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Random Shite

The Queen is dead

And majority of sane people don’t give a fuck.

Didn’t know her. Never met her. Don’t fucking care about someone who’s position is an accident of birth.

The same mass hysteria on the scale of Diana’s… ahem ‘accident’ is on show, with the same cretins on TV, remembering how they saw Queenie whizz by in her car 30 years ago and how it’s all so emotional for them now she’s plucking harp strings with her husband now. Whoop de fucking doo.

But giving a shit about the UK royal family isn’t the point of this. Nor is the blanket, one sided version being fed by the media.

No.

How about a woman being arrested for holding up a sign calling for the monarchy being abolished?

What about a man being arrested for heckling Prince Andrew?

Man arrested for heckling Prince Andrew – https://www.cityam.com/man-arrested-for-heckling-prince-andrew-at-edinburgh-procession/

And the fucking cherry on the shit sundae, a man hassled by the police for holding up a blank piece of paper, warned that is he write notmyking on it, he’d be arrested for a public order offence because someone MIGHT be offended.

Fuck me, people have lost the plot along with their fucking minds.

#notmyking

How not to describe a film to the wife

Every now and again, the wife asks me if I have anything we can watch. Since we have widely different tastes in films, it’s not often I have something we can watch together.

However, I thought I was on to a winner with this one as it’s a film based on real events (she likes that) and a murder (hmmm maybe on that one).

When she inevitably asks me what the film is about, because IMDB is a mystery to her, I open my big mouth and say with: “It’s called Sister, My Sister and it’s about two French Maids…” and that’s when she walked off with a sigh.

With the benefit of hindsight I could have explained it was about two maid who were French as it sounds less PornHubby.

For anyone not familiar with the story behind Sister My Sister, and it’s as fucked up as you can get, here’s a documentary about the Papin Sisters.

Another rant about designers

I have a love/hate relationship with designers, and I can say with absolute predictability, that it’s mostly been hate.

Past experience of a designers sending a web site design done Adobe InDesign or a spec so concise it could fit on a fucking stamp, really didn’t make life easy. Of course, that’s presuming you get a specification at all, hearing the words “do what you want” always filled me with dread as I knew with certainty that I’d end up doing 17 revisions of same fucking thing over and over again because the vague phrase “clean looking” means jack shit.

I love that some prick just out of university with a degree in design can be paid an exorbitant amount of money to piss around in Adobe Photoshop, fucking around with every combination of RGB values until it looks “nice and clean.”   No, sorry, I forget they can also draw boxes and use type tool to put “So and so goes here.”

And heaven forbid if a developer, like me, doesn’t make it an exact copy of their ever so precious piece of design. Yes, that one pixel difference ruins it huh?  Twat.

In the past it has caused more stress than anything else. It’s their “baby” and their intransigence to any slight modification of MY design” beggars belief.

It’s actually quite refreshing that the UI/UX designer I work with is… well… a laugh to work with and actually flexible. He’ll sit next to me and suggest changes to his work, and he always asks me for my input. Who would of thought it was possible 🙂

I like to keep up to date with design trends, and so you can imagine my reaction when I read my design feeds, and some pretentious hipster prick is banging on about him being a design wizard/ninja/god/etc.

facepalm-description

I was reading an article the other day, and I forgot to bookmark it, where some cock was going on about a design he was working on, and how he had to, and I remembered this part in particular, “ninjitsu” something it to work.

Sorry? What the fuck is “ninjitsu”? But then I remembered I was reading an article by a pretentious prick, and from what I can gather, it what developers refer to as a bodge/hack/workaround. Developers don’t have an ego the size of fucking Jupiter, so we don’t “ninjitsu” anything, nor do we have an over inflated sense of self-importance to call ourselves “rock stars.”

Designers, learn to be just a little more pragmatic about things. Developers don’t try to be awkward for the sake of it, we don’t go out of our way to fuck up your precious designs.

 

The only good Russian is…

I used to have sympathy for the Russian soldiers in Ukraine.

The videos release of the POW’s show some pathetic scrawny little bastards who had no idea why they were in Ukraine and just wanted to go home. More pathetic what the phone calls to their mummies saying they wanted to go home.

Oh the poor things.

Now however, in light of the Bucha massacre, my only thoughts are… fuck em, only good Russian soldier is a dead one.

I smile and laugh when I see drone footage of Ukrainians blowing the fuckers up, little to no feeling for them or their families.

How to query an API. Or not, in this case

It’s a fairly run of the mill task for developers to access an API. Send a token, check you have permission to do so, and process the data sent back in the request once you have been authenticated.

It’s quick and secure and powers the internet.

No problem.

Like I said, you could do it that way if you were semi-competent. But there is an alternative method.

As a ‘senior developer’ you could alternatively skip the security and authentication and just send the users email and password to the server as plain fucking text in an GET request.

Yeah that works.

And to make this clusterfuck even better, could could error_log() the request, again not worrying about encryption or obfuscation. You could also put that file in a directory so anyone can type /log to the end of the URL to see the fucking file and see everyone’s email and password.

But only a fucking retard would do something that stupid.

Not saying it happened, nor did I spend three fucking hours changing all my fucking passwords and sign back in on desktop, laptop and two mobile phones.

No, I dreamed all this.

The Beatles Abbey Road 50th Anniversary

Another year, another remixed Beatles album is released. Last year it was the White Album, this year it’s the 50th aniversary of Abbey Road.

As I said in the last post like this, while I am a compelete Beatles fanatic, I’m not a fan of their later albums from Sergant Pepper onwards.

But my feelings for Abbey Road are a little different because of three compositions. Come Together, Something and Here Comes the Sun. Three great songs, and thankfully Apple Music have released an amazing video to coincide with the new remixed album.

And Jesus H Fucking Christ on a fucking bike, Here Comes the Sun sounds out of this world, sounds so fresh and betrays none of it’s fifty year age. I was blown away.

Roll on the 60th aniversary remixes of Hard Days’ Night, Help, Revolver and Rubber Soul 🙂

The Beatles White Album 50th Anniversary

So the Beatles White Album has been remixed… suppose you have to do something for the 50th aniversary. Not my favourite album in the world, anything after Revolver pails into comparison and while I can agree that it’s progression in their music and songwriting, it’s just not as exciting to listen to.

The White Album just appears to be a lot of knock off songs from India thrown together into a double album although it does have some highlights like Dear Prudence, While My Guitar Gently Weeps and I’m So Tired.

So it’s very meh to me, but there is a new video…. oooooo. Yeah exactly. So here’s a remix of Glass Onion, sounding a little less like filler music to my ears, but hey, we all have our favourites.

The moment my life went wrong

Back in the Summer of 1983, I was a child you would recognise from the wreck I’ve made of childhood.

I was an extrovert, I was never in the house, I was out with a massive group of friends any chance I could get.

Then December comes. As any other kid, I looked in my mum and dad’s wardrobe’s looking to see what presents I would be getting for Christmas. Nothing. A little weird, so I took a risk and looked in my oldest brother’s room and there in the back of his wardrobe was a Woolworth’s bag with black box, about a foot long, half a foot deep and wide. On the front was a black machine with what looked like blue keys.

What the fuck is that?  Guess it’s for my middle brother or something, so I presumed my present hadn’t been bought yet.

Come Christmas Day, I wake up excitedly and rush downstairs with my brothers and we start unwrapping presents. I’m given this box and I unwrap it and it’s the same box I saw before.

Aaaaah... look at that beauty
Aaaaah… look at that beauty

Same question, what the fuck is it? Sinclair ZX Spectrum Personal Computer. What is a computer? What is a Spectrum?

So my brother’s set it up for me (they’ve obviously used it before!), plugged into a colour TV, cassette player and a few WH Smith’s tapes. The fuckers didn’t even bother buying games for it but pirated them from someone in their work, along with a list of games I could buy for £2.50 or something. A tradition I’ve carried on every since ha.

So they put in a tape and we wait, and wait and wait and then I’m presented with this screen. The first computer game I’ve played.

Let’s remember, this is 1983, and computers by modern standards were crap as you’d expect, so  it’s hard to imagine the impact this made at the time, or as I prefer to see it now, what a complete fucking disaster this made of my life.

For the next six to nine months, I hammered that fucking rubber keyboard and Kempston joystick as I refused to let some fucking sprites on a screen beat me. Jetpac, Manic Miner, Jet Set Willy, Pssst and Football Manager was hammered morning, noon and night.

The number of hours I wasted on this game. FML.

But then the boredom set in. No more “yay let’s play Atic Atac”, more “oh god, do I have to play these shitty games again”, but that god for the manual, which gave very, very basic instructions on how to “program” it and this was the point my future life went to shit as I typed in those long program listings from Sinclair User that never fucking worked first time around, that took longer to debug than to type in the first place, but at least it gave me a skill I have to this day of finding problems very quickly and fixing them.

I can still remember me and my brothers writing a game called Miners Strike, which was basically Space Invaders but instead you fired policeman at miners. Well it was topical at the time, and the hell of doing graphics as binary characters with the help of pen and paper.

So this is how my future life was decided. My mass of friends drifted away, going outside was rare, I was kicked out of the school football team and basically I turned into  what kids of today are like: glued to their xbox’s and playstation’s, never going out, anti-social.

Over the next year or so, I learnt Z80 code but then moved to the Commodore 64, and it was the same story… I got bored of the games and started coding on it instead as it was much more entertaining to me.

Then I joined the 16 bit generation in July 1987, and what was left of my personality soon disappeared as I joined “the scene”, writing tech demos in what was bascially a European wide pissing contest to see who could do the best effect better than anyone else.

Ah it was fun.

Now it’s my job, I’m a developer for a living, sat in front of two monitors for eight hours a day, writing crappy code and fixing issues before I go home and spend another five hours at my home computer before going to bed and the whole sorry cycle starts over again.

Sounds a fucking blast doesn’t it.

Things to do in Rotherham when you’re dead

Time for a little review of things to do based on extensive research before and during my three and a bit days in Rotherham.

So here’s the top ten of things to do:

  1. Find the nearest road out
  2. See item 1.

Seriously, I’ve never been so fucking bored in my life. Staring at the four walls of a fucking Holiday Inn room was more fucking interesting.

A drive every morning to our training room was like going back in time.

Only good thing was beating the works Designer at table football, though to be fair, he was pissed up at the time. But a wins a win ha

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