November 10, 2006 at 12:32 pm (Anecdotal, Technology)

This week I went to Wales for the first time since 1995 when I graduated, just about, from the University of Glamorgan in Pontypridd, a town near Cardiff. A stand-up comic friend of mine had a gig there. It’s was something, going back. The uni used to be called the Polytechnic of Wales but a law came in in the 1990s that anywhere that taught you something could have university status.

There is still no internet cafe in Pontypridd. But it still has a lovely art deco cafe and a train station (called, imaginatively, “Pontypridd”). SatNav, flat-screen TVs in pubs, email, mobile phones, technology has moved on since ’95, the first year of Microsoft’s Windows. I will write more later, my broadband connection is dead and I am at my parents’. Also, while jumping on to a rock in a brook, I fell on my arse and smashed my i-Pod. Poor i-Pod. It makes a squealing noise if I press it. Gadgets have souls, I tell ya. Dad and his SatNav aren’t talking.


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The Therapist, a dialogue

October 17, 2006 at 8:05 pm (Radio sketch, Technology)

The action takes place in what sounds like a large, empty warehouse.

Ms White: So, Mr Brown, your son is addicted to user-generated content.

Mr Brown: That’s right, he’s either making it or watching it — that damn YouTube.

Ms White: I understand you have a weblog Peter.

Peter: Got it for my birthday.

Ms White: How old are you?


Mr Brown: Tell Ms White how old you are Peter.

Peter: Thirteen.

Ms White: I’m sorry Peter, can you stop filming us with your mobile.

Peter: This is exactly the sort of thing my unique visitors want to see — me about to be committed to the nut-house.

Ms White: Please stop filming.

Peter: No.

Ms White: (Rummages, then, coolly) Well, you won’t mind me filming you for my weblog.

Peter: You can’t do that.

Ms White: Yes I can.

Peter: Dad, she’s filming me.

Ms White: (immitating him) Daaad, she’s filming me!

Mr Brown: Right, can you stop filming each other?

Ms White: He started it.

Peter: You’re the therapist, you’re supposed to be sane.

Mr Brown: Right (shuffles around his pockets).

Ms White: What are you doing?

Mr Brown: This is my cell phone, I’m filming you.

Ms White: Don’t tell me you’ve got a weblog.

Mr Brown: Why not, my opinions are valid. So are my experiences.

Peter: (excited) Keep it pointed at her dad. I’ll shoot you.

Ms White: Look, I’m sure we’ve got enough content for our respective blogs, let’s call it a day.

Peter: Don’t listen to her dad, this is the denouement, the three of us holding mobiles to each other’s heads. I’ll be the next Tarantino – Reservoir Blogs.

Sound of gunshot.

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