Plastic bags. I'm sure they are a great benefit to humanity, but I could quite cheerfully strangle the little so and so who invented them. They are truely inventions of the devil. I am sure that a level of Hell is reserved for people who are tasked with the job of opening one of them. They haunt my every waking hour (well almost) - in the supermarket, the cashier is whisking through one item after another, and they're all crashing into one another like the insane grocery pileup equivalent of a motorway crash. Meanwhile you're still struggling to open the plastic bag to put the purchases in. No matter which approach I use... nothing works. The relaxed 'hey.. I'm a guy who shops in supermarkets all the time to pick up the cool chicks' flick of trying to open one leaves it flapping around my face like a wounded albatross trying to pull my glasses off. Or the practised 'I do this all the time.. I am the supermarket King' rustle of thumb and forefinger together. This simply results in the plastic bag equivalent of carpet burns.
Instead I'll try the 'I'm so busy I don't even know I'm opening one' technique of licking thumb and forefinger. This simply results in my fingers sliding around like a chimpanzee on iceskates for the first time. Meanwhile the pileup continues, only by now it's stopped looking like a motorway crash and is looking like some sort post modern artwork that should be on show in the Tate. Still I continue, by trying to prise the sides apart. If Moses could do it with the Red bloody Sea surely I can do it with a poxy plastic bag!
In the midst of all this frustration I notice everything has gone quiet around me.. I look up from my frustration to see Sharon looking pityingly at me. She says 'Would you like some help packing, Sir?' And the 'Sir' is always said after a pause of a few seconds, which allows me to pop into the gap 'you poor moron of a ...'. "No, I don't need help bloody packing! Packing is easy - you just shove stuff in the bags. It's opening the bloody bags I bloody need help with - isn't it obvious?" Only of course I don't actually *say* that. After all, I'm a MAN for gods sake. I can drive a car, I can put up shelves, I can boil water... men have landed on the moon. If they can land on the moon, I'm damn sure I can open. a. bloody. plastic. bag!
Oh yes.. and the rubberneckers. Back to my road crash analogy - they slow down as they walk past, looking firstly in amazement at the pile of boxes, tins and packets teetering... then their eyes drop to the pile of discarded plastic bags... then up again. 'Ah' they think. 'Ah. It's a man versus plastic bag bout. The result is foregone. Nothing to watch here.' They carry on without so much as a glance back over their shoulder. They know who the victor will be, and believe me, it's not going to be me.
Eventually Sharon takes pity on me, and pulls a plastic bag off the roll and with a practised flicking of two fingers has it open for me. I mumble my thanks, and pack my goods up, hoping against hope I don't need her to assist me with a second bag. Fortunately, in this case, I don't. I pay my money and, picking up my humiliating load, make for the car. Just outside the door of the supermarket, the handle breaks, the sides split and the bottom falls out, depositing my groceries in a puddle. I look around, only to see the security guy looking at me (I'll bet HE can open plastic bags, the bastard). After a moment he says 'I'd get two bags next time if I were you Sir.'
There's that pause again. Bastards must go on a training course I reckon. How to humiliate the poor punters who use the supermarket while appearing to be polite and helpful. I pick up the few items that I can manage and make a dash for the car in the rain (since it's quite obviously going to be raining) and make my escape. I mentally tick the shop off my list as another one I can't return to for at least a month until they've forgotten the whole thing.
Nasty things, plastic bags. Yes, the obvious answer is that I should bring my own and use those. Natural, logical sensible point to make, and I hate you already for even suggesting it. I'll tell you why. I already *own* dozens of these things. A bag for life. Another bag for life. A third bag for life - I tell you, in my kitchen I have enough bags for life to satisfy the reincarnation requirements of a medium sized country. I buy these things, put my shopping into them, take them home and then, I'll admit it, I forget them. They sit on the side, out of harms reach, then hide as I'm about to go shopping. Can't find the little beggers anywhere. As soon as I've left the house they pop back out of hiding waiting to taunt me. So not only do I have the humiliation of plastic bags in the first place, I have the added humiliation that I know it's all entirely my own fault. Thanks for reminding me, as if I needed it!
Finally, don't get me started on the black bin liners, with their rabbit ears that can only have been modelled on a deformed rabbit, or the yellow ties that unravel in your hand, or the hook and loop push through the hole affairs. What are they all about, that's what I want to know. Then there's the thin ones which are thinner then a condom and split with eyecontact. No, don't get me on black bin liners, it's not a pretty sight.
I had to go out and work last week. It's not something that I like doing, but it has to be done, at least now and then. I'd prefer that it wasn't necessary - I'd be quite happy if I won the lottery, and I could jack it all in. I can't understand these people who win decent sums on the lottery and carry on working. Have they no brain at all? And they seem to wallow in their stupidity. "Yes, I won 7 million pounds, and all I've done is bought a new kettle." You know the type. And they seem to think this is a good thing!
I'm afraid that if all you can think of doing with 7 million quid is buying a new kettle, why do the lottery in the first instance? Tell you what... I'll buy you the kettle, and you give me the money; apparently that would be a fair exchange.
Anyway, I digress. I was standing on Tottenham Hale tube station, waiting for it to stop raining. I wandered idly up and down, and saw one of those food and drink machines that you put your money into, and you get something out, you know the kind of thing. And as I was bored, I decided to read the instructions. Basically they said what I would have expected - shove your money in, choose the numbered item you want, fish it out of the little hole in the bottom and bugger off. No surprise there, except that the last line of the instructions took me aback a bit. 'Do not choose an empty selection' it said.
Several thoughts tumbled through my mind in quick succession at this point. Firstly, would anyone be stupid enough to actually do that? Faced with an array of Diet Coke, Coke, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Water, Crisps, various types of chocolate and so on - why would someone think 'Oh, I know, I'll put a quid into this machine and choose the item that isn't there'. What would be the point, unless you have a particular fetish for watching the curly thing just curl around a few times to no end. In which case, just give me the pound and I'll twirl my fingers around in front of your face for a few moments.
The next thing that I thought was 'Why do they actually need to tell us this?' I mean, they don't also say 'Don't stick your tongue in the slot in case it gets caught' or 'Do not try and lift this vending machine with both little fingers'. So why tell us something as blindingly obvious as 'Do not choose an empty selection'? The answer to that followed on immediately, and I have to confess, it was really quite scary - because someone must have complained. Just imagine, being the customer support person for the vending machine company, how the conversation must have gone...
Vending Machine Customer Support (VMCS) Hallo, can I help you?
Moronic Customers (MC) Yes, I'd like to complain about your vending machine.
VMCS: Oh, what appears to be the problem?
MC: I put my money in and didn't get anything out.
VMCS: I'm sorry to hear that - what was your choice?
MC: Oh, I chose an empty selection.
VMCS: I see.... and you didn't get anything?
MC: No.
VMCS: Exactly what were you expecting to get? Some invisible chocolate bar perhaps? Or a bag of scotch mist? Or perhaps a tube of that new brand of sweets 'Fuck All'?
MC: I dunno. But I didn't get anything.
VMCS: How did you know that you didn't get anything? Did you check?
MC: What do you mean?
VMCS: I mean, did you put your hand into the slot to see if anything was there?
MC: Err, no, I didn't.
VMCS: Ah well in that case I'm sorry we can't help. You see, if you chose an empty selection and then left it behind, we're hardly accountable for that are we?
MC: Err, no, I suppose not.
VMCS: Thank you, have a nice day.
Not only this, but this couldn't have been repeated just the once, oh no. They wouldn't bother to tell us not to choose an empty selection if it only happened the once. It must happen a lot for them to go to the trouble. Which means that there must be a whole bunch of people wandering around who habitually put a pound into a vending machine and chose nothing. And then… *AND THEN* complain about it! Now, I don't know about you, but that's bloody scary.
While I'm on the subject, I was driving down the motorway a while ago, and saw one of those big electronic signs. On the sign was a big piece of plastic that said 'This sign not in use'. My first thought, being the pedantic sod that I am, was 'Actually it IS in use. It's in use saying that it's not in use.' If it wasn't in use it would have nothing on it. But again, that got me thinking - they actually decided that it was necessary to tell people that the sign wasn't working. In Gods name why? How likely is it that you're going to ring the Department of Transport and complain that the sign between junctions 16 and 17 of the M25 wasn't working? Perhaps people had crashed their cars squinting to see if there really was a sign, but thought it was in tiny little letters that they couldn't read properly? Perhaps they worried about it, or were so paranoid that there actually was a sign, and it knew that they were driving along and switched itself off just before they could see it, then switched itself back on when they'd gone past?
So there's another scary thought for you to contemplate - there are people driving along, in charge of a ton of metal hurtling along the carriageway who are incapable of working out that a sign isn't actually working.
Enjoy your next trip.
Following on my from my posting of a while ago on the tricky subject of Virgin Trains and their super intelligent toilets, I thought it was time to cover another of the ills of modern day society, and that my friends, is the refreshment trolleys on trains. Contrary to what you might think, the main purpose of these creatures is NOT to provide refreshments. Oh no. They're designed to make the travelling public look as stupid as possible in the shortest amount of time available.
These creatures are usually maintained by a couple of staff who can usually manage the IQ of a retarded snail. Between them. On a good day. You never actually get to view the trolley in its glory, as it is trundled up the gangway. You usually notice it when it bangs past you at some speed. This is of course deliberate, and it's designed to waft the smell of burnt coffee under your nostrils, and to get the saliva glands working. It disappears into the distance and will not reappear for at least 45 minutes. Of course, you could always go to the galley to try and get some refreshment yourself. This is however a foolish course of action, since the train sways back and forth, and you end up falling into someone's lap, and have to mutter apologies at least twice per carriage. It's very similar to being drunk in fact; you think you can walk a sensible line but of course you can't, and what should be a two minute stroll turns into an assault course. Either that, or you're like a pinball in a machine, bouncing off the sides of the seats as you make your way down the carriages. Eventually you get to the 'refreshments', only of course they're not. And that's if it's open! Usually it isn't, and you have to decide if you're going to stand around looking like a lemon, with people stamping on your feet as they go past. Where are they going? I have no idea. So it's best to stay in your seat, and wait for the creature to pay a return visit.
Eventually the trolley returns, and you have to manage the first hurdle, of catching the eye of one of the keepers of the trolley. This means that you can't read or look out of the window – oh no, you have to sit and look hopeful. If you manage to get their attention, it's time to make your choice, and this is where things get difficult. You can take the brave option, and ask for tea or coffee. At this point, the keepers of the trolley know that they have you where they want you. Which is that they have all the advantages – not least that they're standing, and you're sitting, so you're at a disadvantage from the outset. They can then start to toy with you, like a cat with a mouse. 'I'm very sorry sir, but we seem to have run out of coffee, would you care for tea instead?' translates into 'Sor'wer'outta'corfeeteastead?' and it takes a few moments to run it through your mental translation machine. So you say that you'll have tea.
Not that it matters, since the only difference is that you get a green plastic mug instead of a brown one. Do NOT think that you've got tea – it's actually exactly the same as the coffee – some brown liquid with a plastic stick in it. Now, the liquid is so hot that the plastic stick starts to melt as soon as it's put into the cup. They put this item down on the table in front of you, after putting down a sort of napkin effort. This napkin is specifically designed, for one purpose, and one purpose only, and that is to make it easier for the cup to slide on the table. One of the keepers of the trolley must, I swear, have a little button he (and it's always a 'he') presses. This alerts the driver, who then breaks sharply sending the cup of scalding liquid across the table and into the lap of the person sitting opposite. They then let out a howl of agony since the liquid is of course steam heated to above boiling point. This is the preferred option, even taking into account that you have to apologise profusely, though it's not actually your fault. It's the preferred option because of course if the train doesn't slow down, it speeds up, thus sending the cup skittering into your own lap. Have you ever had a cup of brown scalding liquid explode in your own lap? Of course you have, it's a danger of living in modern society. For a moment, you breath a sigh of relief, because the lid on the cup has saved you! The fates have been confounded, and you, my friend, are victorious! Until of course you try and get it. This is part of the plan, in that you're so panicked you grab for the cup, pressing on the sides. This has the desired effect, which is that you put pressure onto the sides, and the liquid is forced out, expelling the lid and contents over your shirt or groin. Being British with a stiff upper lip you don't actually scream aloud, merely whimper. You then look up at one of the keepers of the trolley through tear filled eyes, and what do you do? I'll tell you what you do – you apologise, that's what! As if it's your fault. The keeper of the trolley (henceforth referred to as the KOTT, or 'bastard' for short) merely looks at you with a smirk that even the most sarcastic person in the world couldn't match, and says 'Would sir like another cup?' (Odd how they can make themselves understood when they want to, isn't it!) You manage to groan out 'yes please' and learn by your mistake, and as soon as the cup is placed on the table, you grab it with one hand.
Your ordeal is not yet over however, since you have to choose something to eat. Of course, you can't see what is available through your tear filled eyes. At this point, another choice looms. You can ask them what is available. Of course, they're going to sigh heavily, so you are aware of the impact that you're having on their day. In order to retain the upper hand they run through the list of items quickly. It goes something like this: 'Cheesentomato,cheesenpickle,hamm anickle,plaincrispssalternigarcheesenyunfruitakeorcheesynac'. It doesn't make any sense – it's not supposed to. That's part of the plan. The onus is back on you to look like an idiot. You can say 'I'm sorry, could you repeat that?' in which case the KOTT says it again, only faster. 'Cheento,cheeickle,hmic,plcrp,sac rpcanac' and you still have no idea what's on the menu. You decide that, to save face, the best thing to do is to say 'I'll have the last one please'. This is a grave error, because you get some odd breadstick things that were cardboard tubes in a previous existence, together with a pale yellow substance. What the hell are you supposed to do with it? Eat it? Eat it? I wouldn't give it to a starving dog. However, since you've bought it, and you can't not do something with it, you stab a cardboard stick into the yellow stuff. The stick breaks, as it was designed to, and you have to excavate the thing from the yellow quagmire with your fingers. Time Team would have a difficult job doing it, let alone you, a complete novice. Then you have to eat it. It's best to close your eyes and think of something else at this point. Don't expect the yellow stuff to taste of cheese. The closest that it's come to being cheese is when the producers of this muck put 'cheese flavoured' on the packaging. It's a compilation of emulsified fat, rusk and more chemicals than you need to poison the entire underground system of Tokyo.
This is therefore not the sensible option to take. In fact, there isn't a sensible option (other than not to bother in the first place, but hunger has got the better of you), so instead of asking what's available you point at something at random. The KOTT knows that you've just asked at random – they're specially trained to look into your tear filled eyes at this point in the proceedings, and they know that they've got you. It's like a lucky dip at this point. They do what they always do, and that's give you the item that they've got most left of. This is going to be a wasp sandwich. I kid you not, there's a factory just outside Halifax that produces them. Of course, they take the wings off, since they're not easy to digest, but other than that… you get whole wasps. Well, at least they're crunchy I suppose, unlike the yellow cheesy quagmire. Naturally you're sitting across from an experienced traveller, who just looks at you and you can tell what they're thinking. 'Oh my god.. he's got the wasp sandwiches!'. In a moment they'll lean over to their colleague and murmur something that you can't quite hear.. you can only catch 'idiot' and 'wasp sandwich'. Within a short space of time, by some process you don't understand, everyone in the carriage knows that you've got the booby prize. People will go past your seat on the way to the loo and nudge each other 'He's the bloke who ordered the wasp sandwich'. You know that you're doomed for the rest of the journey, because you can't ever, ever, get up to use the loo yourself since people will look up at you and snigger. Bastards, the lot of them.
Of course, the ordeal is not yet over, because you've got to hand over some hard earned cash for this gastronomic disaster. This is difficult, because you're still using one hand to hold the cup of steaming napalm. You fish around for some coins, but you don't know how much it's going to cost. This is where they have you again, because they KNOW you don't know how much it cost. They won't tell you of course, because that would spoil the fun. Oh no. They wait until you've got a few coins and then say 'That'll be seven pounds and 33 pence please sir'. This is not a random number – it's chosen to make it as difficult as possible for you to get the right money. So you stuff the coins away, concentrating on getting a tenner out of your wallet, which you pass over. They then say 'Sorry sir, we have no change'. Of course they bloody do. They've got change from the other poor fools who have bought wasp sandwiches before you. Are you going to complain? Of course not… by now, you just want the ordeal to end. At this point you'd agree to anything, just to escape the withering gaze of the KOTT. If they said 'Are you the person who poked that baby in the eye three carriages further up?' you'd say 'yes, I confess, it was me! It was me!' just to get them to go. Medieval torturers have nothing on these people. 'Will you confess to being a witch, or would you rather have napalm liquid poured over you followed by a wasp sandwich?' You're gonna take the easy option every time. So you mumble something about 'keep the change' while you seethe inside. Finally you can breath a sigh of relief, since the trolley moves onto the next idiot. It's at this point, and this point only that you realise that you've just paid ten quid for two cups of napalm and a wasp sandwich. This keeps you occupied, and you don't notice anything else while you juggle the napalm and the 'food' to ensure the whole sorry affair can be concluded as quickly as possible. Especially you don't notice that the train stops at 'Upper Flossing by Gum'. This is unfortunate, because if you noticed that, you'd realise that you were on the wrong train from the start and instead of going to Liverpool, the next stop isn't until Exeter. Bastards.
This is in the word of advice column to stop you looking
like a total idiot, should there be any danger of this happening - if you're
travelling on Virgin Trains (which is probably about as sane as sitting in a
car going no-where on the M25), but if you are, and you decide to go to the
loo, there are three buttons when you get inside their superdooper water closets.
Button one, marked 'close door' closes the door. Button two, marked 'lock
door', locks the door. Button three, marked 'open door' opens the door. 3
buttons. 3 simple operations that even a retarded monkey on prozac could manage
on a bad day blindfold. Take note of these buttons and use them.
If you don't, it's entirely likely that someone like me, who wants to use the loo is going to come up to the door of the hi-tech hole in the ground and press 'open'. When this happens, several things will occur, almost simultaneously. You'll look up from where you're sitting on the loo, doing your business. You'll see the door opening, people struggling to get past on their way to the buffet car, and other people generally milling around doing nothing because there isn't a seat for them, and you'll realise that you're about to spend the rest of your life with this horror etched deeply into your brain. That's the first thing. The second thing is that you'll scream. The third thing is that I'll scream. After that, the door will continue to open, wider and wider, like a masochists mouth at the dentist, because the high tech super dooper loo doesn't realise what's going on. Your scream of horror, mingled with my scream of surprise is going to make people look around. And they're going to see, as God is my witness, you sitting on the loo. Which makes you scream again. Louder this time.
Meanwhile I jump back and stamp on someone's foot, which doesn't actually impress them too much, and they'll spill their cup of napalm everywhere, and they'll scream as well. By now the Virgin train looks as though it's playing host to the UK All comers National Screaming Contest (Midlands Division). Then things start to slow down, as time plays funny tricks on your brain. I say as calmly as I can 'push the button! push the button!'. However, the designers of the super dooper hi tech loo have arranged matters so that it's not possible for you to sit on the loo AND push the buttons at the same time. Oh no. So you have to stand up, which isn't easy with your knickers around your ankles.
So then I'm poised... do I try and turn around and block the view? This won't work because that sucker of a door is large , and growing larger at every second. There's probably a camera crew down the aisle somewhere rushing to get it all on video for the 8 o'clock news summary. So that is a nonstarter. Do I reach into the loo, and try and push the button myself? The trouble with this approach is that the bastard thing is going to know, it IS going to know I've just done that, and it'll shut quicker than a trap on a mouses neck. And then god help me I'll be stuck inside the loo, with a total stranger sitting on it, screaming. A car in a blizzard on the M25 would be preferable.
So I dither. I'm not usually a ditherer. Dithering is not what I do. But I bloody well do this time. Eventually, you stagger to your feet, clothes around your ankles, and make a stab for the button. Relief is at hand. Well, it would be. Except.. except that at this precise moment, the train driver decides to put his brakes on. Hard. Which sends you, you poor humiliated bastard thudding across the cubicle, unable to get your balance, given that your underwear is trying to get you in a grip a large python would be pleased with. You fall to the ground. Meanwhile I'm still outside the door, my dilemma even worse now - do I come in and help, or stay outside? What IS the correct thing to do here? I'll bet that it's not in Mrs Fotheringdales Book of Etiquette I can assure you. So I stand by the door, pointing desperately at the buttons, almost hopping up and down in rage, frustration and embarassement on your behalf 'the button! push the button!' I scream. Eventually you are able to reach up, and push the button, but by now, I've decided that dithering isn't what it's cracked up to be, and have made a move to reach in, across your prostrate body and push the bloody thing myself.
Again, things happen all at once. I reach in, you push the button and the door decides to imitate one of the more wicked traps from Indiana Jones and the Toilet of Doom and snaps shut on my wrist. Of course, you breath a sigh of relief, since your part of the ordeal is over. But not so fast my friend with a face hotter than the sun. Because the door, sensing an obstruction, leaps open again. This time however, things go a little better, since I dive out of the way, and you hit the button again.
The door closes, with you safely on the inside, me safely on the outside and peace can once again reign supreme. The good news is that you have now suffered THE most embarassing thing that will ever happen to you in your entire life. Nothing will ever be able to match it. Meanwhile, I have to go off and find another loo, since there is no way you're going to open it again are you? In fact, you're going to stay there for the rest of the journey, and will only emerge when you are sure that everyone has got off at Euston.
Traveling anywhere? Trust me, don't do it. It's a Bad Idea.
Well, having seen users at Flickr revolt over censorship, and LiveJournal writers get snitty over LJ bans, it now looks as though Facebook is going to have to quell rebellion if the article Facebook ban incurs 'lactivist' wrath is anything to go by. Apparently they're banning photographs of breast feeding mothers, because an exposed breast violates their terms. Although we don't exactly know what 'exposed' really means. Also doesn't explain why Facebook seems to think it is ok to run an image of a topless model in a banner ad.
There is currently a Facebook group 'Hey, Facebook, breastfeeding is not obscene!' with over 10,000 members and over 600 photographs (presumably of mothers breastfeeding infants - I didn't personally check). It's an incredibly dense thing for Facebook to be doing, because the one group of people you really don't want to annoy are mothers. My guess is that Facebook will try and weather the storm, then retract and apologise - sooner rather than later.
I saw a story from Softpedia about Microsoft and Google and thought it would be worth taking a look at. I started to read the story and moved my house and wallop! Up comes a big advert, which I then have to either click to remove or move my mouse away and wait a few seconds before it disappears. A few seconds later I inadvertently did it again - same thing happened. This page is literally festooned with mouseover adverts; there are 15 of these, 9 small Google adverts and 1 large Google advert. What's worse is that the mouseover adverts have very little, if any relevance to the story I'm reading - they are there simply to try and make money for these idiots and to irritate me.
So, here's the rant. A webpage should be there to be read. That's what it's for - you have information and you want to make it available to other people. Only not according to the idiots at Softpedia. Oh no.. they're not interested in the story, other than as an opportunity to puke adverts all over your screen. Once you start to think about it, this is where it gets really stupid, because once you realise that, you start to wonder just how they have twisted and written their story to ram in as many adverts as they can. So the news becomes less about the actual news, and more about them. As a user it means that I have to try and skip through a minefield without blowing up the bombs and spraying advertising over everything. I can't trust these people to provide good quality news, and I can't even read what they are saying, so what IS the point of going there in the first place? There comes a point when it becomes so blatant that a company is that desperate for money that it's embarrassing, and that's what's happened here. Of course, it's going to backfire because they're not going to make any out of me, because I'm not going back to their tatty marketstall again. (Rant over)
Seriously though - how stupid is that? Yes, I sometimes have the Snap mouseover operating on some of my pages, but only where I actually think it's useful for a reader, and it's not as intrusive as the rubbish being thrown out here. Don't these people ever *think* about the effect of what they're doing on their readers - the one group they can't afford to annoy? (OK, rant really over this time).
Looking for Arabic information? Then try Onkosh which styles itself as 'the only true Arabic search engine'. I have to admit, it's looking fairly comprehensive - web, image, blog, news search options, English or Arabic characters can be used. They also have the Onkosh Bel-3araby option, which lets you search for Arabic words using English characters, like '3' for 'ع' and '7' for 'ح'. That brings me to the end of my knowledge on the Arabic language, but if you've been looking for something like this, you may just have found it.
Mary Ellen Bates has written about Intelways over on her blog. Now, Intelways used to be called CrossEngine, and before it was called that, it was called Mr.Sapo. Which is a pretty stupid idea if you want to keep a brand name out in the public eye. I mentioned CrossEngine back in January briefly here, and in more detail over at Search Engine Land. The major difference would seem to be that it's now using about 300 engines to provide you with alternatives, rather than the 200 or so when I looked at it previously. Still does a good job of providing you with options if you want to search somewhere different for a change.
I spent a very nice day last week at Brunel University running a Web 2.0 - What It's all About course for the ASLIB Engineering group. We did an overview of the subject, and then looked in detail at start pages, custom search engines, creating weblogs and websites using the resources on the net. A good time was had by all.
Weblog.com – Create your FREE blog now!. Nice little resource that uh.... allows you to start blogging in seconds. It looks very like Blogger, right down to the templates, so it may be a useful alternative, particularly if you are into the whole training people on creating their own weblogs. Thanks to the ever useful lo-fi librarian for this one, and who continually churns out stuff that is incredibly useful and that I don't find anywhere else.
