Zeldman’s written a book, you know.
In the past I have considered what should happen to this site in the event of my death. At this time there are no firm plans or arrangements in place, so if I go quiet for a very long time then I was probably electrocuted or hit by a bus or something. However, in light of recent events, I’m going to nominate someone to log in here after I die to inform you all that I was merely a figment of their imagination. Would you like it to be you?
Frank Lloyd Wright is quoted as saying: “Early in life I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose the former and have seen no reason to change”. Strikes a chord. I get a lot of messages from readers of this site—most of them are friendly, but there’s always the occasional fly in the ointment. The usual complaint is about my arrogance. I tend not to reply to such messages, as I’m not sure that their authors are particularly interested in a response. However, this quotation accurately says what I have never been able to express. On a similar vein, you should read this entry in its entirety. Not a minced word for miles.
Months ago, John Peel pointed us in the direction of Ricardo Autobahn, and I then promptly forgot to mention it here. Last Night, Mister Peel reminded us again, and so I’m straight on the case. Spare a few moments to download Oscillator Alligator—it will vastly improve your day. I may have to mirror this one…
I have a copy of the Bastard Operator From Hell on my Palm, that helpfully generates excuses as to why things aren’t happening in the way they are expected so to do. I’ve often wondered how the BOFH came to be, and now I know. You can’t escape the irony of it being on the NTK server. Also, I’ve dug up a comprehensive list of the BOFH responses—some of which did not make it onto the Palm.
How come it’s Monday already? It’s disgraceful! I’m going to write to the Queen…
At the end of the night, I got on the last train to anywhere from Reading Station. The last train on a Friday night is always an ordeal—packed with people too young to hold their drink and subsequently shouting, snogging and vomiting. I found a seat and buried my head in a Wrox book, until:
Bloke: Look! It’s Mo!
Pissed people: Mooooooooo!
(I look round, but don’t recognise any of the faces. People start staggering over.)
Bloke: How’s it going, man?
Mo: Err, good thanks. Do I know you?
Bloke: I read your site, man. F*cking pukka!
And that’s when it hit me.