Then he performed one final analysis: the Gross National Product of EverQuest, measured by how much wealth all the players together created in a single year inside the game. It turned out to be $2,266 per capita. By World Bank rankings, that made EverQuest richer than India, Bulgaria, or China, and nearly as wealthy as Russia.

Castronova sat back in his chair in his cramped home office, and the weird enormity of his findings dawned on him. Many economists define their careers by studying a country. He had discovered one.”

View the complete article here.

Original article located at http://www.walrusmagazine.com/articles/2004.06-economics-game-theories/1/.

It’s all there – the wristband, the retarded expression, the L-shaped ‘loser’ gesture planted to his forehead, and the exclamation: ‘DUDE, where’s your railcard?’. This is the UK National Rail company’s perceived image of all 16-25 year olds?

FAIL.

One of the skills involved in studying for an exam is deciding what is important (and concentrating on those points) and what can be discarded (as it is unlikely to come up in the exam). Generally, the more experienced you are, the easier it is to reduce an entire course to a set of likely questions and their assumed knowledge, and get it right. Previous exams, main points, and the parts of the course the instructor concentrates on in the revision period can all be used to mould a draft of the upcoming examination.

I had one such exam on Partial Differential Equations at the end of the last semester. On the morning of the exam, I was skimming through my notes when I came across a concept I was deliberating on whether to study or not – d’Alembert’s solution to the one dimensional wave equation. It was present in my revision notes, but it was a very cumbersome proof that I couldn’t really be bothered to go through. So I cast it aside.

And guess what? About an hour later, I was staring at a question asking me to provide a solution to a one dimensional wave equation using d’Alembert’s solution. Out of 4 questions, it was an entire question on its own. I scribbled something pathetic in the top-left corner of the answer sheet and turned the page in the hope that I would be inspired to some level of genius when I had finished the other questions. I was not. In the end, I left the question blank. I had rolled the dice on D’Alembert and lost.

The moral of this story is there is no way to be certain of what’s coming up in an examination – study it all lest you fall prey to the D’Alembert Gamble.

Unfortunately, I still had an awful flight. This was not Qatar Airways’ fault, though. I find any flight longer than 3 hours a drain on my lifespan because airlines have failed to implement a technology that has been around for the past century – a power socket. Add a bit of Wi-Fi to the mix, and I swear I will never complain about flying again. What usually happens  is that you find yourself squashed between two plump people concealing both your armrests from view with their mammoth hands. Your arms are squeezed against your sides, forcing you to look like a mummy in its casket, and like a mummy, there you will remain transfixed for the entirety of the flight. At least it’s not for eternity (that would be a good idea for a horror film, though, wouldn’t it? Credit here if it ever gets made, or a comment below if it has already been made).

This brings me to my next point: I propose that airlines adopt a new class that falls below economy – cargo class. For a pittance, they should offer you a 2 m x 1 m area of floor space in the aircraft’s cargo hold, and a pillow. It wouldn’t be any less humane than the way we get packed like sardines in economy class, and it would cost far less. To keep the passengers amused, they could be allowed to rifle through everyone’s luggage like the American airport authorities take pleasure in doing.

For future cargo class passengers, I recommend you bring a few layers – it might get a bit chilly down there.

If you haven’t already seen it, open your eyes.

For lack of anything better to do, I entertained myself by watching his odd antics, but soon grew bored. I returned to looking at the nutritional content of wholemeal pitta bread. Suddenly, my attention was snatched away by the sound of cardboard ripping. Tanay had opened the side of the box. He seized one of the mince pies (nearly crushing it) and bit a great chunk out of it. He chewed and chewed like a starving little boy. Then, slowly, he frowned and his chewing ground to a halt. In that moment, I saw all the happiness of a boy at Christmas dissolve in to disappointment and disbelief. He was alone now, and all was quiet but for a few crumbs of mince pie that hit the floor.

‘I thought there was meat in these…’

The tone of his voice said it all – he felt betrayed. Betrayed by the companies that bellowed hollow promises of ‘mince’ pies. Betrayed by the people who built up his childhood dream of a mince pie – a  pie with a sweet pastry crust that hid a spicy filling of minced meat within – a dream that had been crushed the moment he put that mass-produced tart in his mouth.

Only now have we come back to avenge this misnomer, to give to the people what was promised to them, to put our lives on the line (considering our cooking skills) for the sake of a dream that was one man’s mince pie.

We have no precise quantities for this recipe because we produced it as we went along.

Ingredients:

• Minced meat
• Pastry base
• Shortcrust pastry mix (for the top of the pie)
• Onions
• Almonds
• Pistachios (unshelled if you want to keep your teeth)
• Raisins
• Honey
• Cinnamon
• Spicy seasoning
• Icing sugar
• Egg white
• Olive oil
• Flour
• Salt

Empty your minced meat in to a pan and cook with a drizzle of olive oil.

While the meat is cooking, chop up an onion in to fine pieces, and cook until golden brown.

Take your blade (and mallet) to the almonds until they’ve been crushed. Add raisins and pistachios to the mix.

Drain the fat from the minced meat saucepan, and pour your onions, raisins, almonds and pisatchios in to it. Add a fair amount of honey, cinammon and spicy seasoning. Stir.

When the meat is done and the onions are a golden brown colour, add the filling in to the pie base.

To create the pastry top, pour some shortcrust pastry mix in to a bowl, add water and icing sugar, and mix it up until it’s nice and thick but not sticky! Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface. Once complete, roll it flat and apply it to the top of the pie base. Garnish your pie with almonds and pistachios if you like.

Crack open an egg on to a plate and lightly brush the surface of the pie with egg white.

Stick the pie in the oven and leave for 40-60 minutes at a temperature of 175° Celsius (350° Fahrenheit).

When the oven door opens and you are hit by that wave of sweet-smelling heat, you will know the dream has come true.

The crack of pistol fire whipped the athletes into a sudden sprint. Redmond surged forward, running long athletic strides. The hunger for a medal sent adrenaline streaming through his veins.

50 metres flashed by – the lungs beat out air like the bellows of a blacksmith.

100 metres -  the heart pounds like a hammer on an anvil.

At 150 metres, Derek Redmond crumbled to the Olympic track. He had pulled a hamstring, and hobbled for a few metres before succumbing to the excruciating pain. He fell down and lay there, back to the floor, one hand over his leg, the other over his face.

The other athletes raced past the finish line, and had their respective times recorded. The stretcher came for Redmond. At the sight of it, he mustered the strength and courage to stand up on one leg, and began to hobble towards the finish.

Meanwhile, one of the crowd was pushing and elbowing his way past the audience and officials towards Derek. It was his father. He placed Derek’s hand over his shoulder, and together they crossed the finish line to a standing ovation from a crowd of 65,000. Together, they finished the race.

Derek Redmond’s story that day is written with all of the qualities that we as humans should aspire to and be inspired by. It is a story blotted with struggle and failure, but countered by courage and perseverance. It is featured in the Olympics’ ‘Celebrate Humanity’ series and in an advertisement by VISA. Most importantly, though, it challenges the maxim that winners are those who finish first.

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=derek+redmond – search page on YouTube for ‘Derek Redmond’

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ReZThBQmAU – Celebrate Humanity video featuring Derek Redmond

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BU3jfbb172E – VISA advertisement featuring Derek Redmond

Downtown Beirut

Also known as centre-ville, or the more hip C-V (both pronounced with a French accent), downtown Beirut has a character of its own. Many of the buildings were blown to pieces during Lebanon’s countless conflicts, most of which have now been built anew, but in accordance with the old blueprints. The result is a beautiful amalgamation of the old and new. In addition to other areas, downtown Beirut splinters into Hamra and Gemmayze.

Hamra

A laidback but happening part of town, Hamra presides over the American University of Beirut (AUB) and its famous adjoining street, Bliss Street. A very modern Crowne Plaza Hotel is located on Hamra Street, the main shopping avenue, and houses a variety of restaurants, including an American-style diner called Roadsters, which serves up good ol’ American hamburgers and thick vanilla milkshakes.

- AUB

AUB is arguably the leading university in the Middle East. A grand campus, a seaside location, and over 100 degree programmes! But no late night visits to the girls’ dormitories – ah, well, you’ve got to compromise somewhere.

What I found very amusing is the fact that the students are grouped and named according to where they hang out during free periods (an example: those who lounge around the main gate are referred to as ‘main gate’).

- Bliss Street

Contrary to any preconceptions you may have, Bliss Street is not infested with druggies. It is in fact well known for the fast food shops along it, headed by ‘Bliss House’ (which does a mean meal by the way).

It is here that I sampled the Godly saj at Comsi Comsaj. Such a simple formula, yet such an excruciatingly delicious result: thin round bread filled with whatever you desire then folded in half to form a crescent-shaped sandwich (or a thin manakeesh to you Arabs out there). I water at the mouth just thinking about a saj spread with labneh (a type of sour yoghurt) and peppered with black olives. ‘wahed labneh w zeitun aswad’ I always tell them.

An obnoxious old man whose name evades me at the moment spends most nights there. You can usually find him slumped on his white plastic chair spitting insults at George, one of the cafeteria owners along the street. A definite visit is necessary when passing through Beirut. If you look Western, he may even pucker his lips and utter some random crap from a famous 1980’s film.

Gemmayze

Lebanon is split into pubbers, clubbers, and chillers (who indulge in shisha and backgammon). Gemmayze is where the pubbers satiate their desires. A stiff drink is never further than a few metres, and if alcohol doesn’t spark a flame within you, there are plenty of restaurants to dine at such as ‘Lord of the Wings’.

The fact that I can remember little of what happened in Gemmayze is testament to what an amazing night it was. I do have pictures, however, and from them I can tell you that I went to The Bulldog, Inn-Tuition, and Rumours, where I assume I imbibed copious amounts of alcohol. Most of the pubs were so full clients were spilling out the door.

I recall that the bartender in The Bulldog was the frank type, and saw right through our joke as we tried to relate The Bulldog to another word starting with ‘bull’. He exclaimed bluntly, ‘I think the word you’re looking for is bull-SHIT!’

Jbeil/Byblos

I visited the ancient city of Byblos at night. We passed by a row of granite columns where I failed to outdo the Greeks with my athletic poses.

We didn’t get to see the castle as we arrived in the evening and it was closed, but we strolled through the market stalls that lined the walls of the old part of town, and explored the adjacent ruins.

On the way back to Beirut, the highway was flowing as slow as ketchup out of a new bottle. Tempers were flaring, horns were beeping, and in classic Arab fashion, 4 lanes were somehow created out of 3.

And as ketchup eventually splatters all over the plate, so we finally sped off, weaving through the traffic in true Lebanese style. Soon enough we chanced upon a very dusty, beaten up SUV, with a mountain of luggage tied to the roof. It was jam-packed with family in the typical Arab fashion. Remembering a story my father told me of his time in Nigeria, I wound the windows down, waved to him, and shouted out in Arabic, ‘Keef el sayara el jdida!’ which, in English, is ‘How’s the new car going?’

A sour expression washed over his face. He replied with a drawn-out (and I imagine slightly irritated) ‘Gooood, gooood’ before accelerating sharply, tearing a path through the highway.

Faraya Mzaar

Mzaar is the name of the mountain that houses this ski resort while Faraya is the name of a small village just below it.

We hired a private taxi from a firm called Charlie Taxi to take us up there. Our driver was a jovial character named Steve.

Our party comprised three people – oy! Everyone else had family obligations due to the Eid holiday – and up we climbed the slopes of Mzaar, snapping shots along the way. Half-way there, we stopped at a row of snack shops, where I picked up a saj (the obsession continues) and some ‘Ras Al Abd’ for dessert, which is a bell shaped chocolate with a very thin coating filled with a creamy marshmallow centre, and a chewy biscuit base. They’re typically wrapped in a very noticeable olive gold, black and red foil. Ras Al Abd translates to ‘head of the slave/negro’. You may draw your own conclusions – though, I must add that it is extremely tasty.

The transition was sudden. Hills and fields of white engulfed us, and the sun gleamed proudly off the snowy sheets. I had never felt real snow before (the closest I had come was frosted chunks in the mountains of Jordan on my way to Petra) so it was quite an experience to finally feel the mushy substance after 18 years of existence. A Kodak moment captured forever.

We entered the snow gear rental store, and asked to be equipped with the suitable attire. Whether it was deliberate or not, the attendants handed us two equally bizarre one-piece suits that even Steve Vai would reject on the grounds of being embarrassing. Mine had a series of orange curves in a tribal pattern, and Rani’s consisted of zany black and white lines dotted with red bulbous shapes. Every few metres we landed face-down or arse-down on the snow with a crunch, and this was on the baby slope. It was practically Blades of Glory with snowboards.

I eventually got so fed up of tumbling to the end of the slope that I exchanged my snowboard for a pair of skis, and my slow, abrupt crashes for ones involving a ski flipping wildly into the air.

I have a trademark technique of skiing which is currently being patented: the idea is to start off with a very detailed plan of action consisting of what path and speed to take down the slope. The next step is to ignore it completely, flounder off the peak, and come screaming wildly down the slope, while cutting a diagonal across the course the whole way. In the majority of cases, by the time you form the inverted ‘V’ to slow you down, it’s too late – execute the Dalton emergency stop manoeuvre comprising throwing oneself to the ground. Works for me.

The entire trip (including a 4-hour wait while we tamed the slopes) cost 65,000 LL (or ’65 thou’ as the locals say). This equates to about $43/£20, which I think is a damn good deal, especially when divided amongst a group.

Jeita

A mere 45 minutes from Beirut, Jeita is a must-see. If you’ve never heard of them, the Jeita caves are a famous landmark in Lebanon.

As you walk through the first section, stalagmites and stalactites dot the floor and ceiling like the jaws of an infernal creature. All is quiet but for the occasional drop of water that resonates through the entire cave complex. It adds to the belittling effect the colossal caves have on its guests. Twists, turns, depression, elevations, holes, and mounds – an abstract world of limestone awaits you in Jeita.

There’s a reason Beirut is (or was) referred to as the ‘Paris of the Middle East’ – it’s a beautiful, exciting city, full of friendly people. Its current situation is undeserved.

When and if I return my list of places to visit are: the Roman ruins of Baalbeck, the cedar trees at Al Arz, and the city of Tripoli.

Note: due to a database mess up, I’ve lost all the previous comments of this article.

There are three conditions to owning a pub in England:

1. You have to purchase a license to sell alcohol
2. You are required to erect a stag’s head somewhere in the bar area
3. You need a cliché name

Let’s face it – when it comes to pub names in England, we’re not very creative. It only takes a 5 minute drive through any town to figure out the formula:

The < insert royal or significant title here >’s < insert a bodily part or accoutrement here >

This complicated algorithm results in a variety of choice, as shown by the random pub name below:

The

Sometimes, though, you find a pub that has referred to itself as a nonsensical combination of animals:

The and

What pair of drunken sods thought up this utter load of trollop? The question answers itself.

To end, here are a few real pubs and their locations in England:

• The Saracen’s Head, Broad Street, Bath
• Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, Brewhouse Yard, Nottingham (they claim to be England’s oldest pub)
• Bedford Arms, High Street, Bedford
• The Elephant and Castle, 12 Elgin Avenue, London
• The Queens Arms, 30 Queens Gate Mews, London
• The King’s Head Inn, The Green, Bledington, Oxfordshire

And, finally, The Rat & Parrot is actually an established pub with chains throughout England.

For some, it is a place of pain and misery, of endless struggle and excruciating agony. For others, it is a haven of self-betterment, the juice of Olympian strength from which only the most committed may drink.

It is… The Gym. Notice the capital ‘G’ – only a revered place of worship is worthy of such capitalisation.

Over time, I’ve come to notice that anyone who goes to the Gym can be categorised in to at least one of the following groups:

• The Newb

The Newb is a shy and reserved being. Not used to his new surroundings, he wanders the Gym flitting from machine to machine, but never actually gains the courage to use one lest he make a fool of himself. He will avoid all eye contact and finally retreat to the exercise bicycle where he feels most comfortable.

• The Defiant Weakling

You watch him carefully as he racks weight upon weight onto the bench press bar. You look at his physique then back at the humongous weights he’s attached and 1 + 1 does not add up to 2. You want to warn him and spare the Gym the disaster of last month’s Defiant Weakling, but decide it’s none of your business. A Narcissist (see below) then appears and explains in a arrogant manner that he ‘can’t possibly lift those weights, fool!’ Nevertheless, the Defiant Weakling remains… defiant, and fobs him off with a closed fist display. He lays himself nicely below the bar, gets comfy, and in a flurry of motion, throws his hand up to the bar, subconsciously hoping the momentum will make up for his lack of strength. The bar edges millimetres off its metal base, tilts precariously from side to side, and slowly, slowly, comes crashing down onto Defiant Weakling’s pelvic area, thus ‘delivering the blow’ to his chances of ever producing offspring. Ladies and gentleman, a Darwin Award please!

• The Cardio Nut

‘You gotta get pumped! You gotta sweat it out! You gotta move, move, move those legs, you know wh’ah’m sayin’?’ The Cardio nut will tell you before he makes an excuse to leave and jumps on the treadmill, sets the speed to 102 and zooms off. Any machines involving weights of any type will incur a snort of dismissal from the Cardio Nut. For the Cardio Nut, the treadmill is God’s gift to man, and the ONLY machine you’ll ever see him on.

• The Audiophile

Derived from Latin audire (“to hear”) and Greek philos (“loving”), the modern day gymgoing Audiophile is in love with hearing himself. Picture a quiet scene save for the occasional clinking of metal or rattling of pulleys, when all of a sudden you hear a deafening groan followed by a heavy intake of air. Activity then ceases in the Gym while all eyes turn towards the lone man in the corner, the Audiophile, who is currently busy lifting weights.

• The Narcissist

One who spends more time flexing in front of a mirror than sweating it out on a machine, the Narcissist will randomly stop in front of you, flex a bicep or two, shadily mutter something to the effect of ‘Oh, yeah…’ while nodding his head then move on to the next unsuspecting gymgoer. Their most famous pose is the constipated-face-with-upper-double-bicep-flex, but they have been known to produce a bent-knees-underarm-double-bicep-flex at times. Some Narcissists have the appearance to back up their flaunting, but most of them are victims of an inflated self-image.

• The Raging Bull

The Raging Bull is a towering, bulky figure that sees all in shades of red, and as his name suggests, launches a ferocious attack on everything around him. Ridder of Newbs, archenemy of Narcissists, and obliterator of Audiophiles, the Raging Bull can lift mountainous weights with his little pinky and break a steel bar in half without warning. Whether this is due to an indulgence in steroids or not is unknown as few are willing to confront him for fear of agitating his already crumbling humanity.

A commonly seen mutation of the Raging Bull is the Lumbering Giant, who is similar in every aspect except for the intense rage.

Of course, normal people go to the Gym too…