Precog.
I went and fulfilled my civic duty earlier. There were only four running: Labour, Tories, Lib Dems and UKIP. In reality, it's a two horse race: all the self-interested Hooray Henrys and Pebbledash People will vote Conservative, and the vast anthill of students will be pledging allegiance to the yellow bird. Although I think the latter has had its wings clipped after the taradiddles of Oaten, etc., so the Tories retain a slight edge. I idly predict a continuation/extension of this.
John Higgins is in the semi-finals of the snooker. I'll be annoyed if he wins it. Last weekend I filled out the 'predictor' table on the BBC site, and he was my favourite. After this other moment of idle premonition I looked up his odds: he was 14/1 with Ladbrokes. I didn't bother to put anything on, and now he's in the last four. I should have taken it as a sign - I tipped him to win the Masters last year, and he did. Two missed chances. According to my calculations on Saturday, I also thought he'd beat Sean Murphy in the final. Who's in the other semi? Sean Murphy. I could've raked it in. If it goes down to him versus Higgins I won't be happy. I suppose it'd be karmic retribution for my confident assertion last Wednesday that "United will definitely score in Milan"; a notable departure from usual pessimism. Typically, they rolled over like dogs in the mid-day sun, letting in three without reply. Correct predictions must always be balanced out by incorrect ones, usually in a bitter invocation of Sod's law that craps on your head from all angles.
Ah well. Money will simply have to be made via other pursuits, to which an education may be essential. Looks like the dissertation plan is finalised: a study of Dickensian London in all its richness of tapestry; atmospheres, tones, narratives, morality, vice, death and so on. No direction as yet but that can be worked out along the way. I've set myself the task of reading every one of Dickens' novels between now and the end of the summer; from Pickwick Papers right through to Edwin Drood. I have no idea if I'll do this.
I'm also on the lookout for period-style recordings of Victorian popular songs that might have rung through the air in festive drawing-rooms and debauched alehouses. This is something of a light-hearted aside, although I suppose it could work as textural material. It could act as a tributary, feeding into the stagnant Thames of this dissertation; in which corpses will float, with whore-like footnotes cavorting on the embankments.
Let's start a 'fight' on the internet: that Heroes programme is a bit shit, isn't it?
John Higgins is in the semi-finals of the snooker. I'll be annoyed if he wins it. Last weekend I filled out the 'predictor' table on the BBC site, and he was my favourite. After this other moment of idle premonition I looked up his odds: he was 14/1 with Ladbrokes. I didn't bother to put anything on, and now he's in the last four. I should have taken it as a sign - I tipped him to win the Masters last year, and he did. Two missed chances. According to my calculations on Saturday, I also thought he'd beat Sean Murphy in the final. Who's in the other semi? Sean Murphy. I could've raked it in. If it goes down to him versus Higgins I won't be happy. I suppose it'd be karmic retribution for my confident assertion last Wednesday that "United will definitely score in Milan"; a notable departure from usual pessimism. Typically, they rolled over like dogs in the mid-day sun, letting in three without reply. Correct predictions must always be balanced out by incorrect ones, usually in a bitter invocation of Sod's law that craps on your head from all angles.
Ah well. Money will simply have to be made via other pursuits, to which an education may be essential. Looks like the dissertation plan is finalised: a study of Dickensian London in all its richness of tapestry; atmospheres, tones, narratives, morality, vice, death and so on. No direction as yet but that can be worked out along the way. I've set myself the task of reading every one of Dickens' novels between now and the end of the summer; from Pickwick Papers right through to Edwin Drood. I have no idea if I'll do this.
I'm also on the lookout for period-style recordings of Victorian popular songs that might have rung through the air in festive drawing-rooms and debauched alehouses. This is something of a light-hearted aside, although I suppose it could work as textural material. It could act as a tributary, feeding into the stagnant Thames of this dissertation; in which corpses will float, with whore-like footnotes cavorting on the embankments.
Let's start a 'fight' on the internet: that Heroes programme is a bit shit, isn't it?