PID – a formula for life [1]

From all that we do sense

We now can start to see

The point to reach, just hence

Where we might want to be

Keep things in proportion

And we have much to gain

Integrate past action

Correct how we should aim

Look at where we’re going

To make a difference

Though it might mean slowing

You know that it makes sense

So take control just now

Because we plainly see

That point to reach - and how

And where we want to be.

---

[1] PID (Proportional, Integral, Differential) is a 3-element formula used with controllers to move a sensing system from any start point to a target set-point, speedily and with minimum overshoot, ringing or susceptibility to ‘noise’.  Or is it more…?

The Fall

“The grass needs cutting” said Eva, over breakfast.

“But I have some esoterica to listen to, on Radio 3” explained Adamson. “ ‘Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses’, an unknown opera by the unknown composer Vladek Hodget. Anyway – where are my muffins? It’s Thursday.” 

As a boy, Adamson’s grandmother had always given him muffins on Thursdays, while his mother practised Northumbrian folk songs, like ‘What Fettle, Geordie, Hinny?’ and ‘Divvint Drop Yer Dottle On The Proggie Mat, Pet’ - and while his father hid in the cupboard.

In lieu of demanded muffins, Eva went off to dust. Eva always rated the practical over the esoteric, but Adamson was more poetic.

“That man you’re going to marry” her father had warned her, “will listen to unknown operas over breakfast. I know his type.”

“And I might have to write some poems later.” Adamson called out. Having been married for 40 years, Adamson at least recognised the significance of a sudden need to dust.

You wrote me a poem once, thought Eva ruefully. That was 40 years ago.

Distracted, she knocked ‘The Monarch Of The Glen’ off its wobbly nail and it crashed to the landing floor.

Recognising this further sign, Adamson called out “Er - I’m just taking the cat for a walk”.

“Cats don’t need taking for walks, they’re perfectly capable of walking themselves!” replied Eva, but in this she was quite wrong. In fact the cat was quite amenable to being taken for a walk, especially if it went past the fish and chip shop.

The cat’s name was Rover, because Adamson had really wanted a Mynah bird, which was flatly refused. So in one of those convoluted domestic compromises, he agreed to settle for a cat, but insisted it be named Rover. Rover was commendably stoic about the choice, though he studiously ignored Adamson if he shouted the name in public.

“That man you’re going to marry” Eva's father had said, “will end up taking cats for walks. You see if I’m wrong.”

Eva entered the dining room with a broken picture frame, raised eyebrows and duster stowed regimentally under the armpit. Rover could also recognise signs and, quickly reasoning that he was perfectly capable of walking himself, he left.

Adamson regarded the shattered monarch, and attempted levity. “Oh how the mighty have fallen...” 

The eyebrows failed to fall. Recognising the moment for another domestic compromise, Adamson said “I’ll get the lawnmower out”. 

For 20 minutes Adamson mowed competently, accompanied on earphones by Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses and supervised from the fence by a returned Rover. Moved by the aria where Ursula is finally reunited with her spectacles, he carelessly ran over some fallen apples, jamming the mower blades.

Eva sighed a sigh that had matured for 40 years. “I’ll make some muffins”, she conceded.

“Come on, Rover” said Adamson, brightly, and after first checking quickly that no one else seemed to have heard, Rover followed.

And so it came to pass, that Adamson and Eva had to leave the garden – because of an apple.



(Apologies to Leonard Barras for nicking his style and characters - try to find the original if you can, the man was a genius)

Ocean's 60

Senior crime, now - it's the future. Know what I mean, my Saga chums? Lock, stock and two mugs of steaming cocoa. See - the way I sees it is this. First off, right, well, we don't exactly need so much anyway, do we? I mean - it ain't gotta last us a bleedin' lifetime, has it? Ha, ha! So - second, if you thinks about it, yeh can't really go wrong, can yeh? Either yeh succeed - knock over a bank , say - and it's all sweet - Spain, sangria and Sky Sports. Or - you get caught, but then you're gonna end up with her maj. paying yer rent, doing yer laundry, cooking yer meals, looking after yer teeth... and you get a bit of company thrown in... bleedin hell, you can even do an open University course an all. I tells yeh - it's better than living on your own in your 60s with no heating, innit? (You even get a new sex life...of sorts). There just ain't a down side, is there?

Then...and yer gonna like this, I tell yeh... there's the film rights. I mean - it don't matter if you pull it off or get collared - the story of 'Ocean's 60' will make a stonking film. Miramax are weeing themselves already and I ain't just gone and met that Ray Winstone down the dogs - Raymundo is well up for the lead. Sweet.

So. You in or what, eh?

More Tales From The Dun Cow

It was during the seething industrial unrest of the 1959 strike by the Saggar Makers Bottom Knockers (and affiliated trades) that the Dun Cow played the Bottom Knockers in a charity football match at Floodplain Fields.

The Dun Cow eleven were short of eight men. PC Jack Townsend, the insecure policeman, recruited seven of the local constabulary, and hypothetical vegetarian and neo-Wordsworthian poet Herbert Mangle persuaded former rounders champion and current off-licence proprietor, Mrs Proudfoot, to make up the numbers, after first helping her to suitably prepare.

"Ah didn't know you had to wear chest protectors in football.” She said.

"Trust me...” said Herbert Mangle, "...I've played this game many times before.”

The last of the founding trio was formidable centre half Hu Wang Tardelli. The product of an Italian father and a Chinese mother, he would launch into a tackle like a gladiator, and then walk away, looking perfectly inscrutable.

As the rain continued to deluge and the bursting river began to invade the pitch, Inspector Birkett (master of disguises) splashed off for the Dun Cow side, masquerading as Sir Tom Finney.

In the crowd, Granny Smith went off to the refreshment tent to get some pies, and a bottle of stout for Uncle Hal's bad memory. Falling under the ever-projecting charm of Dun Cow stalwart and amateur dramatics leading player, Peregrine Walthamstow, she returned with cucumber sandwiches instead of pies, as he had said they suited her complexion better.

"Why did you want this bottle of stout?” she asked Uncle Hal.

"I forget” he said.

The Dun Cow were a goal down by half-time, but had the advantage in the second half of playing with the tide, and soon Inspector Birkett, transformed now as Nat Lofthouse, managed to deftly skim the ball three times over the water to pull a goal back. However the Dun Cow were soon depleted as Herbert Mangle took Mrs Proudfoot away to 'help her into some dry clothes' and the thin blue back line collapsed, conceding four more times. So it was that the Dun Cow finished with nine men, one goal and three trout.

The victorious Bottom Knockers charitably bought all drinks at the Dun Cow afterwards, Inspector Birkett metamorphosed into a passable Frank Sinatra and Hu Wang Tardelli provided a warming meal of sweet and sour spaghetti.

Herbert Mangle later immortalised the day in his poem in The Wallsend Weekly Buffoon.

Oh happy was that time, on sodden field of play
We played with bottom knockers to win the day
And swam with the fishes, and ate with the bobbies
And sweet kind ladies did help us with our hobbies.

The search for the Satan Particle begins

Did anyone read the excellent article in The Times 'Eureka' science supplement last week? In case you missed it, here is a quick summary.

As scientists at CERN hope to finally have enough statistical evidence to prove the existence of the God Particle by Summer this year, the thoughts of one group have started to move on to the next quest, for the anti-particle of the God Particle - the so-called ‘Satan Particle’ – otherwise known as the sintrino.

Whilst the God Particle gave us Mass, it’s the sintrino that actually weighs us down. One problem for researchers is the difficulty in actually stopping a sintrino – once started it often seems quite unstoppable.

CERN’s sintrino researchers (or ‘sinners’ for short) hope to devote much of the latter half of the year to the quest for the Satan Particle, and to prove its existence before the end of the year – there could even be major news around about the 21st December this year. Such a short timescale is possible because of everything that was learned along the ‘long hard road’ looking for the God Particle. This time, the ‘sinners’ happily predict that the search should be a lot more fun (although, of course, the devil is in the detail).

Finally, just as there were initial fears that the LHC research might produce some catastrophe, some are also doubting the wisdom of this new research, even warning that if ever a God Particle should collide with a Satan Particle, the resultant reaction would produce such incredible energy it could even be ‘...like a new Big Bang...’, but there is little science to predict such an event - just a belief.

Atonement

There is no majesty in truth
No grandeur in simple reality
For these we need have fiction
Make-believe our love
And lies to be our joy
Without, the sky is grey
And pock-marked skin
Mirrors harshly back

So it was I died
Unseen - some years ago
But in my head I live
And watch the waves come in
And the moon cool light the trees
And rainbows arc the hill
And dream I may find love
Just one time, one time

You choose.

The past is still-born

And tomorrow is dead

All time is a fake

It lives in your head

Just choices to make

Turn left or turn right

A head or a tail -

Nothing’s wrong nor right

See – life doesn't care

If you’re here or not

Rich man or beggar

You’ll soon be forgot

It’s all ‘quantum soup’

No reason or rhyme

And nothing left after

Because - there’s no time.