time that the cars are on the circuit. The meanings of the flags are as follows:

Green: Nothing to see here, get on with racing.

Yellow: Caution - reduce your speed. (Waved yellows mean dramatically reduce your speed, double waved yellows mean be prepared to stop).

Yellow and red striped: Slippery surface ahead.

Blue: There is a faster car behind you. In a race, you must get out of its way within three marshalling posts or else you will receive a time penalty for blocking.

Red: The race has been stopped, return slowly to the pit area.

White and black chequer: The race is over. Well done, you finished.

Black and white diagonal: A warning for unsportsmanlike behaviour.

Black and orange: Your car is in a dangerous condition, return to the pits to have it fixed.

Black: You have been disqualified, return to the pits and stop.

There will be times during the races that the safety car will be called out to neutralise the race: cars line up behind it until the problem has been solved. There are also Virtual Safety Car periods, where drivers must drive at a pre-prescribed pace until the problem has been solved, but do not have to line up and circulate behind a pace car on the circuit. For 2017, laps behind the safety car will not count towards the full distance and races will be restarted from a standstill on the starting grid. This is all very complex and boring on paper but makes more sense when you see it taking place.

THE CALENDAR

There are twenty races in 2017, down from 21 in 2016 after the loss of the German GP.

26th March: Australian GP (Albert Park, Melbourne)
9th April: Chinese GP (Shanghai International Circuit)
16th April: Bahrain GP (Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir)
30th April: Russian GP (Sochi Autodrom)
14th May: Spanish GP (Circuit de Catalunya, Barcelona)
28th May: Monaco GP (Monte Carlo)
11th June: Canadian GP (Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, Montreal)
25th June: European GP (Baku City Circuit, Azerbaijan)
9th July: Austrian GP (Red Bull Ring, Spielberg)
16th July: British GP (Silverstone, Northants)
30th July: Hungarian GP (Hungaroring, Budapest)
27th August: Belgian GP (Spa-Francorchamps)
3rd September: Italian GP (Monza)
17th September: Singapore GP (Marina Bay Street Circuit)
1st October: Malaysian GP (Sepang Circuit, Kuala Lumpur)
8th October: Japanese GP (Suzuka)
22nd October: United States GP (Circuit of the Americas, Austin, TX)
29th October: Mexican GP (Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez, Mexico City)
12th November: Brazilian GP (Interlagos, Sao Paulo)
26th November: Abu Dhabi GP (Yas Marina)

I hope you enjoy it.

Disaster Film Olympiad: The Day The Earth Caught Fire

There are two things of which simply no good can ever possibly come: nuclear weapons and the international dateline. When they combine, the overall effect is inevitably catastrophic for all in its path. Unfortunately, these were the precise confluence of circumstances that were to assail the hard-working staff at the offices of The Daily Express in 1961, on a day... THE EARTH CAUGHT FIRE!

For years, man has yearned to destroy the Sun...

Typical tabloid hyperbole, that. The Earth did not literally catch fire, but it was nevertheless sickening for something pretty serious. The Day The Earth Caught Fire is an entertaining and considered Cold War fable that warns that the dangers of nuclear weapons - or not checking your calendar - stretch far beyond the obvious. The United States and the Soviet Union, now both building the spiffiest, most powerful hydrogen bombs that modern technology can muster, somehow contrive to each test them simultaneously on opposite ends of the globe without having first checked to see how time zones work. The overall effect throws the Earth off of its normal orbit and into an inevitable collision course with the Sun.

This annoys everybody. The new jaunty tilt of our celestial home causes havoc with the seasons, as drought, heatwaves, storms and floods beset countries quite unprepared to deal with the consequences. The action centres on the newspaper offices of central London, where to call the weather all to cock would barely do the situation justice. The temperature soars, causing a catastrophic drought, ruinously damaging thunderstorms and freak fogs. To be honest, it's pretty similar to what the weather is like in the 21st Century, although it is best to put that thought to the back of your mind since the upshot of all this is: we're doomed. The hardworking Daily Express staffers - motivated by the possibility of a worldwide scoop and powered only by cynicism, lukewarm Coca Cola and a bar tab that looks like Jeremy Hunt's parliamentary expenses claim - do their best to get to the bottom of the story, even though it turns their newspaper into a shrill, weather-obsessed, catastrophe rag. Which obviously could never happen.

It is an unusual disaster film, but it doesn't suffer at all for it: the main characters are reactive, rather than active; resigned rather than rallying. The film neatly captures the constrictive inevitability of a society that has contrived to destroy itself as we all feared it would. There are no heroes, just people being people. Some bad, some mad, but mostly good-hearted. Of course, a film is still always only a film, so a few compromises have to be made: of course our leading man Peter Stenning would take this opportunity to begin a torrid romantic entanglement with Jeannie Craig, a secretary from the Met Office. And naturally he will end up defending her honour from a bunch of feral beatnik water terrorists by engaging in fisticuffs in her apartment. These are things that happen in every film, no matter what the genre or the stakes.

On the whole, however, it is an absorbing and entertaining way to spend 90 minutes. Well, entertaining when one considers the oddly prescient nature of the subject matter: as I watched the film the sky outside was purple and the hail was falling upwards. Particularly pleasing is its ambiguous ending, as the dual forces of science and irony combine to decide the only way to save Earth from a certain fiery demise is to right its place in the heavens with... more atomic blasts. What will happen? The church bell ringers will be putting in for double overtime, if nothing else. It's hard enough ringing bells in normal temperatures and when adequately hydrated. More important still is that I have successfully managed to write the first ever retrospective review of The Day The Earth Caught Fire that doesn't mention it features a pre-super duper super stardom Michael Caine, playing a copper.

Daily Express journalist Peter Stenning (Edward Judd) in The Day The Earth Caught Fire: what would Princess Diana do?

More worthy of note even than the revelation that Michael Caine has to eat food and pay his gas bill are the special effects. Considering the technological limitations of the time they stand up very well indeed. Particularly stunning are the vistas of London as a sun-bleached, dried out and abandoned husk - all made by the matte painting mastery of Les Bowie. Film making has become less of an art since computers came along, in many ways. Sigh.

The Day The Earth Caught Fire gets a smouldering EIGHT out of 10 Disaster Points.

The past as seen from the future

The best five inventions

I like inventions. I admire the inventiveness of inventions. If it hadn't been for all the inventors who have gone before me inventing so many inventions, I would have liked to have invented some inventions myself. However, some inventions are better than others. Reggae Reggae sauce and a whiteboard that comes in a roll like aluminium foil have both served their inventors very well, but we'd probably have muddled by without them. Even though our lives may have been a bit devoid of reggae flavour.

Not so with the following five inventions. Without these five inventions, I'm pretty sure that life today wouldn't be nearly so sweet. And in countries where life is already shitty, their absence would surely make existence seem like it wasn't even worth the struggle. So a timely salute, then, to the five best inventions ever invented. By inventors.

1. The wheel

A wheel, yesterday

It's a bit clichéd perhaps, but without the wheel and fire, humanity would probably have not advanced to the point that you could be sat in a centrally-heated building reading this shit and pretending to work. But whereas fire is a naturally occurring element, wheels needed that little bit of extra grey matter to bring them into being. Wheels help people move stuff about.

2. The pencil

A pencil, yesterday. This one is called B. Noris.

The pencil was first invented when a warty old Cumbrian farmer stumbled upon one of the locally abundant seams of naturally occurring graphite in the Lake District. He then wrapped it up in a bit of leather and started writing all kinds of shit. Pencils are brilliant. They don't leak, they work when they're wet and you can rub out your mistakes. Pencils.

3. Nail clippers

Some nail clippers, yesterday

Can you imagine the exquisite misery life must have been before someone invented these bad boys? Nails are a pain in the arse, let's face it. Or rather, their tendency toward relentless growth is. I'm not even sure what people would have done before nail clippers. Presumably they'd have used blades of some sort (imagine the snaggly edges though! catching on the inside of your socks!) or if they were particularly intelligent they could have ground them down on an abrasive surface such as a rock or the skin underneath a Maltese pensioner's tit. Nail clippers are the basis of human civilisation. Control over our keratin is what separates us from the animals. (What separates the animals from us is that they're clever enough to not watch The X-Factor.)

4. Vaseline

Some Vaseline, yesterday. Your mother is a flabby whore.

The man who invented Vaseline viewed it as something of a panacea. He ate a teaspoon of it every night, for example, believing it to be beneficial for good digestion. It would certainly keep things moving. But let's not get side-tracked. Vaseline is the very essence of life. Without Vaseline, things would be miserable. It's good for dry skin, protecting from cuts and grazes and also a useful standby if any sailors are about. Whenever you are packing to go anywhere, you're not finished until you've got a pot of Vaseline and that's a fact.

5. The clit piercing gun

Mission to Mars

Here are some dates for your consideration: 20-21 July 1969, 19-21 November 1969, 5-6 February 1971, 30 July-3 August 1971, 21-24 April 1972 and 11-14 December 1972. These are the only occasions that humanity has so far spent on a celestial body other than the Earth. I should probably point out, in the eventuality that anyone reading this is a bit thick, that on all of the above dates the celestial body in question was the moon.

20th July 1969 - 14th December 1972. Honestly. It reads like a hamster's gravestone.

I was born in 1980, which means that I have missed out on all the space fun. Unless you count large scale calamitous failures as fun, which you should not. You bastard. Back on the very Monday that I was born, in the midst of the cold war, the day in July 1969 that man landed on the moon was not yet even 11 years ago. Astronauts and space missions still captured the imagination. It was something constructive to do with all those nuclear bombs. Surely, within days we'd be racing the Soviets to Mars, winner gets all the best rocks?

Goin Mars, BRB

But then Mikail Gorbachev comes along and ruins everything, favouring working on peace on Earth rather than uncontrolled spending trying to blow everything up. In the giddy thrill of the Berlin Wall's collapse, we lost sight of Mars.

Back then I was still only nine years old, though. Plenty of time for a new cold war to begin, surely? It did, of course, but being based around the concept of global terrorism rather than Statehood and political ideology, it did little to advance the space race. Terrorists are unreasonable people at the best of times, very unlikely to be swayed or impressed by the sight of some bloke playing golf in virtually-zero gravity. And all the while I am growing older, my chances of seeing anything interesting at all ever happening in my life - something worth telling future generations about that isn't just about explosions or death tolls - are growing slimmer by the withered, wrinkly, grey-pubed day.

Why did humanity explore space in the first place? We claimed it was in the spirit of scientific discovery and humanity's insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge. It seems likely now that these were lies. It was all for political and ideological reasons, wasn't it? How ghastly and smutty. How ordinary. How terrestrial.

Human beings need to go to Mars. Human beings are very stupid and don't know anything until we go and find stuff out. We are completely unable to conceive of how anything works without experiential knowledge of it. On 19th July 1969, for example, we believed that the moon was made of cheese, that Clangers lived there and that cows jumped over it on a regular basis. How foolish we were.

Mars: all the information currently known

And now I want to know all about Mars. What do they have there? History alone teaches me to be wary of thinking it is all Martians scuttling about wearing Roman Armour. But how can I even begin to try and envisage the wonders until a member of my own race gets their candy ass up there and hits some golf balls about and drops a feather? Do they have a Morrison's? Are they Protestants? And what can we learn about the nature of existence and creation?

Humanity not going to Mars is dashed incurious of us, if nothing else. A life half-lived. And I'm going to kick up a big stink about this until some bastard does it.

I'm a loser

The other day I complained about the futility of Windows 7's version of Solitaire keeping statistics. It's a game of chance much more than a game of skill, I argued. Keeping a record of your performances merely serves to make you feel like every game is theoretically winnable. It isn't, of course, so you end up feeling like a loser. And then at the end of the day you end up with a handy percentage figure you can share to demonstrate exactly how big a loser you are.

I wanted to know, so over the last week or so I've played 100 games of Solitaire, which is not a euphemism. This activity in itself makes me a magnificently huge loser. But thanks to my scientific research I can now reveal that the exact percentage of loser that "magnificently huge loser" equates to is 12%.

I hate myself so much right now I can't even begin to tell you

Honestly, people have committed suicide over less.

The immaculate terror of completism

I've just bought a USB disc drive so that I can import all of my music onto my new netbook. It has made me realise something and the more I think about it, the more I realise it is the thing that has made me and informed everything I do. The whole time my music collection has sat in the corner of my room, I've never once realised that it is in fact the most in-depth psychological profile of me ever made.

I am completely and utterly averse to completism of any kind. As I imported big pile of CDs after big pile of CDs I realised that I was dealing with artists and albums that I would gladly kill someone's dog for if they disrespected them, and yet I have avoided all sorts of their other work with a determination bordering on psychosis.

I think there's an element of fear there. I am enormously averse to any form of adventurousness. But also, perhaps it's the very fact that I only have two albums by The Band that is the reason why I love them so much? There's no risk of anything popping my little bubble. How bleeding miserable it must be to be a completist. It terrifies me. Every new release must be a tightrope for them... could this be the disc that finally makes you realise that Shed Seven aren't actually all that? Completism for me represents the moment when stuff begins to own you, and that's even before you even have to spend your money on the most preposterous load of old rubbish and then justify it in fights to the death in pub car parks while your soul weeps bitter tears of blood.

Certain bands and artists inspire such devotion more than others, but I'm sure that if you've ever released more than three things, you'd have a Mel from Flight of the Conchords-like fan, building their whole life around you, splashing out for Greatest Hits albums even though they already own every single track that is on it.

It's one of my favourite things about being a Dylan fan. I own about 20 Bob Dylan albums, plus bits and bobs from about 5 more (thanks, internet). But there's not a Dylan fan out there that I have yet encountered who does not readily admit that sometimes our hero peddles the biggest piles of old shit. Shit that is intolerable, impossible and unlistenable. That is the sort of fandom that I can subscribe to and understand. So much more human and earthbound than the hero-worshipping completism.

This morning I checked my assembled music collection to see what a fraud and phony I am for writing this. I am pleased to say that I fared very well. I own all 13 Beatles albums (half of which were a gift from a friend) as well as two out of the three Anthologies, 1 and Past Masters. I also own all 7 studio albums by Blur, but none of their bonus, live or greatest hit releases. Those two are about as close as I get. The Blur collection, if you can call it that, represents the only one I made contemporaneously. Would I have continued to buy each successive album if the previous one had been bobbins? That's the question I have been asking myself ever since. I honestly don't think I would have.

What a relief that is. I'd be able to sleep peacefully at night again, if it weren't for these terrifying wet farts.

Playing with yourself

This week I discovered that on Windows 7 keeps statistics for your games of Solitaire. I'm not sure I like this. And it's not because it tells you how many games of solitaire you've played or anything like that. It's that solitaire - or patience, as it is known in Britain - is a game of chance. You deal it out and play it out as well as you can, but there's no real skill to it. It just takes patience (HENCE THE NAME) and application to make it eventually come out.

Having statistics makes it seem like, if you don't get it out, that you have failed. Like a big failure. FreeCell has always had statistics, but that is more of a puzzle game than a game of patience. Aside from the legendary game 11,982 (as well as games 146,692, 186,216, 455,889, 495,505, 512,118, 517,776 and 781,948), they will all go out if you do them correctly. There are no such guarantees with solitaire. All that those statistics provide you with, then, is a percentage to establish how freakishly unlucky you are.

This displeases me. I don't want to know this fact. I'm already kept awake at night by those times - you know the ones - the times that there are two red eights to chose from to go onto one black 9. Choose wrong and it could spell game over but there's literally no way to apply anything beyond blind chance to the situation. Now our computers are taking this data and extrapolating it into a percentage of loserdom? This is terribly unfair. One day it will be tattooed on our face.

Yeah, I suppose you can always reset your statistics. But I suspect that someone, somewhere at Microsoft will know all of the numbers and know what a total dick you are. It is brutal. As is life, I suppose. But life doesn't necessarily always provide you with a number in black and white to show you how much you suck at it.

All of this said, I like the fact that Windows 7 turns the top card on the pile over automatically now, rather than you having to click it manually. I mean, seriously, was that too much to ask in the first place?

Mow

I am pretty buff, as you well know. The reason for this is mowing the lawn. I have mowed acres and acres of grass in my lifetime and as such it makes me quite the expert in the fine art of swearing and complaining and, to a certain degree, mowing. As this is now the internet age and everyone is expecting everyone else to share all of their expertise, channel it into one great interactive repository of skills, I thought that I would commit my knowledge and experience to the ages.

There is something quite righteous about doing this. Like I am some kind of caveman elder. Come gather round people.

Tip 1: Know your enemy

Actually, that's a good place to start. Righteousness and tradition. The other day I was digging the vegetable beds a bit, doing some weeding and tending to my brassicas. There is something which feels so completely RIGHT about doing that. Primal. Fundamental. Tilling the soil to cultivating things to eat. It's what we human beings have done ever since we descended from the trees and headed straight to the garden centre.

Lawn mowing is very much not one of these things. It's one of those prissy and futile things that human beings do to try and make things neat and tidy, to kid ourselves that we're the masters of our surroundings. This is a strategy that always works, at least until the first tsunami or earthquake or giant snake arrives, spiriting your grandmother off and away to hither and yon. So my first top tip is: accept the futility of the action you're about to undertake. Embrace it. And swearing is very much par for the course. It's healthy! Even if it scares the neighbour's dog.

Tip 2: Hazards

There are all manner of pitfalls faced by the lawn mower, not least actual pits that you could fall into. However, these are rather less common than any of the following: trees; moss; ant hills; bees; frogs; brambles and other assorted bindweed; and, of course, fox turds. The key to all of this is to know every inch of your surface, like a golfer studying the green for a vital putt. When it all comes together, it can be quite beautiful - a balletic and rhythmic mastery of the elements. Swinging round that tree, pop a wheelie over the fox shit and give a tonsure to a passing bee.

Tip 3: Equipment

I'll be blunt, you're going to need a lawnmower. There are a number of main types: electric, petrol powered or hand-propelled. I favour the petrol-powered push mower. The petrol-powered remains a pipe dream and nothing but a pipe dream. Everyone should be relieved about that, as me in control of any type of motorised vehicle is a preposterous idea, let alone one with a rotary blade attached to it. People would die. The electric mower is OK for smaller gardens but for anything even approaching reasonable sized, buggering about with power cables will drive you insane.

I currently use a Hayter mower. It is splendid and green. Previously I used a Mountfield, which was very much not. It had clearly been designed by someone who had only ever read about lawns in books and therefore had nothing beyond a theoretical understanding of them. At the merest sight of any organic matter, let alone grass, the thing went to pieces. The petrol tank didn't have a filter, so the engine soon became clogged with stones, earth and wasps. If the motor ran long enough to make it to the lawn, the blade was no match for what it was trying to cut. I lost years of my life to that thing.  The Hayter mower is much better. I particularly like the fact it starts, cuts and works - although after the Mountfield experience, just one of those would have set it apart.

One warning: evolution is always in action. The latest array of petrol-powered push mowers will usually be motor assisted: that is to say, the rear wheels are driven by a motor to help you push it along. Back in the day, this sort of extravagance was far beyond the dreams or budgets of plebs like me. But since it became pretty well standard on all but the most entry-level models, my muscles have evolved to be completely useless without it. I even need rear-wheel drive on shopping trolleys nowadays. Evolution is the lawn mowing man's greatest foe, after cats, bees, frogs, ants and fox shit.

One other warning: no lawnmower has a good enough grass collection box. So don't even think about that. It's clearly impossible to design and will never going to happen. You're thinking about it, aren't you? Well don't. It's never, ever, going to happen. Lawnmowers are designed entirely to frustrate and annoy you. It's to emphasise the futility. Remember the futility?

Tip 4: Regularity

Alan Titchmarsh once told me, via the television, that you should mow the lawn once every 2 days during the growing season.



Hmm.


At best, I might manage once a week, but it's important to accept the fact that several times every year you will end up trying to mow something that looks like a Vietnam war film. You just are. The best advice is to know the wily ways of grass. Like everything else, it grows best when there's plenty of water and sun. A traditional British summer makes for a real bastard of a lawn. Blink and it will be as unkempt as a nun's beaver. Sometimes it will have all grown back by the time you've finished the other end.

If you're lucky enough to get a hot and dry spell, mow it plenty, as short as you can get it. This will render your lawn a sad, dusty and brown thing, virtually dead, which may not need further cutting for a month or more, even at the height of the growing season (which generally tends to be April to July).

5. Conclusions

You're never going to enjoy mowing your lawn. It is stupid and a complete waste of your time. So learn to accept that fact and relish its aching pointlessness. And, in an ideal world, learn to tarmac it.

The Digital Switchover Blues (or: Sally Taylor, A Lament)

Yesterday was phase one of the Digital Switchover here in Sussex, or at least the bit of Sussex in which I live. All TV signals in the United Kingdom will soon be digital only because we live in the future and are cutting edge and think nothing of bewildered old dears wondering where Coronation Street has gone. This whole thing has sort of passed me by to be honest. I've had digital television for years so I've largely put it to the back of my mind as an irrelevance.

Oh what a fool I was. Come the time I did what every obedient digital television consumer had to do and re-scan their box or television, the horrific reality of the matter was revealed. People served by the Whitehawk Hill transmitter are now considered to be in the BBC South East region rather than in BBC South. Woe is me.

I used to complain bitterly about BBC South. I felt that, due to the unique way the BBC is funded, every time they ran out of money because Jonathan Ross said something to an elderly man or suchlike, BBC South bore the brunt. BBC South sprawled out to eventually encompass places as demonstrably not south as Oxford and Swindon. It was exquisite madness. But it was OUR exquisite madness, you know?

BBC South East smells. It covers East Sussex, a little bit of West Sussex, Kent, Surrey and Essex. To be honest, I live much closer to Surrey and Kent and Essex than I do to Oxford or Rhyl or Dublin. BBC South East will probably prove to be more relevant local news to me, if I'm completely honest. But I don't like it. BBC South Today used to provide you with a delightful numbing cushion of distance. "A MURDERER HAS ESCAPED," the bulletin would roar. "HE IS ANGRY AND FRANKLY WANTS TO KILL YOU warn Oxfordshire police". Phew! Oxfordshire!

It just doesn't feel right. I was used to the local news that was happening miles away which I didn't care about being in Winchester or Banbury. Now I have to adapt to it being in Rochester or Canvey Island. To give BBC South East their due, yesterday's brave new world bulletin did throw Brighton a bone by featuring them as their second story. But it was about how far above the national average we are for teenage pregnancy rates. Tomorrow: do men in Uckfield have smellier balls than chimps? It was a bone, but it was a pretty manky bone with a maggot on it. And a pube.

But as well has having to recalibrate my moping rants about "local" news covering things which are actually halfway to Saturn in a south-easterly direction (I'm sure I'll cope), there is the more troubling issue. No more Sally Taylor.

One day this woman will be on the stamps

Sally Taylor is local news royalty to people from the south coast of England. She is the reassuring presence who has been with me pretty much my whole life, telling me about a beer festival on the Isle of Wight or a particularly rude-looking tree in Bournemouth. Sally Taylor has been reading the local news for the south for so long that she actually appears in the Bayeux Tapestry, reporting on William of Normandy's landing at Pevensey.

Brighton has expanded in recent years. All sorts of new people have arrived, attracted by its proximity to London, it's trendy image and the fact that it is the best place on earth. Moreso even than accents or "I *heart* Cambridge" sweatshirts, asking people their opinion of Sally Taylor was the most surefire way of gauging where in Britain people have come from and when. If they said anything critical in the slightest - "I don't like her shirt", or something - we would know that they were a newcomer. Proper southern people hold Sally Taylor in the highest regard. For Brighton folk, she would be one chair at our dream dinner party.

At mine she's sat next to Hitler.

But alas. My bitter rivals in Portsmouth will still get their daily local news from Sally Taylor on South Today, the programme she first presented when the dinosaurs ruled the earth. People in and around Brighton will have to make do with Hugh Opinions or Muriel Spank or whoever the hell it is. I feel deeply disenfranchised.

It's almost enough to make me want to move to Southbourne (as close to Hampshire as I am willing to get) just so I can get back to shouting at Sally about how Abingdon isn't in the bloody south. Oh Sally.

It's been real.

Justify your pathetic fears

I hate sequels too

Those of you concerned the about the inevitable failure of my manful attempt to be a man by facing my completely pathetic and improbable fear of The Phantom Raspberry Blower of Old London Town will be pleased to hear that on Tuesday evening I completed my Herculean task. Including the seventh part, which turned out to be the one which scared me so rather than the eighth.

I must really stress here that this isn't a joke. It scared me to a point where I was afraid to move and worried about what might be lurking in the shadows. But facing my fear was, I think, probably an ultimately positive thing to do. It's certainly better out in the open than being a dim and distant memory in the recesses of my brain. Mind you, unlike a lot of things, I really did remember it very clearly - the reality on the tape was pretty well exactly what I had stored in my brain. And no, it wasn't as scary the second time around. Maybe this is because I have a greater plane of life experiences to draw on now, or that I am now nearly 32 years old. Could be the last one. But that one doesn't stop me being scared of shop mannequins, so who knows.

But maybe it's because this is the first time I saw it in colour. My family are a bit like me - we're always the last to adopt anything. Modern day whippersnappers will probably never believe this in a million years, but we didn't get a colour TV until about 1988 or 1989, when I was 8 or 9 years old. And as I saw the offending episode of the Phantom Raspberry Blower at my nan and grandpa's house, well - I could have seen it as late as about 1996. I'm not sure my grandpa ever owned a colour TV set in his entire life, in fact.

Black and white is scarier than colour. For one thing, it leaves more to the imagination. For a second, it is other-worldly. We do not experience life in black and white, so seeing TV and films in black and white just ramps up the sense that something is different. And I fear different things. I fear phantom raspberry blowers, too. So it all adds up.

Luckily for you, I have made some visual aids to back up my point. Here are the two particular shots which were so emblazoned in my mind, more or less exactly how I remembered them. In the first, Inspector Corner of the Yard (wearing nothing but his underwear) has thrust a garden fork into the lid of a coffin that moved, causing what turns out to be crushed raspberries to ooze out:

figure 1: my terror

Just look at it. Someone tell me that the black and white image isn't scarier and more foreboding, and I will tell you that you are a big fat liar whose pants are, most likely, on fire. Which brings us on to the next one. The first full-frontal appearance of the Phantom himself. This one still haunts my nightmares and lurks in every dark place when I am alone. Brace yourselves.

figure 2: my crippling emotional pain

I actually can't look at it.

On high alert

I am a fundamentally friendly sort, though a bit shy in real life. Online, though, this just translates to being a fundamentally friendly sort. Result!

I always like to hear from people, particularly my friends. People who like to hear from strangers more are weird and you probably shouldn't trust them with any of your valuables: house keys, children, hymen, wallet etc. As such I have things set up to tell me when I have a new email (it's up there in the corner, see?) and things that flash up from Tweetdeck when I am mentioned or direct messaged on Twitter. It's a good system. Mostly.

Because when I'm not scratching away at a bit of paper with my tongue stuck out of the corner of my mouth, I am doing things to the digital image I have taken with my scanner-ma-bob thing (it's there, look). I have to tweak things here and there. Tidy bits up (mostly because I am both too lazy and too stupid to just CLEAN THE SCREEN), tweak the contrast, sort out sizes and filenames and just generally be hugely autistic about the whole thing. This is when being firmly plugged in to the seething currents of electronic communication begins to properly stress me out.

LOOK! THERE'S AN EMAIL! BETTER ANSWER IT, SLACKMUND

Yesterday I was scanning my picture of a dog when I noticed that the previous picture, (C is for crocodile), had been wrongly sized. Because I am an idiot, the printable version was A5-size rather than A4. So I had to re-scan that one too, which meant just a little bit more work. But then the flashing messages and the little mail notifier are not so welcome. In fact they drive me mad. "PROD PROD POKE, come along dotmund, there's a message here, why aren't you answering me? Do you have any idea how precariously balanced all your friendships are? You are a fucking arsewit".

Luckily, as a grown up, I have been able to take a step back and work out what the problem is, so that I can take steps to solve it. The problem, as I see it, is that I'M A FUCKING FANNY. So, my solution - which I will now be trying to implement forthwith - is to STOP BEING A FUCKING FANNY.

This may well work.

On the future of the internet

Whisper it folks but, I think this internet thing might get quite big. Already people are talking about doing business on it and this blog itself gets upwards of three readers per year. This is clearly the boomtime for the world wide wireless web wob. But as with all booms, some people are forecasting that bust could be just round the corner.

The problem is that the internet is still so young as to be largely unregulated but has grown so quickly as to be ubiquitous in Western life. And this makes important people very, very, nervous. Already we've seen I Am Spartacus style mass demonstrations of super-injunction busting prurient information sharing which has aggravated The Famous. But it's The Rich who are the real problem because they own stuff and they don't like thinking about people getting it for free. Democracy is a wonderful thing to aspire to, until the terrifying day that it actually takes hold.

What with the madness of the US Stop Online Piracy Act ongoing and similar initiatives in the pipeline all over, I think filling your boots now is probably for the best. The internet will inevitably one day bow down to the same regulation and censorship as everything else. It's a concern, as any other thing which doesn't yet have a face is a concern. However, as long as the internet of the future contains email, blogs, Twitter and the following three videos, I will be fairly content.

The Three Most Important Videos* on the Internet, by Dotmund (aged 31¾)†

1. HOT TUB POO GIRL

 

 2. DOG SHAGS OTHER DOG AND THEN DOES A SICK AND EATS IT

 

 3. FAMILY OF TOTAL FUCKING IDIOTS TRY AND FELL A TREE WITHOUT ANY UNDERSTANDING OF THE BASIC LAWS OF PHYSICS OR EVEN OF CAUSE AND EFFECT

 

I mean, honestly. What more could you actually ever need there to be on the internet?

* Things 
† By the way, I am sorry about this. I shouldn't write blog posts at bedtime.

Facebook: what would Jesus do?

Today's post has been inspired by THIS post from the weekend by my friend Moll. You should already be reading her blog if you're the sort of intelligent person I like to credit my readers as being. But if you're not, then I will be displeased.

Facebook. I don't know if I like it. I enjoy it when I'm drunk, I suppose, and there is much truth in drunkenness. If everyone was drunk all the time then the world of subtexts and self-delusions would quickly give way to a higher plane of truth and obesity and vomiting. But during moments of clarity, Facebook and my continued involvement with it troubles me. Not a lot. But enough.

For one thing, I distrust anything that it is so difficult to leave. When I sign up to any free account - call me old-fashioned - I sort of assume that deleting that account will simply be a matter of clicking on a button. Facebook is more like a prison. There IS a way to delete your account properly, rather than just "deactivate" it, which I believe I have bookmarked somewhere come the day THAT BASTARD PUSHES ME TOO FAR. But until then, I'm banged up. Doing BIRD. PORRIDGE.

Actually, Facebook is worse than a prison. When you are released from prison, I don't imagine that you are stopped in every doorway by someone saying, "if you leave prison, your cellmates Knuckles, Rimjob, Brutus and Slasher Harris will miss you...". Being guilt-tripped by a website fucking SUCKS.

Another object lesson of Facebook's angsty teenage need to make me feel bad: my friend's twin brother does music. He is very good and everything. He must be, because I LIKE him on Facebook and I am hard to please. But in doing so I become part of a group who are all automatically invited to his gigs, which are mostly in north London, where he lives but I do not.

I am extremely well-brought up so feel it's a little rude to not respond to an invitation, even if it is just to decline it. So I go to do that. A dialogue box poppeth up. "YOU ARE NOT GOING??!? Say why here..." or suchlike. The wording was less hysterical, I was more so. And yes, OK, you can skip doing so. But fucking hell, really? Talk about a needy website. I'm surprised it didn't then automatically email me saying that 'Tom Peacock Contact ISN'T TALKING TO YOU ANY MORE, harrumph'. Up yours, Facebook. Up yours to all hell.

My actual real-life Facebook page with a few subtle redactions

Here's another thing. Being a rather socially awkward person with crushingly low self-esteem, I find it hard to say no. If I say no, people will stop liking me and I will have no friends and die alone in a pool of my own tears and then my mortal remains will be used for medical experiments or very low-grade pies. (Yes, I know that this is patently absurd, but it's what my brain does automatically. Stop judging me. Or continue, just please don't stop liking me!)

Back in the day on the Wide Wide World of Webs, it was all messageboards. People could see what you wrote and you could see what they wrote. Sometimes you didn't WANT to, frankly. Some people are DICKS. Then, saints be praised! Twitter came along. Now you can build your own messageboard, a timeline of things being said by people who you want to hear from and nothing from people who bore you, or have uncomfortably exotic ideas about the Raj. Other people, too, can subscribe to your own ramblings. You don't have to do anything. People interested in your words can come and go as they wish, without your ever needing to know about it if you don't want to. The system works! Apart from obviously when it doesn't and that whale appears.

With Facebook, you get the dreaded thing. Friend request. Lionel Hhoops, the college roommate of the sister of your best friend when you were 7, wants to hear what you have to say. For a well-balanced person, that is easily dealt with. But I'm sat here now thinking, "listen pal, it's a miracle anyone tolerates you as it is, you arsehole... so who are you to reject the Hhoopster? One day it may just be you and Lionel once everyone else realises what a loser you are, up yours".

This is why I kind of hate Facebook but am still on it. Because it's not really Facebook's fault that I'm mental. All I'm saying is, it doesn't necessarily do anything to help me to reduce the amount of mental. Facebook is all right, but it makes me twitch.

*Twitch*

On the impossibility of communicating using communications technology

I'm no good at communicating with people via the communications technology. Not properly anyway. The astute amongst you will already have noticed that there's an irony to this statement. But bear with me.

I'm not an old stager in many things, but on the internet I am getting there. It all began back in the mists of 2003 on October 28th, when I joined B3ta. I've seen some things since then, I can tell you. More importantly I've been active non-stop ever since on all kinds of forums, messageboards, blogs and whatever the hell sort of thing Twitter is. I've seen stuff come and go. Nothing can happen within an online community these days which doesn't leave me raising a weary but amused eyebrow and just carrying on.

One of the effects that all this time on the internet has had - and beyond a shadow of a doubt its most positive one - is the number of new friends I have made. You can't hide forever on the internet. The real you will always come out eventually. It's a great way to get to know people.

Ironically, however, it can be more of a hindrance than a help once you turn that pixelly friend into a flesh and blood one. For me personally, at least. Language is vague. Words can be imprecise. Non-verbal communication, general mood and tone are so important, frighteningly so, in fact. Even the good old-fashioned telephone pulls up short, and of course there are new ways to keep in touch being devised every single day. Each one of them is a tiger trap for the likes of me. There's just no substitute for being there. I find that it can be pretty hard to always keep pace. Which is a sugar-coated way of saying that I go insane.

Twitter, email, mesageboards and even instant messenger are one-way conversations. You have your say and then you wait. And wait and wait, sometimes. People go away, they have technical problems, other things might come up. They may just not want to talk. Whatever happens, it's talking by installments. Moods change, situations change, and the person who gets back to you may be in a very different mindset to the one you initially communicated with. And, of course, the reverse is true.

Conflict resolution has never been a strong suit with me. But this pathological desire I have to make sure everything is alright RIGHT THIS SECOND is spectacularly ill-suited to the online world. Imagine a caveman hammering away relentlessly with a bone on a rock trying to make it be what he wants it to be and you've pretty much pictured the way I go about trying to "solve" or "cure" things online. And of course, it's about as effective. Actually, no, it's LESS effective, because neither the bone or the rock are going to feel it or end up getting hurt.

You may not always get what you want from actually sitting down with someone and talking to them, but what you will always get is closure and a sure idea of exactly where everything stands, from words plus gestures and expressions, intonations and postures. Well, it's what I always get. If you don't then you may be even more muddled and messed up than I am, which is almost certainly not a good thing.

I love the internet and talking to people on it. But I think I occasionally need reminding that it's just a tool. Something which helps one to keep in touch. It's not a substitute for any kind of relationship. Recently I've not done so well at remembering that and as such I've lost a lot of the spark and frivolity which makes people want to talk to me in the first place. I truly hope that I've realised this before I've lost any friends.

People who complain the internet is just a load of people talking trivial nonsense and doing nob jokes are missing the point. It's the trivial nonsense and the nob jokes which are what give life its colour and what brings people together, more often than not to just discuss trivial nonsense and do nob jokes. I've seen what it's like, and BEEN what it's like, to be sucked into the world of Internet - Serious Business and I don't like it. Dotmund 2.0 is sometimes a maddening person to know, even to the point where you wish you didn't.

The next time anyone sees me near a computer or a mobile phone (or even a wireless telegraph) with a furrowed brow or a worried expression, feel free to hit me with a bone. Big one. Out of a mammoth's leg.

On my ears being a normal shape

On Saturday night (Sunday morning, actually) I got a cab from Victoria Coach Station in London (which is the capital city of the UK) to Vauxhall, just over the Vauxhall Bridge. Luckily my cab driver was one who would go saaaf of the river after dark, mate. Although I've never really understood that. Why wouldn't you go south of the river? Do the bridges only work in one direction?

To be honest this doesn't have much to do with anything but as I was getting out of SAID CAB, my right earphone died. This was a very sad occasion indeed. I had the choice of getting Phil Spector to remix the 1200-odd songs currently on my iPod into mono overnight from his prison cell (tempting) or blooming well having to revert to the faithful back up, the standard iPod headphones.

Sadly for me, I elected to do the latter. Bloody hell.

Apple have now sold 138 billion iPods. It is estimated that at any one time, every person on earth has at least 13,000 songs in mp3 format in their trousers. These are made-up statistics. However, you'd think that after a decade of pretty much cornering the personal mp3 player market in the way that Tannoy cornered the public address system market, Apple would manage to provide something APPROXIMATING to a half-way decent earbud.

But they haven't. In fact, whoever designed the iPod earbuds has no idea of the SHAPE of a human ear. I doubt that they've ever even seen one. For me, a bud earphone should fulfil three simple criteria. Firstly, they should fit inside the human ear canal's external opening. Secondly, they should try to limit the amount of sound that comes into the earhole that they are in. Thirdly, the thing you want to play should come down the wire and out of them into aforementioned earhole.

Now I will admit my old ones (Sennheiser CX300II) failed me somewhat on the third count. However, the pissing, shitting, wanking Apple ones successfully managed to fail on the first two. Dismally. I would like to hear from anyone who finds the Apple standard ear bud to be a perfect earphone, fulfilling all my three criteria. Because I would like to tell them that they are a freak-eared weirdo. They probably wouldn't even hear me, because there's so much outside leakage of sound you have to turn the volume up full until your ears actually bleed. Which they will be anyway, on account of how misshapen the bloody things are in the first place.

Today I got myself some new earphones. They are the same ones as I had before. Yes, I know. But that's how atrocious Apple's own earbuds are. They made me question my own will to live. Or at least, to have ears.

It's not what you know

Internet WITS - and there's a lot of them about oh my brothers - will have you know that instant messaging is for people you know, Facebook is for people you wish you didn't know and Twitter is people you wish you knew. From a personal standpoint, I dispute that, because by a process of a careful and brutal (a real heavy-handed Stalinist brutality) pruning of your lists of friends, followers, disciples (call them what you will), you can very much change your experience. However, I can't deny that there is also a kernel of truth in it.

A lot of the people I know now, I first met online. When I was first able to say that it was a strange thing, now it's very much less so. Although there's still a frisson of weirdness, geekiness and non-social acceptability about it. However, I would like to argue that the people who argue that it's weird are probably the same people who sit around moaning about all the stupid, pointless and racist things people on their Facebook have said.

Because getting to know people online first is good. It honestly is. Where Facebook has never won me over is that it's a place for people you already know, not somewhere to do any actual networking. It's a useful tool, certainly, especially for arranging things. But beyond that I have little interaction with it.

The people who complain about Facebook are often people who are following everyone they've ever encountered, out of a sense of duty. I'm not criticising this. Office politics, family loyalty and old school ties can force one's hand and make these things unavoidable. But it's the people who you've met in real life first who will usually be the ones to suddenly come out violently in favour of "sending everyone with a 'Z' in their surname back to where they came from", or "building a death camp on the Isle of Wight".

This year I've made a number of new friends via Twitter and have now met several of them in actual real life and everything! The best part is there's few surprises there. For dedicated Twitterers like myself, there's no place to hide. I tweet pretty much every day that it's convenient for me to do so. People will know about the gloom, the frenzy, the whimsy, the gormlessness, the sweetness and the unpredictablity which are likely to make up a fully-fledged Dotmoment. Prolonged exposure to anyone in an online community is very revealing, especially once you are experienced in that arena and can read between the lines a little better.

I'm not saying that in future, everyone should live in a little box and only physically meet people that they've really got to know online first. But at the same time that is exactly what I'm saying. Let's make it happen today!