Check out this tree applet that renders website maps as trees. I’m not entirely sure how much use it is, but it’s fascinating watching it spider all the links in a site as it constructs the tree. I made the mistake of typing in WipeoutZone to see what would happen, and it took an age as it spidered every record page entry and forum post. This place, looks a lot simpler – more of a cheese plant than a bona fide tree to start with, then it hits all the external links and kaboom – it’s a forest.
As evidence that there’s a greater plan to life, and that the individual in charge of that plan has a profound sense of irony, I discovered in the last week that my company conference is going to be in Malta in June.
At least this time around I’ll have something to do and have a bunch of my mates with me, although sadly not Fliss who deserves a better attempt at a holiday as much as I do. While she’s enjoying the use of the car for a working week, I’ll be staying in a sumptuous five star hotel rather than an old folks home with piss-proof furniture masquerading as a hotel.
Okay, lets get one thing straight, right off the bat. I know there are people out there who would kill for a holiday during February. So, with that in mind, I don’t want to come across as an ungrateful whinger who went on a cheap winter break and found it to be, in the main, shit.
However, if I didn’t moan and have a rant about things then a vast majority of the content on this site would end up the same as the holiday – dull.
So, not wanting to dwell on how much of a let down the whole thing was for us, I’ll try to convey the disappointment of the whole week by way of a promising subplot that had been gaining momentum before we arrived.
The early part of the week contained the potentially explosive love triangle involving Fliss‘ dad, Ted, and an older, irish man called Billy, vying for the affections of a lady named Beryl. These are, I think, fantastic old peoples names that anyone who’s ever played with Sensible Soccer’s Old Folks XI team will remember with mirth. None of your Kylie’s and Tyler’s to be found here – just old fashioned monikers that conjure up images of rationing and seaside resorts in their heyday.
Anyhow, Ted is a sharp old chap, who, despite being into his mid 60’s, isn’t what I’d call a proper old codger. He has the occasional stubborn old codger moment, I’ll admit, but for the most part Ted is young at heart, far from being on the scrap heap, and only his poor hearing lets him down. Due to the slight deafness, he seldom initiates conversation with people to avoid embarrassment, and this was the case with Beryl. Billy, on the other hand, was a wittering old budgie who sprinkled the words “you know?” into every bumbling sentence that left his mouth. You only had to make the mistake of asking Billy the time and you were fucking stuck there for twenty minutes while he struggled to recall some example of how he’d once used a watch in some way. Beryl obviously had the patience of a saint, because Billy seemed to be quite welcome at her table and, as far as Ted could see, the old irishman’s persistance was paying off.