Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Friday, 21 January 2011
Dunk
I’d known Dunk long enough that I only have the haziest memories of first meeting him at some point in school. I do remember the first time we did anything together, when his dad drove us to a big swimming pool in Birmingham. It had one of those tall olympic diving platforms. I’m confident I didn’t jump off it, but I believe Dunk did. And even if he didn’t for some reason, he would have wanted to. Dunk enjoyed throwing himself off high places.
Obviously the coolest kids in the school
Of our small group of friends at school, Dunk was the one who went out and really did things. He was the first to get a driving license, and the first to get a part-time job (working at a hardware store), which meant he could buy a car – a white Austin Maestro if I remember right – and a leather jacket, and I don’t know which he was most proud of. He was the first to get properly, truly blind drunk, too, when on his eighteenth birthday we took him down to my local and had to carry him back. He was the first of us to get married, and in Nini he had a wife no less remarkable than himself.
Any earnings he didn’t spend on his car in those school days went into his other great passion: flying aeroplanes, or else jumping out of them. It was Dunk who drove his mother frantic by disappearing one weekend to take his first parachute jump – without telling her beforehand. The first I knew about it was when she turned up on our doorstep in a panic, beside herself with worry that her youngest son was about to fling himself into thousands of feet of nothingness. And when he couldn’t be in the air himself, he sent up rockets; I once helped him fire one up, a rocket he had built shaped like an X-Wing fighter, in the hopelessly unsuitable location of a Redditch neighbourhood, and we watched fretfully as it sailed back down on its parachute towards the middle of a busy road.
Dunk and Mak, last day of GCSEs, summer of 1996
At high school Dunk and the rest of us had most of our classes together, and outside school we hung out together. Mostly this meant choosing one bedroom to fill with computers and cables and spending the day in some kind of creative nerd heaven. We messed around with video recorders and microphones and once we tried to film our own space epic, cobbling together a spacecraft cockpit in Marek’s loft from cardboard, paint and parts we scavenged from an old MG.
Ant, Dunk, Sharpy, summer of 1997
In the summer of ’96 Dunk, Ant, Sharpy and I spent a few days exploring the Welsh Borders on bicycles. Dunk’s dad, I remember, brought our bikes in his van to the Wyre Forest, and that’s where we set out from, cycling from one youth hostel to another. The next summer we did the same, this time to the Black Mountains.
Dunk (with leather jacket), Ant, Sel, in sixth form
In the spring of ’98, during our final high school exams, I was poring over some photos from those trips and was siezed by a sudden urge to get out on the road again. But this time it would be serious: we’d cycle 1100 miles, the full length of Britain, from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Straight away I picked up the phone and asked Dunk if he fancied it, and he didn’t need to think twice. “Let’s do it,” he said.
From Land's End...
These are the best memories; summer, freedom, youth. For the rest of my life when I think of Dunk, this is where my thoughts will turn.
... to John O'Groats
After that trip, we said the next challenge would be to hike the Pennine Way the following year, our first summer break from university. But Dunk, with typical panache, took up rugby at uni and almost immediately broke his leg, which put paid to any hiking.
We never got round to resurrecting those plans. I saw less of Dunk over the years of university and post-university, except when I came home for the holidays, and one time, in 2004 I think, when I went with Ant and Mak to visit him in Newbury, and he took us up to the top of Watership Down. I was disappointed to see no rabbits. Eventually he married Nini and moved to Thailand, where he lived until recently.
Just last Monday Dunk and I finalised the dates for a new adventure in April, when we were going to go to Egypt (an adventure for me, at least; Dunk was a native). It would have been the first time I’d spent proper time with him for years: a chance to rekindle that old spirit that had once sent us cycling across the country on a whim.
Dunk had been fighting cancer for a while. He was never the sort to accept defeat or to stop making plans. The last time I saw him, at a New Year’s Day morris dancing extravaganza at Cookley, he had looked tired, but the latest news from the doctor had been positive. Ant had been playing guitar in the rain, so Dunk had stood beside him the whole time with an umbrella.
Dunk was the best type of friend: noble and generous, kind and true. Most of all, he was courageous: he threw himself into life with as much zest as he threw himself from planes. Those who knew him could only watch in admiration as he struggled with such trials and personal grief over the last couple of years, not least the sudden loss of his father, yet never stopped smiling.
When Ant called me on Wednesday morning to say that Dunk, after being rushed suddenly and unexpectedly to hospital, had passed away, I put on my boots and went for a long walk.
Ant, Dunk, me, summer of 1997
It was a beautiful day; clear and crisp, with a blue sky and a sun that was distant, but not so distant that I couldn’t feel its warmth. I took a path I didn’t know and kept going. The hardest part was when I eventually had to stop and turn home.
Obviously the coolest kids in the schoolOf our small group of friends at school, Dunk was the one who went out and really did things. He was the first to get a driving license, and the first to get a part-time job (working at a hardware store), which meant he could buy a car – a white Austin Maestro if I remember right – and a leather jacket, and I don’t know which he was most proud of. He was the first to get properly, truly blind drunk, too, when on his eighteenth birthday we took him down to my local and had to carry him back. He was the first of us to get married, and in Nini he had a wife no less remarkable than himself.
Any earnings he didn’t spend on his car in those school days went into his other great passion: flying aeroplanes, or else jumping out of them. It was Dunk who drove his mother frantic by disappearing one weekend to take his first parachute jump – without telling her beforehand. The first I knew about it was when she turned up on our doorstep in a panic, beside herself with worry that her youngest son was about to fling himself into thousands of feet of nothingness. And when he couldn’t be in the air himself, he sent up rockets; I once helped him fire one up, a rocket he had built shaped like an X-Wing fighter, in the hopelessly unsuitable location of a Redditch neighbourhood, and we watched fretfully as it sailed back down on its parachute towards the middle of a busy road.
Dunk and Mak, last day of GCSEs, summer of 1996At high school Dunk and the rest of us had most of our classes together, and outside school we hung out together. Mostly this meant choosing one bedroom to fill with computers and cables and spending the day in some kind of creative nerd heaven. We messed around with video recorders and microphones and once we tried to film our own space epic, cobbling together a spacecraft cockpit in Marek’s loft from cardboard, paint and parts we scavenged from an old MG.
Ant, Dunk, Sharpy, summer of 1997In the summer of ’96 Dunk, Ant, Sharpy and I spent a few days exploring the Welsh Borders on bicycles. Dunk’s dad, I remember, brought our bikes in his van to the Wyre Forest, and that’s where we set out from, cycling from one youth hostel to another. The next summer we did the same, this time to the Black Mountains.
Dunk (with leather jacket), Ant, Sel, in sixth formIn the spring of ’98, during our final high school exams, I was poring over some photos from those trips and was siezed by a sudden urge to get out on the road again. But this time it would be serious: we’d cycle 1100 miles, the full length of Britain, from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Straight away I picked up the phone and asked Dunk if he fancied it, and he didn’t need to think twice. “Let’s do it,” he said.
From Land's End...These are the best memories; summer, freedom, youth. For the rest of my life when I think of Dunk, this is where my thoughts will turn.
... to John O'GroatsAfter that trip, we said the next challenge would be to hike the Pennine Way the following year, our first summer break from university. But Dunk, with typical panache, took up rugby at uni and almost immediately broke his leg, which put paid to any hiking.
We never got round to resurrecting those plans. I saw less of Dunk over the years of university and post-university, except when I came home for the holidays, and one time, in 2004 I think, when I went with Ant and Mak to visit him in Newbury, and he took us up to the top of Watership Down. I was disappointed to see no rabbits. Eventually he married Nini and moved to Thailand, where he lived until recently.
Just last Monday Dunk and I finalised the dates for a new adventure in April, when we were going to go to Egypt (an adventure for me, at least; Dunk was a native). It would have been the first time I’d spent proper time with him for years: a chance to rekindle that old spirit that had once sent us cycling across the country on a whim.
Dunk had been fighting cancer for a while. He was never the sort to accept defeat or to stop making plans. The last time I saw him, at a New Year’s Day morris dancing extravaganza at Cookley, he had looked tired, but the latest news from the doctor had been positive. Ant had been playing guitar in the rain, so Dunk had stood beside him the whole time with an umbrella.
Dunk was the best type of friend: noble and generous, kind and true. Most of all, he was courageous: he threw himself into life with as much zest as he threw himself from planes. Those who knew him could only watch in admiration as he struggled with such trials and personal grief over the last couple of years, not least the sudden loss of his father, yet never stopped smiling.
When Ant called me on Wednesday morning to say that Dunk, after being rushed suddenly and unexpectedly to hospital, had passed away, I put on my boots and went for a long walk.
Ant, Dunk, me, summer of 1997It was a beautiful day; clear and crisp, with a blue sky and a sun that was distant, but not so distant that I couldn’t feel its warmth. I took a path I didn’t know and kept going. The hardest part was when I eventually had to stop and turn home.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Social network sites are evil
Here's another reason I left Facebook...
BBC News: US wants Twitter details of Wikileaks activists
In 2007 I wrote a blog piece about the sinister data-mining types who ploughed millions of dollars into Facebook because they saw the obvious potential of having such a vast and up-to-date depository of information about social networks. Governments ain't stoopid, and now we can see precisely how they plan to use things like Facebook and Twitter to spy on their own citizens. All they have to do is subpoena the social network owners, who are hardly likely to refuse.
The mad thing is that governments don't even have to make any effort to gather the data. Gone are the days of the Stasi, who were almost admirable in their dedication to covert surveillance. Now the public voluntarily supplies tidily organised and digitally compiled information about their social lives.
BBC News: US wants Twitter details of Wikileaks activists
In 2007 I wrote a blog piece about the sinister data-mining types who ploughed millions of dollars into Facebook because they saw the obvious potential of having such a vast and up-to-date depository of information about social networks. Governments ain't stoopid, and now we can see precisely how they plan to use things like Facebook and Twitter to spy on their own citizens. All they have to do is subpoena the social network owners, who are hardly likely to refuse.
The mad thing is that governments don't even have to make any effort to gather the data. Gone are the days of the Stasi, who were almost admirable in their dedication to covert surveillance. Now the public voluntarily supplies tidily organised and digitally compiled information about their social lives.
The good old days
This is really not good. The Wikileaks activists are not terrorists. I doubt that terrorists tweet their terrorist plans. They are whistleblowers who have done nothing but expose factual documents that threaten the public image of the US military-industrial complex's international adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan.
This latest development shows that by invoking 'national security' world governments will be able to get any information about anyone that happens to be stored by social networking sites. The temptation is simply too great for them to resist. And if this is happening now, who know what they might be doing ten years from now?
This is really not good. The Wikileaks activists are not terrorists. I doubt that terrorists tweet their terrorist plans. They are whistleblowers who have done nothing but expose factual documents that threaten the public image of the US military-industrial complex's international adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan.
This latest development shows that by invoking 'national security' world governments will be able to get any information about anyone that happens to be stored by social networking sites. The temptation is simply too great for them to resist. And if this is happening now, who know what they might be doing ten years from now?
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
More art
I'm still learning how to draw with a graphics tablet in Photoshop. This is honestly the best I can do at the moment.
Saturday, 1 January 2011
Happy New Year
Ant gave me a sweet Wacom drawing pad he wasn't using, so I can start to experiment with drawing digital art. I just need to get used to drawing with a magnetic pen. This is the kind of stuff I'm aiming for:
This is the level I'm at so far.
Nearly there!
This is the level I'm at so far.
Nearly there!
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