Sunday, October 19, 2014

A Classic Puzzle

This problem can be solved by pre-school children in 5-10 minutes, by programmers - in 1 hour, by people with higher
education ... well, check it yourself! :)


Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Cameron Again

I am not at all sure I how I have turned into the sort of person who posts baby photos, especially since the baby in question is not mine.

In my defence, little Cameron appears to be a one-baby conversion weapon aimed directly at the hearts of the childless.

Look at that smile!

Ryanair (Stansted to Vasteras - Stockholm)

They speak ill of Ryanair, but I don't know why.

I used to like flying, but pretty much gave up on it about ten years ago because the experience had become so miserable. The final straw was some cunts called 'First Choice', who put a television I couldn't turn off right in my face and advertised holidays to me throughout the flight. By the time I got to London I'd completely packed my ear canals with shreds of the Daily Telegraph and they were still coming out in the shower a month later.

Wanting to visit a friend in Stockholm, I got my first Ryanair flight from Stansted to Vasteras last Tuesday. Everyone I spoke to beforehand said: 'Oh, Ryanair, enjoy...', in much the same way that people used to say, 'Ah, Stalingrad...' to Germans.

Their website's easy to work, and they make it perfectly clear that they'd really like you to print out your boarding pass in advance and that you shouldn't take the piss with their cabin baggage allowance and that it will cost you if you do.

They also offer the chance to reserve a particular seat in advance for £5. Bargain I reckon. I enjoy flying if and only if I can see out, and I always used to have to turn up early to negotiate at the check-in desk for a window seat.

Contrary to everyone's predictions, I paid exactly the advertised price, plus my entirely voluntary and deliberately paid 2x£5 window-seat fee.

I stuck three days worth of clothes and some books in my satchel, and it was about half the size allowed. I cycled in to Stansted airport at about 9:30 for my 10:30 flight, locked my bike in the bike shed right in front of the terminal, floated happily through courteous security, and arrived at the boarding gate at around 10:00. Just time for a coffee while the plane boarded, and as I finished it the last passenger was going through. I followed them onto the plane, was greeted by a smiling stewardess, and took my seat. My bag fitted neatly into the footwell.

I'd taken earplugs because everyone had been telling me about relentless advertising and screaming children. I ended up not using them.

I noticed exactly one child on the plane, who kept saying as we were taxiing 'Are we flying yet Mummy?', and then when the plane started to accelerate and lift let out one long, terrified yet fascinated scream which kept rising as the plane kept rising and finally terminated in an awed gasp as we levelled out. Utterly endearing and I know exactly how she felt!
New friends

As for advertising, if there was any I didn't notice it. No wretched music, no nasty airline food, no pitiful in-flight movie, no sodding televisions on the backs of seats, just looking out at the clouds and the sea and the fields and the towns and the coast and the boats and the lakes, and chatting to the lovely girl sitting next to me who'd been a fellow student of my university. If this is what no frills means I'd pay extra for it.

Just as I was thinking to myself "I wish someone would sell me a coffee", someone came up and sold me a coffee. For about £2.50, which seemed remarkably unexploitative given the captive nature of the market. And it wasn't exactly the hard sell. I pretty much had to grab her ankles.

Exactly on time we touched down in Vasteras. It's a delightful little airport with one tiny building. They look at your passport and say 'Welcome to Sweden'. And that's it.

Outside the 'Flygbuss' to Stockholm is waiting. 'Where can I get a ticket?', I said, and the driver said 'Just there, but don't worry, we won't leave until everyone's aboard'. 'Do I have time for a smoke?', I said. 'Yes of course', he said. 'I'll come and get you when we want to go'.

In the centre of Stockholm 75 minutes later.

I not only enjoyed this flight, I enjoyed it lots.

The flight back was much the same. The flygbuss gets to the airport fully two hours before the plane leaves, so I asked at the terminal information desk if there was anything to do. 'No', said the lady. And then after thinking, she said 'But there are some interesting aeroplanes here for the forest fires, and as long as you're back here 40 minutes before the flight you'll be fine.'

She was right on both counts, so my last look at Sweden was a long walk through the forest with occasional planes and helicopters, and getting rid of the last of my kroner in the lovely airport cafe before going through security. On the other side of security was a 10 minute wait in a glass box before we boarded the plane.

Would fly again.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Favourite Posts

I got all nostalgic and re-read my whole blog. While I was doing it I made a list of all the things I enjoyed reading again. And tried to link to it in the right hand corner above the photo.  I don't know if it's obvious enough though.

Oxford English Dictionary

Hey, the OED's online:

The real thing!

And they've put back all the ancient greek roots in real greek letters that were what I loved about it when I was a child, and which they took out in the last printed edition in order that it wouldn't be as good any more.

And you can add it to firefox as one of your search engines just by going to that page and clicking on the icon in the search bar, and then you can give it the keyword oed so that Ctrl-L oed reference will look up 'reference'.


Saturday, June 7, 2014

I Hate Sport

In a recent electrical conversation with a friend, the fact that it was once possible for an Olympic athlete to be accused of 'training' came up.

I've been sporty for most of my adult life, and I know exactly what those guys in the 1920s were complaining about.

The game-theoretic structure of sport is wrong.

The point of sport is to have something fun and friendly to do at the weekend. All our sports are children's games that it turns out adults can enjoy too.

If you don't enjoy it, why would you even call it sport?

What you want out of sport is the joy of the game itself, the relationships that you make out of it, the atavistic thrill of combat without the ocean of blood, the wonderful feeling of practising something and getting better at it, the team spirit, the feeling of good health and freedom that comes from having some sort of physical activity in your life.

The reasons for enjoying and approving of sport are many. It was a great invention, when the first adults decided to play children's games in their new-found spare time.

There are two problems.

One is that it's possible to care about winning far too much. This is something in our evolved psychology whose origin is too obvious to mention.

The sport I've taken most seriously in my life has been rowing.

Not one competition I have ever entered has mattered in the grand scheme of things, and I have never thought it did. But when actually in a boat race, of any standard or against any rival, I would happily damage my own health in order to win. I often threw up at the end of hard races.

The day when I found myself, in the middle of a race at Peterborough Regatta whose result is nowhere recorded, and which went entirely unnoticed even by the spectators on the day, not caring insanely much about beating the boatful of complete strangers rowing next to us, and thinking that it might be nice to back off a bit and let the intense pain in my legs die down, was the day I gave up rowing for good.

Once, during the Head of the River Race, which is the big event for British men's rowing in the winter, rowed over the university boat race course on the Thames, with cheering crowds and the best boat of every club in England racing for results that are remembered for years, I misjudged my own strength, overdid it, and found myself 10 minutes into the race with my vision contracting to a tunnel, as the cells in my eyes and my brain starved for oxygen, until it felt as though I was looking at the back of the person in front of me through a telescope. I rowed the rest of the course in delirium.

Rowing is a technical sport. That kind of exhaustion is not going to do your technique any good at all, and you aren't going to produce significantly more power by putting yourself into that kind of place. It's beyond doubt counterproductive to race that hard.

To put this crazed over-exertion into perspective, this was early in my rowing career. I was rowing in my club's second VIII. We were very bad, and had no business being in the HORR at all. I honestly can't remember what administrative cock-up had resulted in our invitation. I think we came third from bottom out of four hundred boats.

And we knew this perfectly well before the start of the race. One of my favourite memories is of our utterly unrealistic captain giving his pre-race pep-talk. He said "We're going to go out there and own this river. We can be the fastest thing out there. We just have to believe." As he said this, the German national squad rowed past behind him on its way to the start.

I mentioned my tunnel vision to a friend of mine who rowed for the Cambridge University Lightweights.

He said "That's nothing. Every time I do an ergo I go blind." He was perfectly serious.

Have you any idea who won the lightweights race this year, or even when or where it was held? I haven't, and I coach rowing in Cambridge.

The second problem is that, although practising your sport can be great fun, there are lots of ways to get better at a sport that aren't a great deal of fun.

For instance, there's a sort of 'rowing simulator', called an ergometer, invented by Canadians whose rivers froze over in the winter, and who wanted a way to practice rowing without needing water.

It is almost never a good idea, from the point of view of the eventual speed of your boat, to do an ergo instead of going rowing.

The only real case for it would be if you were trying to explore your personal limits and get used to the various sensations that a beginner feels as pain, but an experienced rower feels as information.

But it can be difficult to organise rowing outings. In an VIII, you need all nine of your people to be available at the same time. And you need the river to be nice and clear of other traffic so that you can do your hard work out on the water.

So sometimes, it can be more organizationally feasible for a committed crew to organize say, five outings a week, and add another five ergo sessions on top of that.

I am talking about half-decent club athletes. Training close to the physical limits that the human body can tolerate. Many of them will be injured by the weight of training and drop out, for the season or for good.

And it doesn't make a great deal of difference in the end. What, without the ergometers and the hard training, would be a competition won by naturally fit people with good genes who practised enough to get technically good and decently fit, becomes a competition won by naturally fit people with good genes who practise enough to become technically good, and can also, by virtue of their good genes, tolerate insane training loads, and who have the obsessive personalities necessary to do this sort of thing in order to win.

But notice what has happened, once people have substituted 'training to win' for 'practising because it is enjoyable'.

Anyone who just does as much as a man would do for fun is 'hopeless', an 'underachiever', a 'tourist', 'lazy', 'rubbish', 'a joke'. Largely despised by the community around his sport.

Anyone else is doing at least something that he would rather not do. And anyone who would like to win a race some day is doing a very great deal of stuff that he would rather not be doing.

I'm still talking about amateur sport, someone's recreation. Once you start getting paid professional sportsmen, who may quite literally loathe their profession but have no other source of income, and a self-image built up around being good at their sport, and once you start getting sport as a business, cynically whipping up tribal hatreds in order to extract money from 'fans' who have nothing at all in common with the highest bidder mercenary players in the teams that they are supporting, the whole thing becomes profoundly distasteful.

I have been sporty all my adult life, and I hate sport.

Not the sort of thing that goes on between consenting adults on village cricket greens every weekend, which is largely friendly, enjoyable, and life enhancing, or the cheerful rivalry between Oxbridge college boat clubs, that provides a happy distraction from the stresses of undergraduate life.

But the high levels of sport, where the sport becomes the life, which are peopled by obsessive, selfish, nasty cheats. A number of whom have good PR.

This is the sort of thing that the amateur movement was trying to prevent. They had seen it all before in the nineteenth century, with its professional athletes and its betting rings and its corruption and its cheating and its match fixing, and they wanted none of it.

And for a while they had the upper hand, and 'sporting' somehow became a synonym for 'decent'.

But the game theoretic structure of sport is wrong, and it does not permit amateurism.

Once people can train, rather than practise, those who train will win.

Once people can make money from winning, they don't need to work, and so they can train a lot.

Once they can train a lot, they're doing something that they don't enjoy.

And if you're not enjoying it, there's no point to it at all.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Atomic Man

Nuclear Magnetic Resonance is the ability of atomic nuclei to absorb radio waves in a magnetic field.

It leads to an imaging technique (ironically using TV frequencies) called NMRI, that can be used, like X-rays, to look inside the body. It's much better than X-rays for a lot of purposes, and it doesn't use dangerous radiation.

When it was introduced in a medical setting, it was found that people were very frightened by the term 'nuclear magnetic resonance imaging', and so it was changed to MRI, dropping the offending adjective.

On this basis, I have decided henceforth to adopt the superhero name Atomic Man, because I am made of atoms.

I have recently been accused of stunning honesty. That can be my superpower.

"Twelve Years Ago, I did not walk in a friendly game of cricket even though I was 90% confident that I'd got a feather touch on the ball while trying to pull. I have felt wretched about it ever since, and have never done anything like it again..."